put the key into her key-drawer only yesterday morning; and I told her so. Of course she has gone herself and lost it.”
“I daresay it’s only mislaid,” remarked the man.
“Nothing else in the world; dropped down, perhaps, behind the furniture, or something of that, and will be found in the morning. I said so to my lady; but no, not a minute’s waiting will do for her. She must have the door open to-night, and off she sends me here for a skeleton key. ‘I won’t have the lock picked or damaged, in case the key does turn up,’ says she. ‘Tell White to send me a skeleton key, one that’ll pick any lock of about that size, and he shall have it returned in a day or two.’ And so off I came. And now, just look sharp, for I’d like to get back home to the fire.”
“I’d have sent one of the men-servants.”
“1 dare say you would; but you don’t live under Lady Laura Carlton. If I told another servant to go when she had sent me, I might pack up my boxes. Is this the article? It looks simple enough.”
“It’s simple enough, Miss,” said the man, as he proceeded to explain its use. “And it’s good night, and wishing you a pleasanter walk back again, Miss Stifling.”
“Which you must be an idiot to wish,” irascibly returned Miss Stifling. “Is the sleet and rain not falling incessant to make it beastlier instead of pleasanter!”
The young woman made her way home as speedily as circumstances and her shoes permitted. Lady Laura Carlton was waiting for her in her dressing-room, waiting impatiently, as might be seen. What project was in her mind that night, flushing her cheeks to emotion, and rendering her eyes restless? Could it be that these external signs of agitation were caused by the simple mislaying of a key?—and the key of a place that was not in particular request?
“What a time you have been, Stifling!” uttered she, as the maid entered.
“Time, my lady!” returned Stifling, whose manner and voice, be it remarked, were subdued to meekness in Lady Laura’s presence, whatever they might be out of it. “I went as quick as the sleet and the slush allowed me; and this is what White has sent. Shall I open the place now, my lady?”
“No,” sharply answered Lady Laura. “It is time for my port-wine jelly.”
Stifling went down-stairs, muttering something about caprice, and brought up a small mould of dark jelly on a handsome glass dish, a glass plate and a tea-spoon. As she was putting the things on the sofa table before her mistress, Lady Laura looked at her.
“I cannot think how you could have been so carelessly stupid as to lose the key.”
“All I can say is this, my lady, that I put it into that there key-drawer yesterday morning. I am as positive of it———"
“There, that will do, Stiffing,” interrupted Lady Laura; “it is of no use going over the old assertion again. You can go down and get warm after your walk. I shall not want you for at least an hour. When I do, I’ll ring. And, Stiffing, you will not forget the injunction I gave you—to hold your tongue. I won’t have the servants know that I admit skeleton keys into my house: it might teach some of them tricks.”
Stiffing departed, saying she would remember: and she meant to keep her word. With all Lady Laura’s exactions and caprice, she was a generous mistress, and the servants liked her. Stiffing made herself comfortable in the servants’ sitting-room before a blazing fire. They seemed curious to know what had taken her out; “O, only a little errand for my lady,” was the indifferent answer. They were all shut up snugly enough there, and Judith was among them. Lady Jane was with Lucy, and Mr. Carlton had gone out.
The stairs were creaking—as stairs will creak when a stealthy footstep is upon them, and the house in silence. They were the back stairs, not the front; and, cautiously descending them, a thick black silk scarf tied over her head, and a shawl muffled round her, to guard against cold, was Lady Laura Carlton, bearing the skeleton key. The stairs were dark, for those back stairs were never lighted, and she felt her way by the balustrades. They brought her in time to the cellar; she groped her way through it, entered the room beyond, and struck a light. She struck the wax match and lighted the taper she had brought down from her writing table. Laura! Laura Carlton! what are you about to do? To pry into your husband’s private affairs, into things which he deems it fit and right to keep from you? Take you care; secrets, sought out dishonourably, rarely benefit the seeker.
She was not in a mood to take care. Had a very angel from heaven appeared to warn her against what she was doing, she had scarcely heeded it. In her present state of exasperation she cared not what the result might be. What precise secrets, or mementos of secrets, Mr. Carlton kept in that iron safe before her, she knew not; her suspicions were entirely vague; but the idea had taken possession of her that something or other might be ferreted out of it, and it was only her illness which had caused her to delay the search so long. Not that she supposed the contents of the iron safe would help