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