"Oh, dear!--oh, dear! what shall I do?--what shall I do?" sobbed Jane
Barker. "What a wicked set we must all be for the troubles to come
bubbling and rolling over us like this in a great water-flood. There's
poor Sir Murray half-mad with grief, shutting himself up in his library,
and never hardly so much as eating or drinking a bit. There's my own
dear, sweet lady lying there day after day, with the lids shut down over
those poor soft eyes of hers, never moving, and nobody knowing whether
she's living or dead, only when she gives one of those little sobbing
sighs. And then there's the poor old Rector, coming every day over and
over again to see how she is, and looking as if his heart would break;
and poor Mrs Elstree wandering up and down the passages like a ghost.
Oh, dear!--oh, dear!--oh, dear! the place isn't like the same, and I
don't know what's to become of us all. One didn't need to have jewels
missing, and poor servants suspected of taking them, and sent away
without a month's warning, and not a bit of character. But oh, John!--
John!--John! it wasn't a month's warning you had, but many months'
warning; and it wasn't you stole the cross, but let something steal away
all your good heart and good looks too."
Here Jane Barker burst out into a passionate fit of weeping, sobbing as
though her heart would break. She was sitting by her open window--one
looking over a part of the shrubbery which concealed the servants'
offices from the view of those who strolled through the grounds. It was
not the first night by many that Jane had sat there bewailing her
troubles, for it had become a favourite custom with her to sit there,
thoughtful and silent, till her passionate grief brought forth some such
outburst as the above. Busy the whole day at her work about the
sick-chamber of her lady, Jane told herself that at such times there was
something else for her to do beside sorrowing; but when at midnight all
about was wrapped in silence, the poor girl would sit or kneel at her
window, mourning and crying for hour after hour.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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