shall,” cried the girl with energy, “and he will come. He loves me too dearly to forsake me now. He is a gentleman and the soul of honour.”
Her face lit up, and the joyous look of love shone in her eyes as she gazed defiantly at her mother, who looked back at her, half pitying, half mocking her faith. Then, in spite of herself, she started, for steps were heard on the path beneath, and as the girl struggled up once more to her elbow, and craned her neck towards the window, voices were heard speaking at a little distance.
“There, there,” cried the girl, with a sob of joy, as she sank back laughing hysterically. “What did I say? He loves me – he loves me, and he has come.”
Mrs Riversley ran to the window, and drew aside the curtain furtively as a couple of young men, gentlemen evidently, and one carrying a trout-rod, walked slowly by, following the winding path that led round by the great gravel-pit in the wood that bordered the stream, and soon after they disappeared amidst the trees.
“That was his step,” cried the girl at last. “Who was with him, mamma?”
“Captain Millet.”
“Poor Mr Millet!” said the girl softly; and then, with the anxious troubled look fading from her countenance to give place to one of quiet content as a smile played round her lips, she lay very still, with half-closed eyes listening for the returning steps.
Twice she started up to listen, but only to sink back again, very calm and patient, her full faith that the man she loved would return beaming from every feature of her handsome young face.
“Mother,” she said at last softly; and Mrs Riversley turned towards her.
“What do you want?”
“Is it not time you brought it back to me, mother – that you laid it by my side?”
There was no reply, and the girl looked up pleadingly.
“I should like him to see it when he comes,” she said softly, and a wondrous look of love dawned in her pale face, causing a strange pang in her mother’s breast as she stood watching her and evidently trying to nerve herself for the disclosure she was about to make, one which in her anger she had thought easy, but which now became terribly difficult.
“If you cannot forgive me, mother dear,” said the girl pleadingly, “let me have my babe: for I love it, I love it,” she whispered to herself, and the soft dawn of a young mother’s yearning for her offspring grew warmer in her face.
“You will never see it more,” exclaimed the woman at last, in a hard harsh voice, though she trembled and shrank from her daughter’s eyes as she spoke. “It will never lie by your side for him to gaze upon your shame and his: the child is dead.”
A piteous cry broke from the young mother’s breast, and in her bitter grief she lay sobbing violently, till nature interposed, and, exhausted, weak and helpless, she sank into a heavy sleep with the tears still wet upon her face.
“It is better so – it is better so,” muttered Mrs Riversley, as she stood gazing down at her child. “It will nearly kill her, but, God forgive me, it must be done.”
She stood watching in the shaded room till a slight noise below made her start, and hastily glancing at her daughter to see that she slept, she stole on tiptoe from the bedside, and crept downstairs to where a sharp angular-looking woman of four or five and twenty was standing in the little drawing-room with her shawl over one arm, and her bonnet swinging from the strings.
She looked flushed with exercise, and her hair about her temples was wet with perspiration, while her boots were covered with dust.
“Well?”
“Well,” said the woman, with a rude, impatient gesture. “You must give me a glass of wine. I’m dead beat. It’s quite four miles there, and as hot as hot.”
“How dare you speak to me in that insolent way, Jane?” said Mrs Riversley angrily.
“Oh,” said the woman sharply, “this is no time far ma’aming and bowing and scraping; servants and missuses is all human beings together when they’re in trouble, and folks don’t make no difference between them.”
“But you might speak in a more respectful way, Jane,” said Mrs Riversley, biting her lips, and looking pale.
“Dessay I might,” said the woman; “but this ain’t the time. Well, you want to know about the – ”
“Hush! for Heaven’s sake, hush,” exclaimed Mrs Riversley, glancing round.
“Oh, there’s no one near us,” said the woman with a mocking laugh; “not even the police, so you needn’t be afraid. It ain’t murder.”
“Did you find her?” said Mrs Riversley. “Pray tell me, Jane. I spoke rather harshly just now, but I could not help it, I was so troubled and upset.”
“Dessay you were; dessay everybody else is,” said the woman roughly. “How’s Miss Mary?”
“Better, Jane; but you must never see her again. She must never know.”
“Did you tell her it was dead?” said the woman sharply.
“Yes, yes, and so it must be to her. But tell me,” continued Mrs Riversley eagerly, “did you make the arrangement?”
“Yes, and I had to give her every penny of the money you started me with.”
“And she does not know anything?”
“No,” said the woman, “and never will if you behave to me proper.”
“Yes, yes, Jane, I will; anything I can do, but you must go from here – at once.”
“And how are you going to manage?”
“As I can,” said Mrs Riversley sternly. “This secret must be kept.”
“And what are you going to give me to keep it?” said the woman sharply.
“I am not rich, Jane – far from it,” began Mrs
Riversley.
“You’re rich enough to pay me twenty pounds a year always,” said the woman, with a keen greedy look in her unpleasant face.
“Yes, yes, Jane, I will,” said Mrs Riversley eagerly, “on condition that you keep it secret, and never come near us more.”
“Then I want that grey silk dress of Miss Mary’s,” said the woman, with the avaricious look growing in her face. “She won’t want to wear it now.”
“You shall have it, Jane.”
“And there’s that velvet jacket I should like.”
“You shall have that too, Jane.”
“I ain’t got a watch and chain,” said the woman, “you may as well give me yourn.”
Without a word Mrs Riversley unhooked the little gold watch from her side, drew the chain from her neck, and threw it over that of her servant, whose closely set eyes twinkled with delight.
“You
