"Do you mean Miss Leonard?" I said.
"Oh, yes—Miss Leonard," said Jane, dropping her eyes on the floor with a strange look.
"Very well," I answered, thinking of the jubilee that was going on at the Hall.
"There is more wickedness in the world than mine," said Jane still frowning at the carpet. "She is false, and you are false—every one is false. I only know of two grand souls in the world—my mother and John. But the wicked ones will prosper, see if they don't—those who are gay and charming, at least. Bad ones like me go down like a stone, and lie at the bottom."
At this moment an eager treble voice was heard on the stairs, and the next Mopsie and I were crying, with our heads together, on the lobby.
"Oh, Margery, Margery!" sobbed the little one—"dear, darling, sweet Margery! why are you going away? You promised you would always stay. Oh, oh, Margery!"
An hour passed before I could tear myself away from the child. Jane prepared luncheon, which was not eaten; but she did not attempt to share in our sorrow and caresses. When I turned from the door Mopsie was prostrate, weeping on the mat; and Jane was standing upright in the doorway, straight, stern, and pale. So I went sorrowing back to the Hall. And I had not seen Mrs. Hollingford.
Had I seen her that day, had her errand of mercy not taken her away from her home and kept her away while I stayed, the whole current of my life and of the lives of others might have been changed. She would then have had no reason to come and visit me the next morning at the Hall, as she did.
I was busy packing in my own room, enlivening my work by humming gay airs, just to make-believe to myself that I was very merry at the prospect of my visit to London. The door opened quickly, and Rachel came in, walking on tiptoe, with her hand to her lips in trepidation. Her face was as pale as snow, and large tears stood in her eyes.
"My mother, my mother!" she said like one talking in her sleep. "I have seen my mother."