Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/583

 14, 1864.]

sat in the darkening twilight of the evening, gazing at the outsides of the two letters which had caused so much speculation. The conviction was gradually forcing itself upon her, that the view taken of the case by Mr. John Grey was the only one that offered any reasonable solution; for if the young Earl of Oakburn was lying ill of fever at Chesney Oaks, it was out of the range of probability to suppose that letters would be sent to him to Captain Cheney’s house at South Wennock.

Lucy’s voice broke the stillness of the long pause that had followed on Mr. Grey’s departure. The little girl, gifted with much sensitive feeling, had not liked to speak before, and even now her tones were timid and low.

“Do you think it can be true, Jane—that papa is Earl of Oakburn?”

“I—I think it must be, Lucy. I cannot see anything else that the coming of these letters here can mean.”

Lucy rose from her low seat by the fire, and was running to the door. “I’ll go and tell Laura,” she said; but Jane drew her book.

“Not yet, Lucy. Let us be sure that it is true first. Somehow I do not like to speculate upon it. It is so sad, it is so grievously sad for the young earl to have died like this—if he has died.”

Lucy sat down again, disappointed. She had all a child’s love of imparting marvellous news. But Laura would be coming down-stairs directly, she supposed, and then Jane would no doubt tell her.

Jane sat in silence. She was possessed of extreme right feeling, she had no selfishness, was just in her regard for others, and she did not like to dwell upon the probability of this being true—or, as she had phrased it, to speculate upon it. 1f Lord Oakhurn was dead, had been cut off thus early, none would feel more genuine regret for him than Jane. And yet, in spite of this, in spite of herself, certain thoughts intruded themselves and would not be driven back. No more privations, no more pinching, no more care; no more dread of that horrible prison for one whom she so loved, which had been ever present in her mind, a shadow and a dread. Strive as she would, she could not wholly drive these thoughts away from her brain; she could not do it; and yet she almost hated and despised herself for their being there.

By-and-by, just as Pompey brought in the lamp, the step of Captain Chesney was heard on the wet gravel, The rain ever since morning had been incessant, drenching; but it had cleared up now.

“I can’t get any news of Oakburn,” said the captain, when he came in. “The omnibus brought no passengers at all to-night. What’s that, Jane? Another letter for him? Well, it’s strange that he should not be here to meet them.”

“Papa,” said Jane, her pulses beating at what she had to any, “I fear we may have been under a mistake in expecting him at all. Mr. Grey has been here since you went out, and he says Lord Oakburn was lying at Chesney Oaks two days ago, dangerously ill of typhus fever; it was found then that he had not many hours to live. Mr. Grey thinks it certain that these two letters are for you.”

“For me!” repeated the puzzled captain, not having discerned the drift of the argument.

“Yes, papa,” replied Jane, bending her head and speaking in a very low tone. “For you, as Earl of Oakburn.”

Captain Chesney stared at Jane, and then made her repeat exactly what Mr. Grey had said. It subdued him greatly. He was as unselfish as Jane, and he thought of the young earl’s fate, not of his own advancement.

“I’ll risk it, Jane, and open one of the letters,” he said. “If—if it should be all right, why the poor fellow will forgive me; he was always good-natured. I’ll just tell him how it happened, and why I did it. Give me the one that came this morning.”

Jane selected the morning’s letter, and Captain Chesney opened it. He ran his eyes over its contents, standing by the lamp to do so, and then he sat down in a very humble fashion and in deep silence.

“It’s true, Jane,” he presently said, with something very like a sob. “The poor lad is gone, and I am Earl of Oakburn.”

The letter was from the steward at Chesney Oaks. He wrote to acquaint the new earl of his young master’s death, and to request his immediate presence at Chesney Oaks. The earl (as we must henceforth call Captain Chesney) flung it on the table in a momentary access of his customary choler.