CHAPTER XIIFOUND!"And if she can have access to a good library of old and classical books, there need be no choosing at all ... turn her loose into the old library every wet day, and let her alone ... let her loose in the library, I say, as you do a fawn in the field. It knows the bad weeds twenty times better than you; and the good ones, too, and will eat some bitter and prickly ones, good for it, which you had not the slightest thought would have been so."Sesame and Lilies.Jane-Anne had got her heart's desire. She was allowed to wait upon Mr. Wycherly. She laid his breakfast and carried it in. She laid his luncheon and his dinner and her good aunt brought the heavy trays to the slab outside the dining-room door, and Jane-Anne fetched dishes one by one and set them on table or sideboard, and handed vegetables and poured out Mr. Wycherly's beer for him from the old brown Toby jug that had once belonged to Admiral Bethune.It was brought about in this wise. When Jane-Anne had been in Holywell about a month there came a letter for her one morning.Now, that she should have a letter at all, except from her aunt, was a tremendous and most untoward event. Yet it was undoubtedly for her, for it was addressed Miss Jane-Anne (no surname), c/o M. Wycherly, Esq., not enclosed in one of his, but stamped and sent to her direct. She found it on her plate at breakfast when she came down, and turned it over and over in her hands before she opened it.The handwriting was small, clear and upright, and rather like Mr. Wycherly's own. She noticed this at once as she had often taken his letters to post for him."Aren't you going to open your letter?" her aunt asked.Nervously Jane-Anne tore the envelope, flushed and paled, as she always did when excited, and then read it eagerly in absolute silence."Well?" Mrs. Dew demanded impatiently. "Who's been writing to you?""It's from Master Montagu," Jane-Anne cried breathlessly. "He's written tome, to ask me to see that Mr. Wycherly eats his meals—oh aunt youwilllet me wait on him now, won't you?""What's he say?" asked Mrs. Dew."My dear Jane-Anne," she read aloud, "I'm glad to hear from Guardie you're all right again. It would be decent of you if you'd write to me sometimes and tell me how he is, for he never says himself. And there's another thing: I wish you'd go in and out sometimes at meals and see that he isn't reading and forgetting to eat at all. That's what he does if he isn't watched, Robina told me. Just go in and joggle his elbow and remind him, if he's got a book, especially if it's 'Aeschylus'; he's very fond of that and forgets the chops and potatoes and everything. And please make him go out every day; you might take him. You see he used always to take Mause, our dog, for a walk, but she's dead, poor thing."You've not got much to do, with no school, so just look after Guardie like a good kid. I shall be awfully obliged, and please write."Yours truly,"MONTAGU BETHUNE WYCHERLY.""There," said Jane-Anne."I'll not say but what it's quite a good idea," Mrs. Dew admitted, "though you can't go jogglin' the master's elbow or any impudence of that sort. Still, you might wait on him, and if he gets reading, just go quiet and say 'potatoes, sir,' or 'peas, sir,' and it'll bring 'im back. It goes to my very heart when he forgets and leaves a homelette till it's all flat and tough, an' it'd come easier like from you—you can stop in the room at lunch and dinner, and stand be'ind him at the sideboard. And mind you don't get woolgathering too, as is but likely.""Can I have a cap and apron, like Mrs. Methuen's parlour-maid?" Jane Anne asked eagerly, desirous to dress to the part."Certainly not; you'd look ridiklus. I don't want any tweeny maids in this house—you go in neat and tidy in one of the nice dresses as Mrs. Methuen got made, and behave quiet and respectful, an' if there's company—why I'll wait myself, though I don't care about it much, it not bein' what I've bin used to.""Why couldn't I wait if there was company? I'd be very quick and quiet, and I'd love to hear the gentry talk.""We'll see first how you waits without," said Mrs. Dew, ever dubious as to Jane-Anne's practical capacities.So it came about that she waited on Mr. Wycherly that very day at lunch, and when she handed him the vegetables he murmured something about "tender little thumbs" which puzzled her extremely.She was very deft and quiet, because she wanted to wait well, and whatever Jane-Anne wanted to do, that she did excellently. She had watched Mrs. Methuen's parlour-maid, and she modelled herself on that very superior young person. So quiet was she, that at first, Mr. Wycherly would sometimes forget she was there, and pick up the brown calf-bound book with the queer scratchy print, that Jane-Anne already loved because she knew it was Greek, and fall a-reading only to be instantly recalled by a vegetable dish presented at his elbow and a prim low voice (even her voice was modelled on Mrs. Methuen's parlour-maid) remarking, "Cabbage, sir," or something of the sort.But although Jane-Anne completely forgot herself in the ardour of her impersonation, Mr. Wycherly after the very first did not forget Jane-Anne."Couldn't you stand where I can see you?" he suggested after about a week of her ministrations, "or better still, sit down.""Oh, sir, I mustn't sit down," she remonstrated in shocked tones; "parlour-maids never do that.""Don't they?" said Mr. Wycherly. "It's so long since I had a parlour-maid I've forgotten. When I was young I was generally waited upon by men, and in Scotland we never had any waiting at all; we helped each other.""Men are best," Jane-Anne replied from her place on the hearth-rug where she had obediently taken her stand. "If I grow up good-looking perhaps I may marry a first footman.""Good God!" ejaculated Mr. Wycherly in tones of the utmost consternation.Jane-Anne looked very surprised."There was a first footman at Dursley House. Oh, he was a beautiful young man!" she exclaimed in reminiscent rapture; "so dignified."Mr. Wycherly was quite shaken out of his usual smiling fatalism. Had he been able at the moment to analyse his feelings he would have been amazed at the violence of his objection to a first footman as a possible husband for Jane-Anne. But just then he was only conscious of strong resentment at the very idea.It was one thing for her to wait upon him, but to think of his Greek nymph in intimate relations with anybody's first footman was inconceivable. He grew hot all over, and his chief desire at that moment was to knock somebody down.There she stood by the fireplace, slender and virginal and sweet, a graceful, gracious figure in the straight blue linen dress Mrs. Methuen had chosen for her, regarding him with large surprised brown eyes, and calmly proposing to marry a footman."Do you not think it would be nice?" she asked."My dear," said Mr. Wycherly, recovering himself with difficulty and striving ineffectually to speak with his usual calm detachment, "it is an outrageous and impossible contingency, and I beg that you will forthwith dismiss it from your mind at once and for ever.""Sir, you are not eating your dinner," Jane-Anne remarked after a moment's silence."How can I eat if you suggest such horrible things?" Mr. Wycherly complained."But I'd like to marry somebody," Jane-Anne protested, "and I wouldn't like an ugly person.""Heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Wycherly. "Are footmen the only good-looking men in the world?""They're the best-looking men in our walk in life, sir," Jane-Anne rejoined primly, in exact imitation of her aunt."Come here, Jane-Anne," said Mr. Wycherly.She went obediently and stood beside him."Have you ever thought," he said gravely, "that your walk in life may be precisely what you choose to make it?""No, sir," she said frankly, "I've always supposed I should be a servant—there doesn't seem anything else for me to be. You see, aunt knows she could get me into a good family.""I don't think you're strong enough for a servant," Mr. Wycherly objected."Then," she said decidedly, "I think I'd better be a ward.""A ward?" Mr. Wycherly repeated in puzzled tones."Your ward, like Master Edmund and Master Montagu. I'd like that, it would be lovelly."Mr. Wycherly laughed. "It seems to me," he said, "that I have already adopted you.""Then that's all right for just now, but afterwards, when I'm grown up, what would you like me to be, sir?""We'll think about that later on. Just now I want you to be an entirely happy little girl, to dance in the sunshine and get fat and merry——""I hope I shall never be fat," she interrupted. "I think it's hideous.""Well, perhaps not fat—but plump and round and jolly—to learn all your good aunt teaches you and to read for yourself——"May I read the books in the book-case in the parlour?" she asked eagerly. "I'll be so careful. I don't spoil books, I truly don't.""Certainly you may; you will find many excellent books among them, and when I come back—I'm going to London for a few days, to-morrow—you shall tell me what you have read and we'll talk it over together."The book-case in the dining-room was full of books that had belonged to Miss Esperance, and Mr. Wycherly felt that he was perfectly safe in giving Jane-Anne permission to read any of them. He had never even troubled to see what they were. He knew there was a whole edition of Sir Walter and most of the standard novels up to about the year 1870. Many theological works, and the little gilt books—precious these—that had come to Miss Esperance from her own mother."You won't be long away, I hope, sir?" Jane-Anne said wistfully. "It will seem very lonely when you are gone.""I shall not be a moment longer than I can help, and I shall expect to hear all sorts of interesting news when I come back.""Do you think I could ever learn to be a lady, sir—if I can't be a servant?""I see no reason why you should not grow up a very charming lady.""But ladies don't dust and wash dishes and do things like I do.""As I do," Mr. Wycherly corrected almost mechanically. Then, as if he had not spoken, he went on, "the best and most beautiful lady I ever knew did all these things.""Did she like doing them?""I don't think she ever thought much about what she liked or disliked. She did what she had to do, and did it better and more gracefully than anybody else."She pondered over this. It seemed to her an impossible ideal. How could anyone do a thing "more gracefully than anybody else" just because it had to be done? Liking had everything to do with Jane-Anne's doings.When she had cleared away, Mr. Wycherly sat long over his glass of port. He did not read. He did not drink his wine, but sat on at the table staring at nothing, and wondering about the future of this queer, lonely child who had crept into his heart so quietly and imperceptibly that not till she made that astounding announcement as to her matrimonial ambitions did he realise how dear she had become.He had released the starling; it was true.The bird was very tame, and came at call to his hand; but the wings were there, young and strong and untried.When the time came for flight, whither would they bear her?* * * * *On Thursday Mr. Wycherly went to London. He was to remain over Sunday, in order to hear an old friend preach at the Temple Church. On Friday morning Jane-Anne hied her to the parlour to inspect the book-case.It is true that all the books in the dining-room had belonged to Miss Esperance, but Mr. Wycherly had reckoned without the Admiral. His books were there too. These included the works of Henry Fielding and Tobias Smollett, and there was on the top shelf a long row of little books, "the dear and dumpy twelves" beloved by our ancestors.The book-case was a tall one, and, with the natural perversity of children, Jane-Anne attacked the top row first. Just because she could not reach it, she desired ardently to look at the small dull-coloured books on the top shelf. So she dragged up a chair, placed a work-box upon that and then, mounted upon the two, she could read the titles on the books, and pull the books out at her ease.There were ten little books all alike, bound in dark green cloth with a shield and a coronet in gold above the title on the backs, and a golden crest on the front cover. Haphazard she pulled one out just to look at it.Evidently it had been much read at one time, for it opened of itself and she saw that it was poetry and that certain of the verses were marked at the side in pencil, just as she marked her favourite texts."The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece,Where burning Sappho loved and sung."Where had she heard those lines before?Slowly and carefully she read on till she gave a little cry and nearly fell off the work-box in her excitement."The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea—And musing there an hour alone,I dreamed that Greece might still be free."The long quest was at an end.The poem that her father had chanted as he used to carry her about, was found.She jumped off the work-box on to the floor, and sat down upon it, leaning her back against the book-case.The tears were wet on her cheeks as she read, and her breath came quickly as though she had been running. She was deeply moved. She repeated the lines softly, whispering them to herself, sometimes mispronouncing the long words but ever vividly and intensely alive to the music of the measure, to the nobility of the conception, to the tragic dignity of its expression.The dew of genius had fallen upon the thought, and the words bloomed again in their fiery beauty for this small, unlettered girl, who, with something of the spirit of old Greece, sat weeping over the wonder of it.Over and over again she read those sixteen verses, till she heard her aunt calling her to come to dinner, and, carrying the precious work with her, she darted upstairs to her bedroom, hid it in a drawer, and rushed down again in a tumult of excitement that could find no outlet."You've got a cold, Jane-Anne," said Mrs. Dew as she carved the joint. "Your nose is red an' you're sniffling."Jane-Anne did not explain. The imputation must be borne."I don't think it's much, aunt," she said meekly. "Did you ever," she added in her eager way, "hear of anybody called Lord Byron?""He never visited where I lived," Mrs. Dew answered; "but then there's a-many lords as I never heerd on. Why do you want to know?""I only wondered. It would have been nice if you'd known about him. He wrote poetry.""Then I shouldn't think as he was much of a lord. The real old families don't do such things. Perhaps he made his money in beer (there's a good many such) and then took to writing poetry to amuse himself when he'd retired. You may depend it was somethin' of the sort. Now you come to mention it, I've a notion as your mother had some of his poetry books. She'd seen the places as he wrote about—yet I don't hold much with poetry myself, and the books was all sold—only a few pence they fetched—after she died."Jane-Anne felt chilled and disappointed. She disliked the smell of beer exceedingly, and to connect it with the author of these soul-stirring verses was impossible. She could find out, she was sure, all about Lord Byron when Mr. Wycherly returned; but she was an impatient person—how could she wait until then?A bright thought struck her."Aunt, don't you think I ought to answer Master Montagu's letter?" she asked diplomatically. "Will you give me a stamp and I'll do it this afternoon.""Mind you're respectful and proper—you'd better let me see the letter before it goes. And if it's suitable, I'll give you a stamp.""Very well, aunt," Jane-Anne sighed. It was very hard to write what would seem suitable to those unsympathetic eyes—but she'd have a try for the thing she wanted.Ink was provided, one sheet of paper, an envelope, a pen, with a point like a needle, and a single sheet of much-used blotting-paper.Jane-Anne sat down at the table in the housekeeper's room and wrote in a neat, round hand:"DEAR MASTER MONTAGU,"I send my duty and the master was quite well when he left yesterday."I wait upon him at meals and he doesn't read at all now; he talks to me, and I think he eats pretty well considering. I also go out with him, which is very beautiful. It is very sad here now he is gone. I wonder if you are acquainted with a poetry book named 'Don-Juan,' or if you think it squish like 'Home Influence.' I don't think it is like 'Home Influence,' but I love it, I shall read it all, it is in two vols. The master said I was to read any books I liked in the parlour; there are ten volumes by his Lordship there. I shall read them all. Can you tell me if he is one of the real gentry like Lord Dursley. I would like to see him."Yours respectfully,"JANE-ANNE."Mrs. Dew read the letter through and grunted that it was much too long, but she gave Jane-Anne a stamp, which she immediately affixed. Then she frolicked gleefully to the post and put her precious missive in the box.CHAPTER XIIIA FAR CRY"I have not loved the world, nor the world me—But let us part fair foes; I do believe,Though I have found them not, that there may beWords which are things, hopes which will not deceive,And virtues which are merciful, nor weaveSnares for the failing; I would also deemO'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;That two, or one, are almost what they seem,That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream."Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.The boys always wrote to Mr. Wycherly on Sundays and as they knew he was to be in London over the week-end, he duly received his weekly letters on Monday morning at Morley's Hotel.Edmund's was, as usual, brief and to the point. He hoped his guardian was well; he announced the cheering intelligence that he himself was well, and after a brief reference to his most recent scores at cricket, concluded with the information: "It is expensive here at school; the munny I came back with is all gone; it is very inconvenient. Could you spair me a little more?"Montagu talked of his work and of the Greek play they were reading, and then he finished up with: "I had quite a decent letter from Jane-Anne. Whatever made you start her on Byron? I haven't read 'Don Juan' myself, but I suppose I must, as she has, then we can talk about it in the holidays."Mr. Wycherly read this portion of Montagu's letter three times, frowned over it, pondered it; and finally,aproposof nothing, found himself repeating Miss Stukely's favourite quotation which had remained in his mind with provoking persistency."You in your small corner, I in mine." He hadn't the vaguest notion whence this flower of thought was culled, but it occurred to him at that moment that Jane-Anne's small corner must have been considerably enlarged during the last few days if she had read much of "Don Juan.""It is quite time I returned to Holywell," Mr. Wycherly reflected. "What possible wind of fate has blown 'Don Juan,' of all things, across the child's path? And what in the world will she make of it?"He went back to Holywell that afternoon, and Jane-Anne carried in his tea in her best parlour-maid manner, only to relapse immediately into herself, falling upon her knees by his chair and covering his hand with kisses the moment she had set down the tray."My child, my child," exclaimed Mr. Wycherly, "it is very wonderful and delightful of you to be so glad. But you must get up and sit beside me and pour out tea, and tell me all the news, and what has been happening since I went away, and what you have been doing with yourself?""A very great thing has happened," Jane-Anne said solemnly, holding the teapot poised in mid-air. "I have found it."Mr. Wycherly nearly said, "Found what?" but he stopped himself just in time, and remembered "the mountains," and asked kindly:"Well, and where is it?""In Marathon," said Jane-Anne gravely. "Do you know it?""Yes," Mr. Wycherly replied, "and it is a curious thing that I was reminded of that very poem when I saw you dancing in the garden. I wonder why I didn't connect it with your mountains?""I often dance. I dance when I'm happy, and I dance when I'm very full of feelings, not exactly happy, but—big, tremendous feelings.""Tell me, my child, what you think of 'Don Juan' as far as you have read.""Poor dear," cried Jane-Anne, "he was so unfortunate. No sooner did he get comfortably settled with a nice, beautiful lady than some cross old husband or father, or somebody, interfered. It was a shame.""Perhaps," Mr. Wycherly suggested, "there may have been something to say on their side, too, you know. Though it is a side less often treated by the writers of romance.""Haidée's father was horrid," she cried vehemently. "You must think so, too, don't you?""Suppose," said Mr. Wycherly, "I went away for a long time, so long that you came to the conclusion I was dead——""I should die, too," Jane-Anne interrupted."Oh, no, you wouldn't. Suppose, say, that some very charming and delightful youth appeared who took up all your attention, and suddenly I came back to find you giving a grand party in the garden.""Aunt would never permit it for one minute," she cried, aghast."But we must eliminate aunt; Haidée, so far as we know, had no wise and excellent aunt to look after her. Let me see. Oh, yes! Suppose I came back and found this festivity going on, the agreeable youth acting as host, and you, my dear, entirely absorbed in him, and the whole house upside down. Would you expect me to feel very amiable?"Jane-Anne gazed earnestly at Mr. Wycherly. The gentle, high-bred face was quite grave, though persons better versed than Jane-Anne in subtleties of expression might have noted a look of considerable amusement in his handsome eyes."But Haidée's father wasn't a bit like you," she objected. "He was a cruel pirate.""Even pirates have their parental feelings," he pleaded.Jane-Anne looked much perturbed."It sounds horrid said like that," she murmured sadly; "but it's beautiful in the poetry book.""How much have you read?" asked Mr. Wycherly."Only to where poor, pretty Haidée dies. I don't read very fast, you know—not like you, sir, and Master Montagu; and when I like a bit I read it over and over again.""And what do you like best in the book so far as you have gone?""Oh, my father's poem, far, far the best. I can say it nearly all by heart. But one reason I've been so slow is, I wanted dreadfully to know about Lord Byron, and in the bottom shelf, where 'Sir Stafford Raffles' is, I found a book all about him, a fat crimson book, and I've been reading that.""Really," Mr. Wycherly remarked, "you've lost no time. Well, and what do you make of that?""It's rather difficult, sir, so many letters; but he seems to have been very unlucky, too, like Don Juan. Amostunkind mother; fancy, she threw the fireirons at him, and her one of the gentry—and his wife didn't seem very nice either—and then I looked at the end——""Well?" said Mr. Wycherly, for Jane-Anne paused suddenly."And I found he's dead, and he died to help Greece; and I'm so sorry.""Sorry he died to help Greece?""No, for that's why my daddie loved him, I'm sure of that; but because he's dead.Ishould have loved him dearly.""A great many people did that," said Mr. Wycherly."I shall read all his poetry books, and learn all the bits I like; and then—perhaps—do you think that, up in heaven, he could ever know how much I cared?"Mr. Wycherly looked into the eager, wistful face, and wondered, too."Listen to me, my child," he said. "I think that if Lord Byron does know, he is very pleased and touched; but I also think that he would be the very first person to suggest that you should wait a little before you read all his poetry. If you will allow me, I will select the volumes I think he would prefer you to begin on. 'Don Juan,' for instance, I should leave alone for the present; directly you know by heart and can write out, in your most beautiful writing, the whole of your favourite poem from the third canto——""I can do that now," she cried eagerly. "Would it please Lord Byron, do you think, sir?""I am certain of it.""And you'll tell me what you think he'd like me to read. I should so love to do something for him; poor dear, so sad and lonely often. Did you ever know him, sir?"Mr. Wycherly shook his head. "He died a good many years before I was born.""So long ago!" Jane-Anne's voice was solemn and awestruck, for Mr. Wycherly seemed to her incalculably old and wise."One thing, sir," she continued in quite a different tone, "I have quite altered. I shan't marry a first footman—I shall marry a poet. I shall hunt about till I find someone like Lord Byron—if he's a lord so much the better. I'd like that; but if he isn't—if he can say very beautiful things, I shall love him just the same. Shall you like that better, sir?"Mr. Wycherly sighed. "I'm afraid, my dear, that I'm a selfish old curmudgeon, who would like to keep you in his heart-pocket always. I shan't like any of them.""Then I shall stay in your pocket," said Jane-Anne.It was time to clear away, and she took the tea-things back to the kitchen.Mr. Wycherly went into the parlour, a room he rarely entered except when the boys were at home. He set his glasses firmly on his nose and inspected the contents of the book-case.Just before he went away, Jane-Anne had pressed her favourite "Bruey" upon him, and he had read it. Now he took down the second volume of "Don Juan"—the first was missing—from the top shelf, and turned the leaves, shaking his head:"It's a far cry from Bruey to Byron," thought Mr. Wycherly. "I wonder if I have done the right thing? On one point I am quite convinced, for the ultimate safety of that child, we must set about developing her sense of humour at once."Jane-Anne was so excited over her find, that she wrote to Miss Stukely to tell her about it. This time she begged a sheet of paper and an envelope from Mr. Wycherly, and he gave her a packet of each, the envelopes ready stamped being the kind he always used. She was highly elated, carried the ink to her bedroom without consulting her aunt, and sat down at her washstand to indite the following letter:"DEAR TEACHER,"I hope you are well. I am well and most happy. I live with my aunt, and I have a carpet in my bedroom—not oilcloth; and it is a beautiful big room. The master here is like an angel—he is so kind and good. There are a most enormous lot of books in this house. I hope to read them all before I am grown up. I am learning the Greek alphabet. The master is teaching me. Do you know of a poet called Lord Byron? I am reading all his poetry books. I am sure you would love them. I found a poem my father used to say to me when I was a little girl. I was so glad. Lord Byron wrote it, too. He is in heaven, so I can't see him. With love and duty, from your affectionate friend,"JANE-ANNE."By return of post came a letter from Miss Stukely."MY DEAR JANE-ANNE,"I was glad to hear from you that your health is better. But, dear childie, there was much in your letter to disquiet me. I do beg of you to read no more poetry that is not known to be of sound evangelical teaching. I should like you to promise me that you will not read any poetry except what is by Frances Ridley Havergal, Eliza Cook, or Mrs. Hemans. The works of those three saintly women can only do you good, and there is only too great reason to fear that poetry as a rule leads one's thoughts away from higher things. So promise me this, my dear girlie, that my mind may be at rest about you. As to this Lord Byron you mention, I have never read any poem of his and I never shall, for I understand that he was a man of very evil life, and an unbeliever, and that it is quite unlikely he is in heaven, as you seem to suppose. I hope you will dismiss him and all his works from your mind. I cannot see any use in your learning the Greek alphabet. The Ancient Greeks were wicked heathens, and it can do no one any good to know about them. I hope you read 'The Upward Path' regularly. I shall always be glad to hear from you, and I shall never fail to remember you in my prayers. Like our dear Bruey, I keep my daily little list and I hope you do the same."Let me have your promise, dear girlie, and I shall feel more happy about you—although we are parted in body we can still commune in spirit, and I shall be most happy to supervise your reading, and to send you little suitable books from time to time. I have a sweet class at the Bainbridge, and our weekly meetings are very helpful. Always your friend and well-wisher,"BLANCHE STUKELY."Jane-Anne found this letter somewhat difficult to decipher, as Miss Stukely wrote a sloping, pointed hand, much more trying to read than that of Montagu or his guardian.So, in defiance of all her aunt's rules, she invaded Mr. Wycherly in his study directly after breakfast, and asked him to read it aloud for her. He did so, and when he had finished she cast herself upon the ground despairingly, and burst into violent sobs.This tragic reception of what, to him, seemed a singularly ill-considered and narrow-minded letter, fairly flabbergasted Mr. Wycherly, and for a minute or two he sat at his table in perfect silence, holding Miss Stukely's missive in his hand, irritably aware that it was written on scented note-paper, and that he abominated the odour. He looked down at the lithe, slender figure prone upon the floor in absolute abandonment of grief, and at last he asked:"Why do you cry, Jane-Anne?"Jane-Anne rolled over, sat up, and gasped out between her sobs:"Because she says he isn't in heaven, and if he isn't in heaven then he must be in hell for ever and ever, and I can never, never feel happy any more.""Get up, child, and sit upon a chair," Mr. Wycherly said sternly. He had an old-fashioned objection to scenes, and an indefinable feeling that to lie on the floor was neither decorous nor dignified, even for a little girl of twelve. Neither physical nor mentaldéshabilléappealed to him. "Now tell me, why should you take it for granted that Lord Byron—is not in heaven?"A ray of light pierced the gloom of her outlook, and she stopped crying to ask eagerly: "Is Miss Stukely wrong, then; was he a good man after all?""Even supposing he were not what is popularly considered a good man. Even so, what right has this Miss Stukely, or anybody else, to conclude that Lord Byron——""Is in hell." Jane-Anne glibly finished the sentence."Exactly," said Mr. Wycherly. "What right has she, I say, to assume anything of the kind?""But the wicked do go there.""What about the thief on the cross?" asked Mr. Wycherly."But he repented," she answered promptly."And how do you, or Miss Stukely, or I, or anyone know that Lord Byron was unrepentant?""Then you think it is all right?" she asked anxiously."I am sure it is all right," Mr. Wycherly replied confidently."Could you lend me your handkerchief, sir?" Jane-Anne asked. "I seem to have lost mine."Refreshed by the borrowed handkerchief, and much comforted in soul, she turned to another part of the letter, asking:"Do those ladies she speaks of write beautiful poetry, like my mountains piece?""I am not well versed in the writings of the ladies Miss Stukely mentions," Mr. Wycherly said cautiously, "but I fancy I am safe in saying that their work does not display the highest poetical genius, although it is doubtless very pleasing to their admirers.""Would you promise, if you was me?""Certainly not," he answered vigorously. "Nothing would induce me to promise anything so absurd.""Absurd?" Jane-Anne's voice was astonished; it was not an adjective which she would have applied to anything so serious."Most ridiculous," Mr. Wycherly repeated."She will be sorry, and she was very kind to me.""Never forget her kindness, repay it if ever you get the chance; but never promise anybody anything without fully understanding what you undertake.""Not even you, sir?""Certainly not me, of all people—but I hope I should never ask you to make impossible promises.""Then I may go on loving Lord Byron?""It seems to me that you ought to love him more if you think that he was sinful and unfortunate, and unhappy. It's a poor sort of love that only cares for the good, the fortunate, the successful.""Christ was fond of unfortunate people," Jane-Anne said softly. Not altogether in vain had she read her New Testament."Ah," said Mr. Wycherly, "that is a phase of His character certain of His followers are apt to forget.""I shall tell Miss Stukely that," Jane-Anne remarked perkily."You most certainly will do nothing of the kind. You must not preach at people—it's—it's so ill-bred."Poor Jane-Anne looked very puzzled."It's a very funny thing," she said thoughtfully. "Nothing could be differenter than aunt and a real gentleman like you, and yet, sometimes, you both say the same sort of thing. Only, you call it ill-bred, and she'd call it the heighth of impidence.""You may take it that we both mean the same thing," said Mr. Wycherly; and his kind eyes twinkled."Well, I don't understand, and I know aunt'll be raging because I'm not there to help to make the beds, but I'm happier. Here's your handkerchief, sir, and many thanks."And Jane-Anne thrust a damp and sticky ball into Mr. Wycherly's hand, quite unconscious of offence.When the door shut behind her, he dropped the handkerchief into his waste-paper basket, and he laughed. It was so like Montagu or Edmund.
CHAPTER XII
FOUND!
"And if she can have access to a good library of old and classical books, there need be no choosing at all ... turn her loose into the old library every wet day, and let her alone ... let her loose in the library, I say, as you do a fawn in the field. It knows the bad weeds twenty times better than you; and the good ones, too, and will eat some bitter and prickly ones, good for it, which you had not the slightest thought would have been so."Sesame and Lilies.
Jane-Anne had got her heart's desire. She was allowed to wait upon Mr. Wycherly. She laid his breakfast and carried it in. She laid his luncheon and his dinner and her good aunt brought the heavy trays to the slab outside the dining-room door, and Jane-Anne fetched dishes one by one and set them on table or sideboard, and handed vegetables and poured out Mr. Wycherly's beer for him from the old brown Toby jug that had once belonged to Admiral Bethune.
It was brought about in this wise. When Jane-Anne had been in Holywell about a month there came a letter for her one morning.
Now, that she should have a letter at all, except from her aunt, was a tremendous and most untoward event. Yet it was undoubtedly for her, for it was addressed Miss Jane-Anne (no surname), c/o M. Wycherly, Esq., not enclosed in one of his, but stamped and sent to her direct. She found it on her plate at breakfast when she came down, and turned it over and over in her hands before she opened it.
The handwriting was small, clear and upright, and rather like Mr. Wycherly's own. She noticed this at once as she had often taken his letters to post for him.
"Aren't you going to open your letter?" her aunt asked.
Nervously Jane-Anne tore the envelope, flushed and paled, as she always did when excited, and then read it eagerly in absolute silence.
"Well?" Mrs. Dew demanded impatiently. "Who's been writing to you?"
"It's from Master Montagu," Jane-Anne cried breathlessly. "He's written tome, to ask me to see that Mr. Wycherly eats his meals—oh aunt youwilllet me wait on him now, won't you?"
"What's he say?" asked Mrs. Dew.
"My dear Jane-Anne," she read aloud, "I'm glad to hear from Guardie you're all right again. It would be decent of you if you'd write to me sometimes and tell me how he is, for he never says himself. And there's another thing: I wish you'd go in and out sometimes at meals and see that he isn't reading and forgetting to eat at all. That's what he does if he isn't watched, Robina told me. Just go in and joggle his elbow and remind him, if he's got a book, especially if it's 'Aeschylus'; he's very fond of that and forgets the chops and potatoes and everything. And please make him go out every day; you might take him. You see he used always to take Mause, our dog, for a walk, but she's dead, poor thing.
"You've not got much to do, with no school, so just look after Guardie like a good kid. I shall be awfully obliged, and please write.
"MONTAGU BETHUNE WYCHERLY."
"There," said Jane-Anne.
"I'll not say but what it's quite a good idea," Mrs. Dew admitted, "though you can't go jogglin' the master's elbow or any impudence of that sort. Still, you might wait on him, and if he gets reading, just go quiet and say 'potatoes, sir,' or 'peas, sir,' and it'll bring 'im back. It goes to my very heart when he forgets and leaves a homelette till it's all flat and tough, an' it'd come easier like from you—you can stop in the room at lunch and dinner, and stand be'ind him at the sideboard. And mind you don't get woolgathering too, as is but likely."
"Can I have a cap and apron, like Mrs. Methuen's parlour-maid?" Jane Anne asked eagerly, desirous to dress to the part.
"Certainly not; you'd look ridiklus. I don't want any tweeny maids in this house—you go in neat and tidy in one of the nice dresses as Mrs. Methuen got made, and behave quiet and respectful, an' if there's company—why I'll wait myself, though I don't care about it much, it not bein' what I've bin used to."
"Why couldn't I wait if there was company? I'd be very quick and quiet, and I'd love to hear the gentry talk."
"We'll see first how you waits without," said Mrs. Dew, ever dubious as to Jane-Anne's practical capacities.
So it came about that she waited on Mr. Wycherly that very day at lunch, and when she handed him the vegetables he murmured something about "tender little thumbs" which puzzled her extremely.
She was very deft and quiet, because she wanted to wait well, and whatever Jane-Anne wanted to do, that she did excellently. She had watched Mrs. Methuen's parlour-maid, and she modelled herself on that very superior young person. So quiet was she, that at first, Mr. Wycherly would sometimes forget she was there, and pick up the brown calf-bound book with the queer scratchy print, that Jane-Anne already loved because she knew it was Greek, and fall a-reading only to be instantly recalled by a vegetable dish presented at his elbow and a prim low voice (even her voice was modelled on Mrs. Methuen's parlour-maid) remarking, "Cabbage, sir," or something of the sort.
But although Jane-Anne completely forgot herself in the ardour of her impersonation, Mr. Wycherly after the very first did not forget Jane-Anne.
"Couldn't you stand where I can see you?" he suggested after about a week of her ministrations, "or better still, sit down."
"Oh, sir, I mustn't sit down," she remonstrated in shocked tones; "parlour-maids never do that."
"Don't they?" said Mr. Wycherly. "It's so long since I had a parlour-maid I've forgotten. When I was young I was generally waited upon by men, and in Scotland we never had any waiting at all; we helped each other."
"Men are best," Jane-Anne replied from her place on the hearth-rug where she had obediently taken her stand. "If I grow up good-looking perhaps I may marry a first footman."
"Good God!" ejaculated Mr. Wycherly in tones of the utmost consternation.
Jane-Anne looked very surprised.
"There was a first footman at Dursley House. Oh, he was a beautiful young man!" she exclaimed in reminiscent rapture; "so dignified."
Mr. Wycherly was quite shaken out of his usual smiling fatalism. Had he been able at the moment to analyse his feelings he would have been amazed at the violence of his objection to a first footman as a possible husband for Jane-Anne. But just then he was only conscious of strong resentment at the very idea.
It was one thing for her to wait upon him, but to think of his Greek nymph in intimate relations with anybody's first footman was inconceivable. He grew hot all over, and his chief desire at that moment was to knock somebody down.
There she stood by the fireplace, slender and virginal and sweet, a graceful, gracious figure in the straight blue linen dress Mrs. Methuen had chosen for her, regarding him with large surprised brown eyes, and calmly proposing to marry a footman.
"Do you not think it would be nice?" she asked.
"My dear," said Mr. Wycherly, recovering himself with difficulty and striving ineffectually to speak with his usual calm detachment, "it is an outrageous and impossible contingency, and I beg that you will forthwith dismiss it from your mind at once and for ever."
"Sir, you are not eating your dinner," Jane-Anne remarked after a moment's silence.
"How can I eat if you suggest such horrible things?" Mr. Wycherly complained.
"But I'd like to marry somebody," Jane-Anne protested, "and I wouldn't like an ugly person."
"Heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Wycherly. "Are footmen the only good-looking men in the world?"
"They're the best-looking men in our walk in life, sir," Jane-Anne rejoined primly, in exact imitation of her aunt.
"Come here, Jane-Anne," said Mr. Wycherly.
She went obediently and stood beside him.
"Have you ever thought," he said gravely, "that your walk in life may be precisely what you choose to make it?"
"No, sir," she said frankly, "I've always supposed I should be a servant—there doesn't seem anything else for me to be. You see, aunt knows she could get me into a good family."
"I don't think you're strong enough for a servant," Mr. Wycherly objected.
"Then," she said decidedly, "I think I'd better be a ward."
"A ward?" Mr. Wycherly repeated in puzzled tones.
"Your ward, like Master Edmund and Master Montagu. I'd like that, it would be lovelly."
Mr. Wycherly laughed. "It seems to me," he said, "that I have already adopted you."
"Then that's all right for just now, but afterwards, when I'm grown up, what would you like me to be, sir?"
"We'll think about that later on. Just now I want you to be an entirely happy little girl, to dance in the sunshine and get fat and merry——"
"I hope I shall never be fat," she interrupted. "I think it's hideous."
"Well, perhaps not fat—but plump and round and jolly—to learn all your good aunt teaches you and to read for yourself——
"May I read the books in the book-case in the parlour?" she asked eagerly. "I'll be so careful. I don't spoil books, I truly don't."
"Certainly you may; you will find many excellent books among them, and when I come back—I'm going to London for a few days, to-morrow—you shall tell me what you have read and we'll talk it over together."
The book-case in the dining-room was full of books that had belonged to Miss Esperance, and Mr. Wycherly felt that he was perfectly safe in giving Jane-Anne permission to read any of them. He had never even troubled to see what they were. He knew there was a whole edition of Sir Walter and most of the standard novels up to about the year 1870. Many theological works, and the little gilt books—precious these—that had come to Miss Esperance from her own mother.
"You won't be long away, I hope, sir?" Jane-Anne said wistfully. "It will seem very lonely when you are gone."
"I shall not be a moment longer than I can help, and I shall expect to hear all sorts of interesting news when I come back."
"Do you think I could ever learn to be a lady, sir—if I can't be a servant?"
"I see no reason why you should not grow up a very charming lady."
"But ladies don't dust and wash dishes and do things like I do."
"As I do," Mr. Wycherly corrected almost mechanically. Then, as if he had not spoken, he went on, "the best and most beautiful lady I ever knew did all these things."
"Did she like doing them?"
"I don't think she ever thought much about what she liked or disliked. She did what she had to do, and did it better and more gracefully than anybody else."
She pondered over this. It seemed to her an impossible ideal. How could anyone do a thing "more gracefully than anybody else" just because it had to be done? Liking had everything to do with Jane-Anne's doings.
When she had cleared away, Mr. Wycherly sat long over his glass of port. He did not read. He did not drink his wine, but sat on at the table staring at nothing, and wondering about the future of this queer, lonely child who had crept into his heart so quietly and imperceptibly that not till she made that astounding announcement as to her matrimonial ambitions did he realise how dear she had become.
He had released the starling; it was true.
The bird was very tame, and came at call to his hand; but the wings were there, young and strong and untried.
When the time came for flight, whither would they bear her?
* * * * *
On Thursday Mr. Wycherly went to London. He was to remain over Sunday, in order to hear an old friend preach at the Temple Church. On Friday morning Jane-Anne hied her to the parlour to inspect the book-case.
It is true that all the books in the dining-room had belonged to Miss Esperance, but Mr. Wycherly had reckoned without the Admiral. His books were there too. These included the works of Henry Fielding and Tobias Smollett, and there was on the top shelf a long row of little books, "the dear and dumpy twelves" beloved by our ancestors.
The book-case was a tall one, and, with the natural perversity of children, Jane-Anne attacked the top row first. Just because she could not reach it, she desired ardently to look at the small dull-coloured books on the top shelf. So she dragged up a chair, placed a work-box upon that and then, mounted upon the two, she could read the titles on the books, and pull the books out at her ease.
There were ten little books all alike, bound in dark green cloth with a shield and a coronet in gold above the title on the backs, and a golden crest on the front cover. Haphazard she pulled one out just to look at it.
Evidently it had been much read at one time, for it opened of itself and she saw that it was poetry and that certain of the verses were marked at the side in pencil, just as she marked her favourite texts.
"The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece,Where burning Sappho loved and sung."
"The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece,Where burning Sappho loved and sung."
"The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece,
Where burning Sappho loved and sung."
Where had she heard those lines before?
Slowly and carefully she read on till she gave a little cry and nearly fell off the work-box in her excitement.
"The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea—And musing there an hour alone,I dreamed that Greece might still be free."
"The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea—And musing there an hour alone,I dreamed that Greece might still be free."
"The mountains look on Marathon—
And Marathon looks on the sea—
And Marathon looks on the sea—
And musing there an hour alone,
I dreamed that Greece might still be free."
I dreamed that Greece might still be free."
The long quest was at an end.
The poem that her father had chanted as he used to carry her about, was found.
She jumped off the work-box on to the floor, and sat down upon it, leaning her back against the book-case.
The tears were wet on her cheeks as she read, and her breath came quickly as though she had been running. She was deeply moved. She repeated the lines softly, whispering them to herself, sometimes mispronouncing the long words but ever vividly and intensely alive to the music of the measure, to the nobility of the conception, to the tragic dignity of its expression.
The dew of genius had fallen upon the thought, and the words bloomed again in their fiery beauty for this small, unlettered girl, who, with something of the spirit of old Greece, sat weeping over the wonder of it.
Over and over again she read those sixteen verses, till she heard her aunt calling her to come to dinner, and, carrying the precious work with her, she darted upstairs to her bedroom, hid it in a drawer, and rushed down again in a tumult of excitement that could find no outlet.
"You've got a cold, Jane-Anne," said Mrs. Dew as she carved the joint. "Your nose is red an' you're sniffling."
Jane-Anne did not explain. The imputation must be borne.
"I don't think it's much, aunt," she said meekly. "Did you ever," she added in her eager way, "hear of anybody called Lord Byron?"
"He never visited where I lived," Mrs. Dew answered; "but then there's a-many lords as I never heerd on. Why do you want to know?"
"I only wondered. It would have been nice if you'd known about him. He wrote poetry."
"Then I shouldn't think as he was much of a lord. The real old families don't do such things. Perhaps he made his money in beer (there's a good many such) and then took to writing poetry to amuse himself when he'd retired. You may depend it was somethin' of the sort. Now you come to mention it, I've a notion as your mother had some of his poetry books. She'd seen the places as he wrote about—yet I don't hold much with poetry myself, and the books was all sold—only a few pence they fetched—after she died."
Jane-Anne felt chilled and disappointed. She disliked the smell of beer exceedingly, and to connect it with the author of these soul-stirring verses was impossible. She could find out, she was sure, all about Lord Byron when Mr. Wycherly returned; but she was an impatient person—how could she wait until then?
A bright thought struck her.
"Aunt, don't you think I ought to answer Master Montagu's letter?" she asked diplomatically. "Will you give me a stamp and I'll do it this afternoon."
"Mind you're respectful and proper—you'd better let me see the letter before it goes. And if it's suitable, I'll give you a stamp."
"Very well, aunt," Jane-Anne sighed. It was very hard to write what would seem suitable to those unsympathetic eyes—but she'd have a try for the thing she wanted.
Ink was provided, one sheet of paper, an envelope, a pen, with a point like a needle, and a single sheet of much-used blotting-paper.
Jane-Anne sat down at the table in the housekeeper's room and wrote in a neat, round hand:
"DEAR MASTER MONTAGU,
"I send my duty and the master was quite well when he left yesterday.
"I wait upon him at meals and he doesn't read at all now; he talks to me, and I think he eats pretty well considering. I also go out with him, which is very beautiful. It is very sad here now he is gone. I wonder if you are acquainted with a poetry book named 'Don-Juan,' or if you think it squish like 'Home Influence.' I don't think it is like 'Home Influence,' but I love it, I shall read it all, it is in two vols. The master said I was to read any books I liked in the parlour; there are ten volumes by his Lordship there. I shall read them all. Can you tell me if he is one of the real gentry like Lord Dursley. I would like to see him.
"JANE-ANNE."
Mrs. Dew read the letter through and grunted that it was much too long, but she gave Jane-Anne a stamp, which she immediately affixed. Then she frolicked gleefully to the post and put her precious missive in the box.
CHAPTER XIII
A FAR CRY
"I have not loved the world, nor the world me—But let us part fair foes; I do believe,Though I have found them not, that there may beWords which are things, hopes which will not deceive,And virtues which are merciful, nor weaveSnares for the failing; I would also deemO'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;That two, or one, are almost what they seem,That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream."Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
"I have not loved the world, nor the world me—But let us part fair foes; I do believe,Though I have found them not, that there may beWords which are things, hopes which will not deceive,And virtues which are merciful, nor weaveSnares for the failing; I would also deemO'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;That two, or one, are almost what they seem,That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream."Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
"I have not loved the world, nor the world me—
But let us part fair foes; I do believe,
Though I have found them not, that there may be
Words which are things, hopes which will not deceive,
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave
Snares for the failing; I would also deem
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;
That two, or one, are almost what they seem,
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream."
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
The boys always wrote to Mr. Wycherly on Sundays and as they knew he was to be in London over the week-end, he duly received his weekly letters on Monday morning at Morley's Hotel.
Edmund's was, as usual, brief and to the point. He hoped his guardian was well; he announced the cheering intelligence that he himself was well, and after a brief reference to his most recent scores at cricket, concluded with the information: "It is expensive here at school; the munny I came back with is all gone; it is very inconvenient. Could you spair me a little more?"
Montagu talked of his work and of the Greek play they were reading, and then he finished up with: "I had quite a decent letter from Jane-Anne. Whatever made you start her on Byron? I haven't read 'Don Juan' myself, but I suppose I must, as she has, then we can talk about it in the holidays."
Mr. Wycherly read this portion of Montagu's letter three times, frowned over it, pondered it; and finally,aproposof nothing, found himself repeating Miss Stukely's favourite quotation which had remained in his mind with provoking persistency.
"You in your small corner, I in mine." He hadn't the vaguest notion whence this flower of thought was culled, but it occurred to him at that moment that Jane-Anne's small corner must have been considerably enlarged during the last few days if she had read much of "Don Juan."
"It is quite time I returned to Holywell," Mr. Wycherly reflected. "What possible wind of fate has blown 'Don Juan,' of all things, across the child's path? And what in the world will she make of it?"
He went back to Holywell that afternoon, and Jane-Anne carried in his tea in her best parlour-maid manner, only to relapse immediately into herself, falling upon her knees by his chair and covering his hand with kisses the moment she had set down the tray.
"My child, my child," exclaimed Mr. Wycherly, "it is very wonderful and delightful of you to be so glad. But you must get up and sit beside me and pour out tea, and tell me all the news, and what has been happening since I went away, and what you have been doing with yourself?"
"A very great thing has happened," Jane-Anne said solemnly, holding the teapot poised in mid-air. "I have found it."
Mr. Wycherly nearly said, "Found what?" but he stopped himself just in time, and remembered "the mountains," and asked kindly:
"Well, and where is it?"
"In Marathon," said Jane-Anne gravely. "Do you know it?"
"Yes," Mr. Wycherly replied, "and it is a curious thing that I was reminded of that very poem when I saw you dancing in the garden. I wonder why I didn't connect it with your mountains?"
"I often dance. I dance when I'm happy, and I dance when I'm very full of feelings, not exactly happy, but—big, tremendous feelings."
"Tell me, my child, what you think of 'Don Juan' as far as you have read."
"Poor dear," cried Jane-Anne, "he was so unfortunate. No sooner did he get comfortably settled with a nice, beautiful lady than some cross old husband or father, or somebody, interfered. It was a shame."
"Perhaps," Mr. Wycherly suggested, "there may have been something to say on their side, too, you know. Though it is a side less often treated by the writers of romance."
"Haidée's father was horrid," she cried vehemently. "You must think so, too, don't you?"
"Suppose," said Mr. Wycherly, "I went away for a long time, so long that you came to the conclusion I was dead——"
"I should die, too," Jane-Anne interrupted.
"Oh, no, you wouldn't. Suppose, say, that some very charming and delightful youth appeared who took up all your attention, and suddenly I came back to find you giving a grand party in the garden."
"Aunt would never permit it for one minute," she cried, aghast.
"But we must eliminate aunt; Haidée, so far as we know, had no wise and excellent aunt to look after her. Let me see. Oh, yes! Suppose I came back and found this festivity going on, the agreeable youth acting as host, and you, my dear, entirely absorbed in him, and the whole house upside down. Would you expect me to feel very amiable?"
Jane-Anne gazed earnestly at Mr. Wycherly. The gentle, high-bred face was quite grave, though persons better versed than Jane-Anne in subtleties of expression might have noted a look of considerable amusement in his handsome eyes.
"But Haidée's father wasn't a bit like you," she objected. "He was a cruel pirate."
"Even pirates have their parental feelings," he pleaded.
Jane-Anne looked much perturbed.
"It sounds horrid said like that," she murmured sadly; "but it's beautiful in the poetry book."
"How much have you read?" asked Mr. Wycherly.
"Only to where poor, pretty Haidée dies. I don't read very fast, you know—not like you, sir, and Master Montagu; and when I like a bit I read it over and over again."
"And what do you like best in the book so far as you have gone?"
"Oh, my father's poem, far, far the best. I can say it nearly all by heart. But one reason I've been so slow is, I wanted dreadfully to know about Lord Byron, and in the bottom shelf, where 'Sir Stafford Raffles' is, I found a book all about him, a fat crimson book, and I've been reading that."
"Really," Mr. Wycherly remarked, "you've lost no time. Well, and what do you make of that?"
"It's rather difficult, sir, so many letters; but he seems to have been very unlucky, too, like Don Juan. Amostunkind mother; fancy, she threw the fireirons at him, and her one of the gentry—and his wife didn't seem very nice either—and then I looked at the end——"
"Well?" said Mr. Wycherly, for Jane-Anne paused suddenly.
"And I found he's dead, and he died to help Greece; and I'm so sorry."
"Sorry he died to help Greece?"
"No, for that's why my daddie loved him, I'm sure of that; but because he's dead.Ishould have loved him dearly."
"A great many people did that," said Mr. Wycherly.
"I shall read all his poetry books, and learn all the bits I like; and then—perhaps—do you think that, up in heaven, he could ever know how much I cared?"
Mr. Wycherly looked into the eager, wistful face, and wondered, too.
"Listen to me, my child," he said. "I think that if Lord Byron does know, he is very pleased and touched; but I also think that he would be the very first person to suggest that you should wait a little before you read all his poetry. If you will allow me, I will select the volumes I think he would prefer you to begin on. 'Don Juan,' for instance, I should leave alone for the present; directly you know by heart and can write out, in your most beautiful writing, the whole of your favourite poem from the third canto——"
"I can do that now," she cried eagerly. "Would it please Lord Byron, do you think, sir?"
"I am certain of it."
"And you'll tell me what you think he'd like me to read. I should so love to do something for him; poor dear, so sad and lonely often. Did you ever know him, sir?"
Mr. Wycherly shook his head. "He died a good many years before I was born."
"So long ago!" Jane-Anne's voice was solemn and awestruck, for Mr. Wycherly seemed to her incalculably old and wise.
"One thing, sir," she continued in quite a different tone, "I have quite altered. I shan't marry a first footman—I shall marry a poet. I shall hunt about till I find someone like Lord Byron—if he's a lord so much the better. I'd like that; but if he isn't—if he can say very beautiful things, I shall love him just the same. Shall you like that better, sir?"
Mr. Wycherly sighed. "I'm afraid, my dear, that I'm a selfish old curmudgeon, who would like to keep you in his heart-pocket always. I shan't like any of them."
"Then I shall stay in your pocket," said Jane-Anne.
It was time to clear away, and she took the tea-things back to the kitchen.
Mr. Wycherly went into the parlour, a room he rarely entered except when the boys were at home. He set his glasses firmly on his nose and inspected the contents of the book-case.
Just before he went away, Jane-Anne had pressed her favourite "Bruey" upon him, and he had read it. Now he took down the second volume of "Don Juan"—the first was missing—from the top shelf, and turned the leaves, shaking his head:
"It's a far cry from Bruey to Byron," thought Mr. Wycherly. "I wonder if I have done the right thing? On one point I am quite convinced, for the ultimate safety of that child, we must set about developing her sense of humour at once."
Jane-Anne was so excited over her find, that she wrote to Miss Stukely to tell her about it. This time she begged a sheet of paper and an envelope from Mr. Wycherly, and he gave her a packet of each, the envelopes ready stamped being the kind he always used. She was highly elated, carried the ink to her bedroom without consulting her aunt, and sat down at her washstand to indite the following letter:
"DEAR TEACHER,
"I hope you are well. I am well and most happy. I live with my aunt, and I have a carpet in my bedroom—not oilcloth; and it is a beautiful big room. The master here is like an angel—he is so kind and good. There are a most enormous lot of books in this house. I hope to read them all before I am grown up. I am learning the Greek alphabet. The master is teaching me. Do you know of a poet called Lord Byron? I am reading all his poetry books. I am sure you would love them. I found a poem my father used to say to me when I was a little girl. I was so glad. Lord Byron wrote it, too. He is in heaven, so I can't see him. With love and duty, from your affectionate friend,
"JANE-ANNE."
By return of post came a letter from Miss Stukely.
"MY DEAR JANE-ANNE,
"I was glad to hear from you that your health is better. But, dear childie, there was much in your letter to disquiet me. I do beg of you to read no more poetry that is not known to be of sound evangelical teaching. I should like you to promise me that you will not read any poetry except what is by Frances Ridley Havergal, Eliza Cook, or Mrs. Hemans. The works of those three saintly women can only do you good, and there is only too great reason to fear that poetry as a rule leads one's thoughts away from higher things. So promise me this, my dear girlie, that my mind may be at rest about you. As to this Lord Byron you mention, I have never read any poem of his and I never shall, for I understand that he was a man of very evil life, and an unbeliever, and that it is quite unlikely he is in heaven, as you seem to suppose. I hope you will dismiss him and all his works from your mind. I cannot see any use in your learning the Greek alphabet. The Ancient Greeks were wicked heathens, and it can do no one any good to know about them. I hope you read 'The Upward Path' regularly. I shall always be glad to hear from you, and I shall never fail to remember you in my prayers. Like our dear Bruey, I keep my daily little list and I hope you do the same.
"Let me have your promise, dear girlie, and I shall feel more happy about you—although we are parted in body we can still commune in spirit, and I shall be most happy to supervise your reading, and to send you little suitable books from time to time. I have a sweet class at the Bainbridge, and our weekly meetings are very helpful. Always your friend and well-wisher,
"BLANCHE STUKELY."
Jane-Anne found this letter somewhat difficult to decipher, as Miss Stukely wrote a sloping, pointed hand, much more trying to read than that of Montagu or his guardian.
So, in defiance of all her aunt's rules, she invaded Mr. Wycherly in his study directly after breakfast, and asked him to read it aloud for her. He did so, and when he had finished she cast herself upon the ground despairingly, and burst into violent sobs.
This tragic reception of what, to him, seemed a singularly ill-considered and narrow-minded letter, fairly flabbergasted Mr. Wycherly, and for a minute or two he sat at his table in perfect silence, holding Miss Stukely's missive in his hand, irritably aware that it was written on scented note-paper, and that he abominated the odour. He looked down at the lithe, slender figure prone upon the floor in absolute abandonment of grief, and at last he asked:
"Why do you cry, Jane-Anne?"
Jane-Anne rolled over, sat up, and gasped out between her sobs:
"Because she says he isn't in heaven, and if he isn't in heaven then he must be in hell for ever and ever, and I can never, never feel happy any more."
"Get up, child, and sit upon a chair," Mr. Wycherly said sternly. He had an old-fashioned objection to scenes, and an indefinable feeling that to lie on the floor was neither decorous nor dignified, even for a little girl of twelve. Neither physical nor mentaldéshabilléappealed to him. "Now tell me, why should you take it for granted that Lord Byron—is not in heaven?"
A ray of light pierced the gloom of her outlook, and she stopped crying to ask eagerly: "Is Miss Stukely wrong, then; was he a good man after all?"
"Even supposing he were not what is popularly considered a good man. Even so, what right has this Miss Stukely, or anybody else, to conclude that Lord Byron——"
"Is in hell." Jane-Anne glibly finished the sentence.
"Exactly," said Mr. Wycherly. "What right has she, I say, to assume anything of the kind?"
"But the wicked do go there."
"What about the thief on the cross?" asked Mr. Wycherly.
"But he repented," she answered promptly.
"And how do you, or Miss Stukely, or I, or anyone know that Lord Byron was unrepentant?"
"Then you think it is all right?" she asked anxiously.
"I am sure it is all right," Mr. Wycherly replied confidently.
"Could you lend me your handkerchief, sir?" Jane-Anne asked. "I seem to have lost mine."
Refreshed by the borrowed handkerchief, and much comforted in soul, she turned to another part of the letter, asking:
"Do those ladies she speaks of write beautiful poetry, like my mountains piece?"
"I am not well versed in the writings of the ladies Miss Stukely mentions," Mr. Wycherly said cautiously, "but I fancy I am safe in saying that their work does not display the highest poetical genius, although it is doubtless very pleasing to their admirers."
"Would you promise, if you was me?"
"Certainly not," he answered vigorously. "Nothing would induce me to promise anything so absurd."
"Absurd?" Jane-Anne's voice was astonished; it was not an adjective which she would have applied to anything so serious.
"Most ridiculous," Mr. Wycherly repeated.
"She will be sorry, and she was very kind to me."
"Never forget her kindness, repay it if ever you get the chance; but never promise anybody anything without fully understanding what you undertake."
"Not even you, sir?"
"Certainly not me, of all people—but I hope I should never ask you to make impossible promises."
"Then I may go on loving Lord Byron?"
"It seems to me that you ought to love him more if you think that he was sinful and unfortunate, and unhappy. It's a poor sort of love that only cares for the good, the fortunate, the successful."
"Christ was fond of unfortunate people," Jane-Anne said softly. Not altogether in vain had she read her New Testament.
"Ah," said Mr. Wycherly, "that is a phase of His character certain of His followers are apt to forget."
"I shall tell Miss Stukely that," Jane-Anne remarked perkily.
"You most certainly will do nothing of the kind. You must not preach at people—it's—it's so ill-bred."
Poor Jane-Anne looked very puzzled.
"It's a very funny thing," she said thoughtfully. "Nothing could be differenter than aunt and a real gentleman like you, and yet, sometimes, you both say the same sort of thing. Only, you call it ill-bred, and she'd call it the heighth of impidence."
"You may take it that we both mean the same thing," said Mr. Wycherly; and his kind eyes twinkled.
"Well, I don't understand, and I know aunt'll be raging because I'm not there to help to make the beds, but I'm happier. Here's your handkerchief, sir, and many thanks."
And Jane-Anne thrust a damp and sticky ball into Mr. Wycherly's hand, quite unconscious of offence.
When the door shut behind her, he dropped the handkerchief into his waste-paper basket, and he laughed. It was so like Montagu or Edmund.