prise. “A communication from Chesney Oaks?” she repeated. “But papa is at Chesney Oaks. You can tell the gentleman so, Judith.”
“No, Jane, papa’s not at Chesney Oaks,” interposed Lacy, who was dancing about the room with her usual restlessness. “If he had been going to Chesney Oaks he would have gone from the Paddington Station, wouldn’t he?”
“Well?” said Jane.
“Well, he went to the King’s Cross Station.”
“How do you know?” asked Jane.
Lucy gave a deprecatory glance at Miss Snow ere she entered on her confession. She had run out to her papa after he was in the carriage for a last last kiss, and heard Pompey give the order to the coachman, “The King’s Cross Station.”
Jane shook her head. “You must have been mistaken, Lucy,” she said. “I asked papa whether he was going to Chesney Oaks, and he—he—” Jane stopped a moment in recollection—“he nodded his head in the affirmative. It must have meant the affirmative,” she added, slowly, as if debating the point with herself. “I am sure he is at Chesney Oaks.”
“Shall I inquire of the coachman, my lady?” asked Judith. “He is down stairs.”
“Yes, do,” replied Jane. “And you can tell the gentleman, Sir James Marden’s agent, that I shall expect Lord Oakburn home daily until I see him. He seldom remains away above three days.”
Judith went down on her errand, and came up again. Lucy was right. The coachman had driven his master to the King’s Cross Station: the coachman further said that it was to the King’s Cross Station that he had driven his master on his recent absences. Jane wondered. She was not aware that Lord Oakburn knew any one on that line. This time he had taken Pompey with him.
Miss Snow busied herself with the tea; Lucy talked; Jane sat in listless idleness. And thus the time went on until a loud knock and ring resounded through the house. Jane lifted her eyes to the clock on the mantelpiece, and saw that it wanted ten minutes to nine.
“Visitors to-night!” she exclaimed, with vexation.
“Don’t admit them, Lady Jane,” spoke up Miss Snow impulsively, in her sympathy for Lady Jane. “You are not well enough.”
Lucy had escaped from the room, and Miss Snow caught her at the dignified pastime of listening. Stretched over the balustrades as far as she could stretch, her ears and eyes were riveted to what was going on in the hall below. The governess administered a sharp reprimand and ordered her to come away. But Lucy was absorbed, and altogether ignored both Miss Snow and the mandate.
“Do you hear me speak to you, Lady Lucy? Must I come for you, then?”
Lucy drew away now, but not, as it appeared, in obedience to the governess. Her face wore a puzzled look of surprise, and she went back to the room on tiptoe.
“Jane,” said she, scarcely above her breath, “Jane what do you think? It is papa and Miss Lethwait!”
Jane turned round on her chair. “What nonsense, Lucy! Miss Lethwait!”
“It is indeed, Jane. It looks just as though papa had brought her on a visit, and there’s some luggage coming into the hall. Miss Lethwait”
“It cannot be Miss Lethwait,” sharply interrupted Lady Jane, her tone betraying annoyance at the very mistake.
“Yes it is Miss Lethwait,” persisted Lucy. “She is dressed so well!—in a rich damask dress and a white bonnet, and an Indian shawl with a gold border. It is just like that Indian shawl of mamma’s that you never remove from the drawer and never wear, because you say it puts you too much in mind of her.”
“Lucy, you must certainly be dreaming!” reiterated Jane. “Miss Lethwait would never dare to step inside our house again. If”
Jane stopped. Wilson the footman had come up the stairs, and his face wore a blank look.
“I beg your pardon, my lady; the earl has arrived.”
“Well?” said Jane.
“He ordered me to come up to you, my lady, and ask whether there was nobody to receive him and—and—Lady Oakburn.”
“Bade you ask what?” demanded Jane, bending her haughty eyelids on the servant.
“My lady,” returned the man, thinking he would give the words as they were given to him, and then perhaps he should escape anger, “what his lordship said was this: ‘Go up and see where they are, and ask what’s the reason that nobody is about, to receive Lady Oakburn.’ They were the exact words, my lady.”
“Is it my aunt, the Dowager Lady Oakburn?” asked Jane in her wonder.
“It is Miss Lethwait, my lady. That is to say, she as was Miss Lethwait when she lived here.”
Lucy was right, then! A ghastly hue overspread the face of Jane Chesney. Not at the unhappy fact—which as yet, strange to say,