But she was content to
accept the fact as a fact; beyond that she cared nothing. No syllable of
love had been spoken between her and George: they had passed what to an
outsider would have seemed a very common-place afternoon. They had
talked together--not sentiment, but every-day topics of the world around
them; they had read together--poetry, but nothing more passionate than
"Aurora Leigh;" they had walked together--rather a silent and stupid
walk, our friendly outsider would have urged; but if they were content,
no one else had any right to complain. And so the day had worn itself
away--a red-letter day for ever in the calendar of their young lives.
CHAPTER XX.
THE NARRATIVE OF SERGEANT NICHOLAS.
One morning when Janet had been about three weeks at Deepley Walls, she
was summoned to the door by one of the servants, and found there a tall,
thin, middle-aged man, dressed in plain clothes, and having all the
appearance of a discharged soldier.
"I have come a long way, miss," he said to Janet, carrying a finger to
his forehead, "in order to see Lady Chillington and have a little
private talk with her."
"I am afraid that her ladyship will scarcely see you, unless you can
give her some idea of the business that you have called upon."
"My name, miss, is Sergeant John Nicholas. I served formerly in India,
where I was body-servant to her ladyship's son, Captain Charles
Chillington, who died there of cholera nearly twenty years ago, and I
have something of importance to communicate.
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