"Yes, I see, you know it all, and you'll hate me now, as the others will, and I don't care."
Suspicions are one thing—faint, phantasmal; certainties quite another. Donica Gwynn looked appalled.
"Oh! poor Miss Jennie!" she cried at last, and burst into tears. Before this old domestic Lady Jane was standing—a statue of shame, of defiance—the fallen angelic.
"You're doing that to make me mad."
"Oh! no, miss; I'm sorry."
There was silence for a good while.
"The curse of God's upon this room," said Donica, fiercely, drying her eyes. "I wish you had never set foot in it. Come away, my lady. I'll go and send at once for a carriage to the town, and we'll go together, ma'am, to Wardlock. Shall I, ma'am?"
"Yes, I'll go," said Lady Jane. "Let us go, you and I. I won't go with Lady Alice. I won't go with her."
"Good-bye, my lady; good-bye, Miss Jennie dear; I'll be here again presently."
Dressed for the journey, with her cloak on and bonnet, Lady Jane sat in an arm-chair, haggard, listless, watching the slow shuffling of her own foot upon the floor, while Donica departed to complete the arrangements for their journey.