The anticipated crisis came within two weeks. Lady Ann did not show herself a second time in the nursery but, sending for Jane, informed her that an experienced nurse was on her way from London to take charge of the child, and her services would not be required after the next morning.

“For of course,” concluded the lady, “I could not expect a woman of your years to undertake a nurse’s place!”

“Please, your ladyship, I will do so gladly,” said Jane, eager at least to postpone the necessity which was being forced upon her.

“I intend you to go—at once,” replied lady Ann. “That is, the moment Mrs. Thornycroft arrives. The housekeeper will take care that you have your month’s full wages in lieu of advance warning.”

“Very well, my lady! Please, your ladyship, when may I come and see the child?”

“Not at all. There is no necessity.”

“Never at all?”

“Decidedly not.”

“Then may I at least ask why you are sending me away so suddenly?”

“I told you that I want a properly qualified nurse to take your place. My wish is to have the child more immediately under my own eye than would be agreeable if you kept your place. I hope I speak plainly!”

“Quite, my lady.”

“And let me, for your own sake, recommend that you behave more respectfully when you find another place.”

Jane went in silence, seeming to accept the inevitable, too proud to wipe away the tear whose rising she could not help—a tear not for herself, nor for the child, but for the dead mother whose place was now taken by such a woman. She walked slowly back to the nursery where her charge was asleep, closed the door, sat down by the cot, and sat for a while without moving.

Then her countenance began to change, and slowly went on changing, until at last, as through a mist of troubled emotion, out upon the strong, rugged face broke the glow of resolve. A maid more friendly than the rest brought her some tea, but Jane said nothing of what had occurred. When the child awoke, she fed him and played with him a long time, until he was thoroughly tired. Then she undressed him, laid him down, and set about preparing his evening meal. No one could have perceived in her any difference except for the subdued excitement that shone in her glowing eyes. When the supper was ready, she went to her box, took from it a small bottle, and poured a few dark-coloured drops into the food.

“God forgive me! It is but this once!” she murmured.

The child seemed not quite to relish his supper, but did not refuse it, and was presently asleep in her arms. She laid him down, took a book, and began to read.

— Forty-One —

Flight

She read until every sound in the house had died, every sound from attic to cellar. In the silence she rose, laid down her book, softly opened the door, and stepped even more softly into the narrow passage. She listened for a moment or two, then stole on tiptoe to the main corridor and listened again. She walked to the head of the great stairway and there stood and listened. Then she crept down to the drawing room, saw there was no light in the library, billiard room, or smoking room, and with stealthy feet returned to the nursery.