Jane Payland was about twenty-four years of age, tall, slim, and
active. She had no pretensions to beauty; but was the sort of person
who is generally called lady-like.
This morning she went to the little lobby, in which the boy had been
told to wait, indignant at the impertinence of anyone who could dare to
intrude upon her mistress at such a time.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" she asked angrily.
"If you please, ma'am, I'm Widow Beckett's son," the boy answered, in
evident terror of the young woman in the rustling black silk dress and
smart cap; "and I've brought this letter, please; and I was only to
give it to the lady's own maid, please.
"I am her own maid," answered Jane.
The boy handed her a dirty-looking letter, directed, in a bold clear
hand, to Lady Eversleigh.
"Who gave you this?" asked Jane Payland, looking at the dirty envelope
with extreme disgust.
"It was a tramp as give it me--a tramp as I met in the village; and
I'm to wait for an answer, please, and I'm to take it to him at the
'Hen and Chickens.'"
"How dare you bring Lady Eversleigh a letter given you by a tramp--a
begging letter, of course? I wonder at your impudence."
"I didn't go to do no harm," expostulated Master Beckett. "He says to
me, he says, 'If her ladyship once sets eyes upon that letter, she'll
arnswer it fast enough; and now you cut and run,' he says; 'it's a
matter of life and death, it is, and it won't do to waste time over
it.
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