# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/Lord Oakburn's daughters - Part 10

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LORD OAKBURN’S DAUGHTERS. BY THE AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE."
CHAPTER XIX.NEW HONOURS.
Jane Chesney’s position was a trying one. In the midst of the grief, it may be said the horror, she felt at the step taken by her sister Laura that eventful night, there was also the perplexity as to what her own course ought to be. She was powerless to prevent it now; in fact everybody else was powerless; Mr. Carlton and Laura had gained some hours’ start, and could not be brought back again. Had Jane known of the detention at the station at Lichford, still she could have done nothing; the fleetest horse, ready saddled and bridled at her door, would scarcely have conveyed her, galloping like a second Lady Godiva, along that dark and muddy cross-country road, in time to catch them before the arrival of the midnight train for which they waited, for it was well past eleven ere Jane heard of it from Judith.
No; stop the flight she could not. That them was abandoned as hopeless; and it must be remembered that Jane did not know they were gone to Lichford; she had no clue whatever to the line of route taken. Her chief perplexity lay in the doubt of how best to convey the tidings to her father, so as to pain him least. To save him pain in any shape or form, whether mentally or bodily, Jane would have sacrificed her own life. Now and then faint hopes would come over her that their fears were groundless, that they were wholly mistaken, that they were judging Laura wrongfully; and a hundred suppositions as to where Laura could be, arose to her heated fancy: certainly the fact that Mr. Carlton had left the town for a few days, as reported to Judith by his servants, was not sufficient proof of Laura’s having left it. But, even while these delusive arguments arose, the conviction of the worst lay all the deeper upon her mind.
Perhaps Jane Chesney was nearly the last in the town to hear the positive news of the truth by word of mouth. With morning light there arrived at Mr. Carlton’s house the man whom he had charged to look after the missing horse: which had been found with little trouble, standing still with his nose over a field gateway. Securing him for the night, the man started before dawn to convey him to the address at South Wennock, as given him by Mr. Carlton; he had to be back to his own work betimes, at the farmer’s where he was a day labourer. When rung up, just as Judith had rung them up the night before, the servants could scarcely believe their own eyes, to see the horse arrive home in that fashion, led by a halter and covered with splashes of mud. The man explained, so far as he was cognizant of it, what had happened on the previous night; told his orders as to bringing home the horse, provided he could find him, spoke of where the carriage was lying, and said it had better be looked after.
Whether it was from this circumstance, or whether the report arose in that mysterious manner in which reports do arise, nobody knows how or where; certain it was, that when South Wennock sat down to its breakfast-tables on that same morning, half its inhabitants were talking of the elopement of the surgeon with Miss Laura Chesney. Mr. John Grey was the one to convey its certain tidings to Jane.
He was at the house very early—soon after eight o’clock. Called to a distance that day, his only chance of seeing Lucy Chesney'e hands was to pay them a visit before his departure; in fact he had promised to do so on the previous night.
Jane was ready for him; Jane alone: glad of an excuse to keep the little girl in bed in that house of perplexity and trouble, Jane had bade her not rise to breakfast. Mr. Grey was pained at the look of care on the face of Miss Chesney—let us call her so for a short while yet!—at the too evident marks of the sleepless and miserable night she had spent.
“Do not suffer this untoward event to affect your health!” he involuntarily exclaimed; and his low tone was full of tender concern, of considerate sympathy. “How ill you look!”
Jane was startled. Was it known already? But there was that in Mr. Grey’s earnest face that caused her heart to leap out to him them and then no it might to a friend of long-tried years.
“Is it known?” she asked, her life-pulses seeming to stand still.
“It is,” he answered, with a grave face. “The town is ringing with it.”
Jane, standing before him with her quiet bearing, gave no mark of pain, save that she raised her hand and laid it for a few moments on her temples.
“I have been hoping—against hope, it is true, but still hoping—that it might not be; that my sister might have taken refuge somewhere from the storm, and would return home ​this morning. Oh, Mr. Grey! this has come upon me like a falling thunderbolt. If you knew how different from anything like this she has been brought up!”
“Yes, I feel sure of that,” he said. “It is, I fear, a most mistaken step that she has taken. Certainly an unwise one.”
“How has it become known?” asked Jane, shading her eyes.
“I cannot tell,” he replied, “For one thing, I heard that Mr. Carlton’s horse had been sent back this morning.”
“His horse?”
“He drove your sister to Lichford, I understand, to take the train there. I met him last night as I left here; he was close to Blister Lane—about to turn into it, and I wondered what patient he could have in that locality to call him out in his carriage at night. I little thought of the expedition on which he was bent; or that he was waiting to be joined by Miss Laura Chesney. I saw her also; she must have been on her way to him.”
Jane lifted her eyes. “Mr. Grey! you saw her, and you did not stop her!”
John Grey slightly shook his head. “It was not possible for me to divine the errand on which she was bent. She was in the garden as I left here, and I said something to her about the inclemency of the night. I understood her to answer me—at least I inferred—that she was only going to the gate to look at the weather. I know the thought that crossed me was, that she was anxious because her father was out in it. There’s a report that some accident occurred to the horse and carriage when they were nearing Lichford,” continued the surgeon, “and that Mr. Carlton and the lady with him had to go the rest of the way on foot. It is what people are saying; I don’t know the particulars.”
“Nothing can be done to recall her, now?” said Jane, speaking the words in accordance with her own thoughts more than as a question.
“Nothing. The start has been too great—a whole night. They are probably married by this time, or will be before the day is out.”
Mr. Grey—I seem to speak to you as to an old friend,” Jane broke off to say; “a few minutes ago and I had not believed that I could have so spoken of this to any one. Mr. Grey, how shall I tell my father?”
“Ah,” said Mr. Grey, it will be sad news for him. My eldest little daughter is but eight years old, but I can fancy what must be the feelings of a father at being told such. I think—I think———”
“What?” asked Jane.
“Well, it is scarcely the thing to say to you just now, but I think I would rather lose a daughter by death than see her abandon her home in this way,” continued Mr. Grey in his frankness. “My heart would be less wrung. Will you allow me to ask whether Mr. Carlton was addressing her?”
“He had wished to do so, but was peremptorily forbidden by my father. That was the cause of the rupture which led to his dismissal from the house. None of us liked Mr. Carlton, except—I must of course except—my sister Laura.”
That she spoke in pain—that she was in a state of extreme distress, was all too evident and Mr. Grey felt how useless would be any attempt at consolation. It was a case that did not admit of it. He asked to see Lucy, and Jane went with him to her room. The hands were going on as well as possible, and Mr. Grey said there was not the least necessity for keeping her in bed. Poor Jane felt almost like a deceitful woman, when she reflected how far apart from the cuts had been her motive for keeping Lucy there.
“Can I be of use to you in any way?” he asked of Jane at parting.
Jane frankly put her hand into his and thanked him for his kindness. Ah, she found now, it was not Mr. Carlton’s profession she had so disliked, but Mr. Carlton himself. John Grey was but a surgeon also, a general practitioner: and of him Jane could have made a friend and an equal.
“You are very good,” she said. “Can you tell me the best way in which I can proceed to Pembury?”
“Are you going there?”
“I must go; I think I ought to go. Papa started for Chesney Oaks last night—and—you are aware perhaps that it is as you feared; that Lord Oakburn is dead?”
“Yes, I know; his death has been confirmed.”
“Papa left at once for Chesney Oaks; and his absence renders my position in this crisis all the more difficult. But I shall go after him, Mr. Grey; better that he should hear of this from my lips than from a stranger’s. None could soothe it to him in the telling as I can.”
Fond Jane! She truly deemed that none in the world could ever be to her father what she, his loving and dutiful daughter, was. How rudely the future would undeceive her, she dreamt not of yet. Just to “soothe this terrible news to him in the telling,” she had rapidly determined to make the best of her way to Pembury.
Pompey was already preparing to go there by the earliest train, and Jane started with him, leaving Lucy to the care of Judith. It ​was a long journey, and she meant to come back the same day, but the trouble and fatigue to herself were nothing, if she could but spare ever so little trouble to her father. There was the jolting omnibus to Great Wennock, and there was the railway afterwards—thirty miles of it; it may be questioned whether Jane, in her distress of mind, so much as knew that the omnibus made any jolts at all.
Arrived at Pembury, Jane felt undecided what to do. She did not much like to go on to Chesney Oaks; it would seem almost as though they wished to seize upon their new possession by storm ere the poor young earl was cold on his bed. Neither did she know whether the imperious old Dowager Countess of Oakburn might not be there; and Jane felt that to tell her this disgrace of Laura’s, would be a worse task than the telling it to her father.
She inquired for an hotel, and was directed to the “Oakburn Arms.” Then she despatched Pompey to Chesney Oaks.
“You will tell papa, Pompey, that I have come here, and am waiting to see him,” she said. “You must say that I have come all this way on purpose to impart to him something of the utmost moment; something that he must hear without delay—that I could not trust to anyone else to bring to him, for it is unpleasant news. And Pompey, you must not tell him: take care of that.”
Pompey looked aghast at the bare suggestion. He tell such news to his choleric master! “I no dare, missee,” was the characteristic answer.
Chesney Oaks, a fine old place, whose park stretched down to the very gates of Pembury, was less than a mile distant. Jane, ever thoughtful, despatched Pompey in a fly, that it might be at hand to bring back her father. She then sat down in the room to which she had been shown, and waited.
The room was on the ground floor, and she watched eagerly the way leading from Chesney Oaks. They appeared to have had as much rain at Pembury as they had had at South Wennock, to judge by the state of the roads, but it was a balmy spring day, this, and the sun shone out by fits and snatches: it shone on Jane’s face at the open window.
At length she saw the fly coming back again, and the sick feeling at her heart increased, now the moment was at hand when she must meet her father with the dreadful news. But the fly, instead of drawing up to the door of the inn, continued its way past it, and Jane saw that it was empty. It seemed like a welcome respite. She supposed her father had preferred to walk, and she stood looking out for him.
But she looked in vain. There appeared no sign of him, and Jane was beginning seriously to wonder what she should do in the emergency, when a handsome chariot, bearing about it, although in mourning, all the badges of rank and state—the flowing hammer cloth, the earl’s coronet on the panels, the powdered servants, the sparkling silver ornaments on the fine horses—came bowling up to the door. Another moment and the waiter appeared, showing in the powdered footman, who handed a small bit of twisted paper to Jane.
“For me?” she involuntarily exclaimed.
“Yes, my lady.”
Jane quite started. My lady! Why, yes, she was my lady. But the salutation sounded strange to her ears, and a deep blush arose to her fair face. Opening the paper, she read the following characteristic lines written in pencil.
“I cannot imagine whatever you have come for, Jane, but you can come on to Chesney Oaks and explain. Pompey’s a fool.”
By which last sentence Jane gathered that poor Pompey must have managed to plunge into hot water with his master, in his efforts not to tell the secret. She also divined that the carriage had been sent for her use.
“You have brought the carriage for me?” she asked.
“Yes, my lady. My lord requested you would go on without delay.”
But Jane hesitated. She thought of the fever. Not for herself did she fear it—at least it was not her own danger that struck her, but she was about to return home to Lucy and might carry it to her.
“There may be danger in my entering Chesney Oaks,” she said. “I am going home to a young sister, a little girl, and children take disorders so easily.”
“I don’t think there will be much danger, my lady,” returned the man. “My lord is in the left wing of the house, and the—the body of the late earl is lying in the wing at the other extremity, where he died. No one else has taken the fever.”
How strange it was, too, to hear her father called my lord; how strange to spring suddenly into all this pomp and state. Jane did not see that she could hold out longer, and passed out of the room.
Gathered in the entrance passage were the landlord of the inn, his wife, the waiter, and a chambermaid, ready to make obeisance to her as she passed. Jane felt rather little as she received the honours; she had an old black silk dress on, a shabby warm grey shawl, and a straw bonnet trimmed with black, the worse for wear. But Jane need not have feared: she was a lady always, and looked like one, dress as she would.
​“Who is she?” asked the landlady of the footman, in a low tone, arresting him as he was marching past her; for she did not know as yet who the stranger was, except that she was one of the family from which their inn took its sign.
“The Lady Jane Chesney; the new earl’s daughter.”
And the footman stood with his imposing cane, and bowed Jane into the carriage, and the people of the Oakburn Arms bowed again from its entrance; and thus Jane was bowled off in state to Chesney Oaks, the fine old place now her father’s.
Winding through a noble avenue of trees, the park stretching out on either hand, the house was gained. A red-brick mansion, with a wing extending out at either end. The wings were of modern date, and contained the handsomest rooms; the middle of the house was cramped and old-fashioned. In the wing to the left, as they approached, the poor young earl had lain ill and died; what remained of him was lying there now. Jane found that the carriage did not make for the principal entrance, but turned suddenly off as it approached it, continued its way to the other wing, and stopped there at a small door.
A gentleman in black—he looked really like one—was at the door to receive Jane, evidently expecting her. It was the groom of the chambers. He said nothing, only bowed, and threw open the door of a small sitting room, where the new earl was standing.
“Lady Jane, my lord.”
It would take Jane some little time to get accustomed to this. Lord Oakburn was in conversation with a grey-haired man who wore spectacles, the steward, as Jane afterwards found, and some books and papers were lying on the table, as though they were being examined.
“So it’s you, Jane, is it?” said the earl, turning round. “And now what on earth has brought you here, and what’s the matter? That idiot says that it’s not Lucy’s hands, and he’ll say no more, but stares and sobs. I’ll discharge him to-night.”
Jane knew how idle was the threat; how often it was hurled on the unhappy Pompey. Before she could say a word, her father had begun again.
“The idea of your sending for me to Pembury! Just like you! As if, when you had come so far, you could not have come on to Chesney Oaks. It’s my house now—and yours. You never do things like anybody else.”
“I did not care to come on, papa,” she answered in a low tone. “I thought—I thought Lady Oakburn might be here, and I did not wish to meet her just now; I have brought very bad news. And I thought, too, of the fever.”
“There’s no danger from that; the poor fellow’s lying in the other wing. And Lady Oakburn’s not here, but what difference it would make to you if she had been, I’d be glad to know. And now, what have you got to tell me? Is the house burnt down?”
Jane looked at the steward, who was standing aside respectfully. He understood the look—that she wished to be with her father alone—and turned to his new master.
“Shall I come in again by-and-by, my lord?”
Lord Oakburn nodded acquiescence. He had slipped as easily and naturally into his new position as though he had been bred to it. As the son of the Honourable Frank Chesney, he had seen somewhat of all this in his youth. Jane had not. Although reared a gentlewoman, she had been always but the daughter of a poor naval officer.
The room they were in, plain though it was as compared to some, bore its signs of luxury. The delicate paper on the walls, the gilded cornices, the rich carpet into which the feet sank, the brilliant and beautiful cloth covering the centre table. Lord Oakburn had been shown to it that morning for breakfast, and intended to make it his sitting-room during this his temporary sojourn in the house. How things had changed with him? and, but for the terrible escapade of the previous night, what a load of care would have been removed from Jane’s heart! No more pinching, no more miserable debts, no more dread of privation for her dear father!
She untied her bonnet strings, wondering how she should break it to him, how begin. Lord Oakburn pushed the steward’s papers into a heap as they lay on the costly cloth, and turned to her, waiting.
“Now, Jane, why don’t you speak? What is it?”
“It is because I do not know how to speak, papa,” she said at length. “I came myself to see you because I thought none could break the news to you so well as I: and now that I am here I seem as powerless to do it as a child could be. Papa, a great calamity has overtaken us.”
The old sailor, whatever his roughness of manner, his petty tyranny in his home, loved his children truly. He leaped to the conclusion, in spite of Pompey’s denial, that something bad had arisen from Lucy’s hands. Perhaps the places had burst asunder, and she had bled to death. He believed, now that he ​saw Jane and her emotion, that no slight misfortune had brought her.
“The obstinate villain! Not to tell me! And you, Jane, why do you beat about the bush? Is the child dead?”
“No, no; it is not Lucy, papa; her hands are going on quite well. It—it is about Laura.”
Lord Oakburn stared. “Has she fallen through a window?”
“It is worse than that,” said Jane, in a low tone.
“Worse than that! Hang it, Jane, tell it out and have done with it,” he cried, in a burst of passion, as he stamped his foot. Suspense to a man of his temper is not easy to bear.
“Laura has run away,” she said.
“Run away!” he repeated, staring at Jane.
“She quitted the house last night. She must have been gone when you left it. Don’t you remember, papa, you called to her and she did not answer? Not at first—not until it was too late to do anything—did I know she had run away.”
No suspicion of the truth dawned on Lord Oakburn, and Jane seemed to shrink from speaking more plainly. Compared to what he had dreaded—the death of Lucy—this appeared a very light calamity indeed.
“I’ll run her,” said he. “Where has she run too? What has she run for?”
“Papa, she has not gone alone,” said Jane, looking down. “Mr. Carlton is with her.”
“What?” shouted the peer.
“They have gone to be married, I fear. There can be no doubt of it.”
A pause of consternation on the part of the earl, and then the storm broke out. Jane had never been witness to such. He did not spare Laura, he did not spare Mr. Carlton; a good thing for both the offenders that they were not within his reach in that moment of passion.
Jane burst into tears. “Oh, papa, forgive me,” she said. “I ought to have told it you less abruptly; I meant to tell it you so; but somehow my powers failed me. I am grieved to be obliged to bring you this pain.”
Pain! yes it was pain to the honest old sailor, pain of the keenest sting. His beautiful daughter, of whom he had been so proud! His passion somewhat subsided, he sat down in a chair and buried his face in his hands. Presently he looked up, pale and resolute.
“Jane, this makes the second. Let her go as the other did. Never you mention her name to me again, any more than you mention that other one’s.”
And Jane felt all the more sad when she heard the injunction of forbiddance; an injunction which she should not dare to break.
She felt it all the more keenly because she had been confidently hoping that her father’s new rank as a peer of England, would cause the barrier of silence as to that "other one" to be raised.
A dinner hastily served was brought in for her, and when she had partaken of it, with what appetite she had, she proceeded to the station at Pembury to retake her departure, conducted to it in all the pomp and state that befitted her new position, as the Lady Jane Chesney.
But on poor Jane’s heart as she was whirled back to Great Wennock, there rested a sense of failure as to the expedition of the day. If she had but contrived to break it better! she thought in her meek self-reproach. It never occurred to that loving daughter that Lord Oakburn was just the man to whom such things cannot be “broken.”
CHAPTER XX.THE RETURN HOME.
The weather seemed to have taken an ill-natured fit and to be favouring the world with nothing but storms of hail and rain. The flight of Mr. Carlton and Laura Chesney had taken place on a Wednesday evening, and on that day week, Mr. and Lady Laura Carlton returned to South Wennock in some such a storm as the one they had departed in. They had been married in Scotland, and had solaced themselves with a few days’ tour since, by way of recompense for the mishaps attending their flight, but the weather had been most unpropitious.
Mr. Carlton’s establishment had enjoyed a week of jubilee. Orders had been received from that gentleman, written the day after his marriage, to have everything in readiness for the reception of their mistress; but the house had been so recently put in order on the occasion of the bringing in of the new furniture, that there was really nothing to do; a little impromptu cleaning, chiefly in the kitchens, they got a charwoman in to perform, taking holiday themselves.
But on this, the Wednesday night, they had resumed duty again, and were alike on their best behaviour and in their best attire to receive their master and now mistress. A post-carriage was ordered to be at the Great Wennock station to await the seven o’clock train, and the servants looked out impatiently.
When a carriage is bringing home folks from a wedding, it generally considers itself under an obligation to put forth its most dashing speed. So argued Mr. Carlton’s servants; therefore, long before half-past seven they were on the tiptoe of expectation, looking and listening for the arrival as the moments flew.
​The moments flew, however, to no purpose. Nobody came. Eight o’clock struck, and half-past eight struck, and the servants gazed at each other in puzzled wonderment as to what could be the cause of the delay.
Ben, the surgery boy, went out to the front gate, inserted the tips of his boots between the upright iron wires, and stood there taking a little riding recreation on it, which he accomplished by swinging the gate backwards and forwards. There was no troublesome household authority near, either Hannah or Evan, to box his ears and send him off, so he enjoyed his ride as long as he pleased, whistling a popular tune, and keeping his eyes fixed in the direction of the town.
“I say,” cried he, to a butcher-boy of his acquaintance, who passed on his way home from his day’s work, “do you know what makes the train so late to-night?”
“What train?” asked the young butcher, stopping and gazing at Ben.
“The seven train to Great Wennock. It ought to ha’ been in a good hour ago.”
“It is in,” said the boy.
“It isn’t,” responded Ben. “Who says it is?”
“I says it. I see the omnibus come in with my own eyes. Why, it’s on its road back again to take the folks to the nine train.”
Indisputable evidence to Ben’s mind. He jumped off the gate and dashed in-doors, without the ceremony of saying good night to his friend.
“I say, the train’s in; it have been in ever so long,” he cried to Hannah and the others.
“No!” exclaimed Hannah.
“It have, then. Bill Jupp have just told me. He see the omnibus a-coming back at its time with his own eyes.”
“Then something has detained them,” decided Hannah, “and they won’t be here to-night.”
Quite comforting assurance. A whole night’s further holiday! “Let’s have supper,” said Sarah, the additional maid who had been this week engaged by Hannah according to master’s written directions.
“I say, though,” cried Ben, “there’s another train. Bill Jupp, he see the omnibus a-going back again for it.”
“That don’t come from their way, stupid!” corrected Hannah. “The trouble I’ve had, laying out their tea and things in the dining-room, and all to no purpose!” she added crossly.
Of course, their master and mistress not being home to tea or supper, there was all the more reason why they should enjoy theirs. And they were doing so to their hearts’ content, sitting over a well-spread table, at which much laughter prevailed, and rather more noise than is absolutely necessary for digestion, when a loud ring startled them from their security.
“My goodness!” exclaimed Hannah. “If it should be them, after all! What on earth—get along, Evan, and open the door!” Don’t sit staring there like a stuck pig.”
Thus politely urged, Evan sprang out of the kitchen and into the hall. He opened the front door with a swing grand enough to admit a duke, and found himself confronted with nothing but a woman and a bundle.
A large awkward bundle, which appeared to have been put hastily together, and was encased by a thick old shawl to protect it from the rain. The bearer of it was Judith. She passed Evan without ceremony or preface, and dropped the bundle on a chair in the hall.
Why, what’s that?” exclaimed Evan, in surprise, who did not recognise Judith. In fact, he did not know her.
“Can I speak a word to Lady Laura Carlton?” was the answer.
Evan looked at the woman. Hannah, who had come into the hall, looked also; the boy Ben pushed himself forward and took his share of looking.
“I come from Cedar Lodge, from Lady Jane Chesney,” explained Judith, perceiving she was unknown. “These are some of Lady Laura’s things; but her trunks will be sent tomorrow.”
Hannah cast a contemptuous glance at the bundle. She thought it rather an uncerimonious way of forwarding an instalment of a bride’s wardrobe. In truth, Judith felt the same herself, but there was no help for it.
On the day of Laura’s marriage, subsequent to the ceremony, she had written a half-penitent note to Jane for the escapade of which she had been guilty, and stated that the ceremony had taken place. In this was enclosed a wholly penitential letter to her father. The superscriptions “Captain Chesney, R. N.,” and “Miss Chesney,” proved that Laura was in ignorance of the rise in their condition. Jane had forwarded the note to her father to Chesney Oaks, and he had flung it into the fire without reading; her own letter she did not dare to answer, for she had been strictly forbidden to hold further communication of any sort with her offending sister. After the late earl’s funeral, which took place on the Monday, Lord Oakburn returned to Cedar Lodge, and on the Wednesday morning there arrived another letter from Laura to Jane stating that she and Mr. Carlton purposed to be at South Wennock on Wednesday evening, and begging Jane to ​send her clothes to her new home, to await her arrival at it, especially a certain “light silk dress.”
“Not a thread of them,” cried the earl, bringing down his stick decisively when Jane spoke to him.
“She shall have no clothes sent from here.”
“But, papa, she has nothing to wear,” pleaded Jane. “She did not take with her so much as a pair of stockings to change.”
“So much the better,” fumed the earl. “Let her go barefoot.”
But Jane, considerate even for the offending Laura, and for the straits she would be put to without clothes, ventured to appeal to her father again in the course of the day. Not until evening would the earl unbend. And then, quite late, he suddenly announced that the things might go, and that the sooner the house was rid of them, the better.
It was eight o’clock then. Jane hastily put some things together, the light silk dress particularly named, and a few other articles that she deemed Laura might most need, and despatched Judith with them, charging her to see Lady Laura in private, and to explain how it was that the things had not been properly sent, and could not be, now, before the morrow. Hence it was that Judith stood in Mr. Carlton’s hall demanding to see its new mistress.
“They have not come yet,” was the reply of Hannah.
“Not come!” repeated Judith. “My lady told me they were to return by the seven-o’clock train.”
“And so they sent us word, and there’s the dinner-tea laid ready in the dining-room, but they haven’t come. The train’s in long ago, and it haven’t brought ’em.”
“Well,” said Judith, slowly, considering how much to say and how much not, “will you tell your lady that we were not able to send her things to-day—except just these few that I have brought—but that the rest will all be here to-morrow. I am sorry not to see her ladyship, because I had a private message for her from her sister.”
“I’ll tell her,” answered Hannah, in an ungracious, grumbling tone; for the advent of a new mistress in the house did not meet her approbation. “I think master might have said a word to us of what was going to be, afore he went away, and not have—what’s that?”
The noise of a carriage thundering up to the gate and stopping, scared their senses away. Evan opened the door at length, but not immediately; not until the bell had sent its echoes through the house.
They came into the hall; Mr. Carlton, and his young wife upon his arm. She wore two shoes now, and a beautiful Cashmere shawl, the latter the present of Mr. Carlton. He was a fond husband in this his first dream of passion. Mr. Bill Jupp’s information as to the train’s arrival was incorrect. It was true that the omnibus had come back, but it brought no passengers; it had waited as long as it could, and then had to return to convey back its customers to the nine-o’clock train. An accident, productive of no ill consequences save detention, had occurred to the seven-o’clock train containing Mr. Carlton and his wife, and this caused the delay.
She came in with her beaming face, laughing at something said by Mr. Carlton, and nodding affably to the servants by way of her first greeting to them. Very much surprised indeed did she look to see Judith standing in the background.
“Judith!” she exclaimed, “is it you?”
Judith came forward in her quiet, respectful manner. “Can I speak a word to you, my lady, if you please? Lady Jane charged me with it.”
Laura dropped Mr. Carlton’s arm and stared at her. The salutation was strange in her ears. “My lady!” “Lady Jane!” Had the world turned upside down, Laura Carlton had not been more surprised, more perplexed.
It must be remembered that she had known nothing of the late earl’s illness; when she quitted her home to fly with Mr. Carlton, he, Lord Oakburn, was being expected at Cedar Lodge. Mr. Carlton had said nothing to her of his surmised death, and during this wedding tour in the rather remote parts of Scotland, not a newspaper had fallen under her notice. Laura was therefore still in ignorance of all that had taken place.
“What did you say, Judith?” she asked, after a pause.
“Lady—Lady Jane sent you to me? Do you mean my sister?”
“Yes, my lady. She wished me to say a word to yourself.”
No woman living had greater tact than Laura Carlton. Not before her new servants would she betray her perplexity at the strange title, or give the slightest mark of indication that she did not know how it could belong to her. From the open door of the dining-room, on the right of the hall as Laura had entered, streamed the light of fire and lamp, and she stepped into it followed by Judith; Mr. Carlton had turned back, after bringing her in, to see what had been left in the post-carriage.
“Judith! you called my sister Lady Jane. Has anything happened to Lord Oakburn?”
It would have been Judith’s turn to stare ​now, but that she was too well bred a servant to do anything of the sort. A whole week since the change! it seemed next to impossible that Lady Laura should be in ignorance of it. She answered quietly.
“Lord Oakburn is dead, my lady—that is, the late Lord Oakburn—and my master is Lord Oakburn now.”
“I never heard of such a thing!” exclaimed Laura, sinking into a chair in her astonishment. “When did he die? How long have you known it?”
“He died on the Tuesday, yesterday week, my lady. He died of fever at Chesney Oaks, and the letter that came on the Wednesday morning to our house was not for him, after all, but for my master.”
“And when did you find out that it was for papa?—when was it first known at home?”
‘My lady, it was known just about the time that you left it. Mr. Grey was there that evening, if you remember, and he told the news of Lord Oakburn’s illness; that he was lying without hope a day or two previous at Chesney Oaks. There could be no doubt then, he said, that the letters had come for my master as Earl of Oakburn.”
“I wonder whether Lewis knew it?” was the question that crossed Laura’s heart. “Mr. Grey spoke to him that night as he left our house. But no, he could not know it,” came the next thought in her unbounded love and confidence, “or he would have told me.”
Question after question she poured upon Judith, and the woman told all she knew. Lord Oakburn was at home again now, she said, but she believed he and the young ladies were very soon to depart for Chesney Oaks.
“Judith,” resumed Laura at length, her other questions being exhausted, and she lowered her voice to timidity as she spoke, “was papa very—very furious with me that night?”
“My lady, you forget that I have said he had gone before it was known that you were missing. It was to tell him of it that Lady Jane went the next day all the way to Chesney Oaks.”
“True,” murmured Laura. “Does he seem in a terrible way over it, now that he is back?”
“Yes, I fear he is,” Judith was obliged to answer.
“And what did you come here for to-night, Judith? You said you had a message from my sister.”
Judith explained about the clothes, why it was that so few had been brought, and those at the last moment. The message from Jane, though put into the least offensive words possible, was to the effect that Laura must not venture at present to seek to hold intercourse in any shape whatever with her family.
Laura threw back her head with a disdainful gesture. “Does that interdict emanate from my sister herself?” she asked.
“I think not, Miss Lau—my lady. She cannot go against the wishes of the earl.”
“1 know that she will not,” was Laura’s scornful comment. “Well, Judith, tell Lady Jane from me that it’s no more than I expected, and that I hope they’ll come to their senses sometime.”
“And the little girl whispered to me as I was coming away to give her love, if you please,” concluded Judith.
“Darling child!” echoed Laura. “She’s worth ten of that cold Jane.”
Mr. Carlton entered as Judith departed, Laura stood talking with him on the new aspect of affairs, but she was no wiser at the conclusion of the conversation than she had been at the beginning, as to his having known of Lord Oakburn’s death previous to their flight. He drew her attention to the tea-table, which looked inviting enough with its savoury adjuncts that Hannah had prepared and laid out.
“Yes, presently,” she said, “but I will take my things off first. You must please to show me my way about the house, Lewis,” she added laughing, as she turned at the door and waited. “I don’t know it yet.”
Mr. Carlton laughed in answer, and went with her into the hall. It was a handsomer and more spacious residence than the one she had relinquished, Cedar Lodge, but it was a sadly poor one as placed in comparison with Chesney Oaks. On the opposite side of the hall in front was a sitting-room, where Mr. Carlton generally received any patients who came to him, and behind that room and at the back were the kitchens. On the opposite side to the kitchens and behind the dining-room a few steps led down to the surgery, which was close to the side entrance of the house.
The staircase wound round from the back of the hall, Laura ascended it with Mr. Carlton. There was plenty of space here. A handsome drawing-room and three bed-chambers. In the front chamber, Laura’s from henceforth, stood Sarah, unpacking the bundle brought by Judith, and ready to attend on her new mistress.
“Any alteration can be made in these rooms that you wish, Laura,” observed Mr. Carlton. “If you would like one of them converted into a boudoir for yourself———”
Mr. Carlton’s words were disturbed by a ring at the front door; a ring so loud and ​violent as to shake the house. He had broken off in vexation.
“I protest it is too bad!” he exclaimed angrily. “Not a minute in the house yet, and I must be hunted up and fetched out of it. I won’t attend. Go down,” he added to the new maid. “Say I am not at liberty to attend to patients to-night.”
She obeyed, but came up again instantly.
“It is not patients, sir. It’s a policeman. I told him you could see no one to-night, but he says he must see you.”
Mr. Carlton seemed taken aback at the words. “A policeman!” he repeated, in a strangely timid, hesitating tone.
“He was here yesterday and again this morning asking after you, sir,” returned the girl. “Hannah was very curious to know what he could want, but he wouldn’t say, except that it was something connected with that lady that died in Palace Street.”
Lady Laura, who had been taking off her bonnet at the toilette glass, turned round and looked at her husband.
“What can it be, Lewis?”
Never had Mr. Carlton appeared so vacillating. He took up the candle to descend, went as far as the door, came back and laid in on the drawers again. Again he moved forward without the candle, and again came back.
“Where is the policeman?” he questioned.
“He’s standing in the hall, sir.”
“It is a strange thing people cannot come at proper hours,” he exclaimed, finally taking up the wax-light to descend. “I have a great mind to say I would not see him, and make him come in the morning.”
Mr. Carlton recognised the policeman as one who had been busy in the case in Palace Street. Ho saluted Mr. Carlton respectfully, and the latter took him into the parlour opposite the dining-room.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour, sir,” he said, “but there is such a row at our station about this business that never was.”
“What about? What row?” asked the surgeon.
“Well, sir, we have got a new inspector come on, through the other one being moved elsewhere, and he makes out, or tries to make out, that the affair has been mismanaged, else he says more would have come to light about it. His name’s Medler, and goodness knows it seems as if he was going to be a meddler. First of all, sir, he wants to ask you a few particulars, especially as to the man you saw on the stairs.”
“Does he want to ask me to-night?” sarcastically inquired Mr. Carlton.
“No, sir, but as soon as ever is convenient to you in the morning; so I thought I’d just step down and tell you to-night, hearing you had come home.”
“So he wants to rip it all up again, does he, this new inspector?” remarked Mr. Carlton.
“It seems so,” replied the policeman.
“Well, he’s welcome to all I can tell him of the matter. I’ll call in to-morrow.”
“Thank you, sir. It would be satisfactory, of course, if anything more should be found out; but if it’s not, Mr. Medler will just see what reason he has to reproach us with negligence. Good night, sir.”
“Good night,” replied Mr. Carlton. And he shut the door on his troublesome and unseasonable visitor.
(To be continued.)