Very brief had been her glory; very
deep was her disgrace.
What was she to do? Carry her child away before they could take him from
her--secure him to herself somehow. If it were to be done at all, it must
be done quickly; and who had she to help her in this hour of desperate
need.
She looked at Jane Target, who was standing by the dressing-table dusting
the gold-topped scent-bottles and innumerable prettinesses scattered
there--the costly trifles with which women who are not really happy strive
to create for themselves a factitious kind of happiness. The girl was
lingering over her work, loth to leave her mistress unless actually
dismissed.
Jane Target, Clarissa remembered her a flaxen-haired cottage girl, with an
honest freckled face and a calico-bonnet; a girl who was always swinging on
five-barred gates, or overturning a baby brother out of a primitive wooden
cart--surely this girl was faithful, and would help her in her extremity.
In all the world, there was no other creature to whom she could appeal.
"Jane," she said at last, stopping before the girl and looking at her with
earnest questioning eyes, "I think I can trust you." "Indeed you can,
ma'am," answered Jane, throwing down her feather dusting-brush to clasp her
hands impetuously. "There's nothing in this world I would not do to prove
myself true to you."
"I am in great trouble, Jane."
"I know that, ma'am," the girl answered frankly.
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