'Very bad,' replied Foster. 'My wife's strength is scarcely equal to the discharge of her maternal duties, and she has had to engage a wet-nurse for the little one.'
'I hate wet-nurses,' said Miss Montressor shortly.
'They are not generally very trustworthy,' said Foster, 'but from a letter I have here' (producing one from his breast-pocket, and opening it), 'we seem to have found an exceptional treasure. Helen writes me in the strongest terms of the respectability of Mrs. Jenkins.'
'Mrs. Jenkins?' replied Miss Montressor, pricking up her ears. 'Who is she?'
'The wet-nurse of whom I have just spoken to you. You ought to have a kindly feeling towards her; for Helen tells me that she is an Englishwoman, and married to an Englishman for some time settled in New York.'
An instantaneous gloom spread over Miss Montressor's face, and she walked on by her companion's side in silence. Mrs. Jenkins? The name was common enough among English people, and yet a horrible feeling of fear crept over the young woman who chose to call herself Clara Montressor--a feeling of fear lest this Mrs. Jenkins, now occupying the situation of wet-nurse in Mr. Foster's family, should be none other than her own sister Bess.
She had not heard from Bess for months, but the last letter was dated from New York, and spoke of the shifty, hand-to-mouth existence which she and her husband were leading. Could it be possible that they could have fallen so low, that poverty could have come upon them so rapidly, as to induce her to undertake such a menial position? Was her husband dead? could he have deserted her? or what was the cause of her sudden collapse?
The more she thought over this matter, the more angry and impatient she grew; and Mr. Foster, noticing her preoccupation, thought it best not to attempt to renew the conversation just then.
Did ever anything happen so unfortunately? At any other time it would not have mattered in the least. Between Bess Jenkins, the wet-nurse in New York, and Clara Montressor, the theatrical star in London, there was a great gulf fixed; but when the theatrical star shifted its orbit to the city where her humble relation was living, the latter would naturally and undoubtedly proclaim to the world the family tie existing between them, and endeavour to make the most of it to aid her fallen fortune.
What should she do? what should she do? The saturnine face of Mr. Dolby rose before her mind in a minute. How should she treat him in regard to this matter? Certainly not tell him, for more reasons than one. He would be the last man in the world from whom she would receive any sympathy, and, besides, she does not choose to let him know the fact of the relationship. Towards him, then, she would preserve absolute silence; and a little further reflection decided her that her best plan was to wait, become better acquainted with Mr. Foster, and if she found him the good and honest man which, from her slight acquaintance with him, she fancied him to be--for even with her associates, and her experience of the world, she still believed in goodness and honesty--perhaps tell him the truth, and get his help in suppressing it. Yes, that was the course she would take; and having determined on it, she put the subject aside, and looked up at her companion, as though to say she were ready to renew the conversation.