So matters dropped back into their old train at Bentley Hall for about a month longer. Then, one August morning, Colonel Lane, who had ridden to Kidderminster, entered the parlour with an open letter in his hand. His face was grave almost to sternness, and when his sister saw it, an expression of alarm came into her eyes.
“A letter, Jane, from Penelope Wyndham,” he said, giving her the letter.
“Mrs Millicent and Mrs Jenny, I pray you give us leave.”
That was a civil way of saying, “Please to leave the room,” and of course it was at once obeyed. Evidently something of consequence was to be discussed.
“I do hope Mrs Jane will not go away again,” said Millicent.
“Well, I don’t know; I shouldn’t be sorry if she did,” answered Jenny.
“Very like not; you think you’d go withal. But I can tell you it is vastly dull for us left behind. There’s a bit of life when she is here.”
Jenny went up to Mrs Jane’s room, where she occupied herself by tacking clean white ruffles into some of her mistress’s gowns. She had not progressed far when that young lady came up, with a very disturbed face.
“Let those be,” she said, seeing how Jenny was employed. “Jenny, child, I am grieved to tell thee, but thou must needs return to thine own home.”
“Send me away!” gasped Jenny. “Oh, Mrs Jane, madam, what have I done!”