“Of course,” cried her mistress, with the calm envelope now rent to tatters, and the agony of passion carrying all before it. “And what then?”
Jane was silent.
“I said what then? Speak out, girl; I command you!”
“I beg pardon, my lady,” stammered the girl, growing fluttered before the fierce gaze and losing her presence of mind completely, and wildly misconstruing the stern question.
For maddened by her feelings, Lady Lisle took three or four quick steps towards the girl and caught her by the wrist. “You are keeping something back,” she cried. “How dare you! Answer me at once, and tell me all you know.”
Jane burst out sobbing. “Don’t, my lady; don’t,” she cried. “You hurt my arm.”
“Then speak out—at once.”
“But I don’t like to, my lady. I’m very sorry for you; I am, indeed, but—but—but pr’aps it mayn’t be so bad as you think, and—and—and—I don’t like to make mischief.”
The girl’s genuine suffering had a peculiar effect upon Lady Lisle.
“Thank you, Jane,” she said sadly. “I have always tried to be a good mistress to you.”