"Five and twenty pounds!" grumbled Milsom; "a very handsome amount, upon my word! And you have fifteen thousand a year!"
"May the curse of a black and bitter heart cling to you!" cried the man.
Lady Eversleigh turned from her companion with a gesture of loathing. But there was no fear in her heart. She walked slowly back to the gate leading into the meadow, followed by Milsom, who heaped abusive epithets upon her at every step. As she entered the meadow, the figure of the spy drew suddenly back into the shadow of the hedge; from which it did not emerge till Honoria had disappeared through the little gate on the opposite side of the field, and the heavy tramp of Milsom's footsteps had died away in the distance.
Then the figure came forth into the broad moonlight; and that subdued, but clear radiance, revealed the pale, thin face of Jane Payland.
When Jane Payland was brushing her mistress's hair that night, she ventured to sound her as to her future movements, by a few cautions and respectful questions, to which Lady Eversleigh replied with less than her usual reticence. From her lady's answers, the waiting-maid ascertained that she had no idea of seeking any relaxation in change of scene, but purposed to reside at Raynham for at least one year.
Jane Payland wondered at the decision of her mistress's manner. She had imagined that Lady Eversleigh would be eager to leave a place in which she found herself the object of disapprobation and contempt.
"If I were her, I would go to France, and be a great lady in Paris--which is twenty times gayer and more delightful than any place in stupid, straight-laced old England," thought Jane Payland. "If I had her money, I would spend it, and enjoy life, in spite of all the world."
"I'm afraid your health will suffer from a long residence at the castle, my lady," said Jane, presently, determined to do all in her power to bring about a change in her mistress's plans. "After such a shock as you have had, some distraction must be necessary. When I had the honour of living with the Duchess of Mountaintour, and we lost the dear duke, the first thing I said to the duchess, after the funeral, was--'Change of scene, your grace, change of scene; nothing like change of scene when the mind has received a sudden blow.' The sweet duchess's physician actually echoed my words, though he had never heard them; and within a week of the sad ceremony we started for the Continent, where we remained a year; at the end of which period the dear duchess was united to the Marquis of Purpeltown."