"I was a bally idiot," pursued Mr. Towle steadily, "not to have taken the pains to become acquainted with you in any way, however unconventional. If I had, perhaps you would not have disliked me so."
"Oh, but I do not dislike you in the least!" protested Jane.
"If you could like me a very little," he saideagerly, "perhaps in time you could—Jane, if you are fond of travel I would take you all over the world. You should see everything. I thought I was done with happiness till I saw you. I had nothing to look forward to. I had seen everything, tested everything, and found everything empty and hateful, but withyouat my side— Won't you try to like me, Jane?"
What Jane would have replied, had she not glanced up on the instant, she never afterwards felt entirely sure. But glance up she did to meet Gwendolen's scornful eyes fixed full upon her as she whirled past them in the Aubrey-Blythe victoria, with a great show of Aubrey-Blythe liveries on the box.
Instantly the forlorn little shoot of gratitude which was trying its feeble best to masquerade as sentiment in Jane's lonely heart withered and died under the icy blast of impotent anger and fear which passed over her. "She will tell Aunt Agatha," thought poor Jane, "and Aunt Agatha will think I have lied to her about seeing Mr. Towle on the street."
By some untoward psychological process, quite unperceived by herself, the full torrent of Miss Blythe's wrath was instantly turned upon the man at her side.
"I think I must say good morning, Mr. Towle," she said coldly. "I am really very much occupied to-day. I am sure I thank you for thinking of me so kindly—" She stopped determinedly and held out her hand.
And the Hon. Wipplinger Towle, feeling himself to be dismissed in all the harrowing length and breadth of the word, took his leave of her instantly, with a courteous lifting of his hat which afforded Jane a parting glimpse of his prematurely bald head.
"It must be dreadful to be bald," reflected Jane, with vague contrition, as she walked away; "but I can't help it." The correlation of these two ideas being more intimate and profound than appears in a cursory reading of them.
The door of Lady Agatha's morning room stood open as Jane attempted to slip past it like a guilty shadow. Gwendolen, still attired in herhat and jacket, evidently saw her and apprised her mother of the fact, for Lady Agatha's pursuing voice arrested the girl in full flight toward her own room.
"You will, perhaps, be good enough to inform me, Jane, how you came to be on the street after I had locked you into your own room for the day," intoned Lady Agatha, in a terrible voice. "Deceitful, ungrateful, vulgargirl, that you are!"
"I saw you, sly-boots; so you needn't deny it," put in Gwendolen, with a spiteful laugh. "It was passing strange how our demure Jane chanced to have a proposal, was it not? Do you know, mamma, Ethel Brantwood told me this morning thatthat manhad been seen tagging Jane all over London. It is quite the common talk."
"Oh!" cried Jane, wringing her hands. "WhatshallI do?"
"Do not attempt to hoodwink me longer, unhappy girl," pursued Lady Agatha. "Your deceit, ingratitude, andvulgar intriguesare all laidbare. I have not decided what I shall do with you. It appears"—dramatically—"that locks and bars are no barriers toyou. My commands you defy, my counsels you ignore, my affections you trample under foot!"
"Stop, Aunt Agatha!" cried Jane. "I did climb out of the window after you had locked me in—I wish now that I had fallen on the conservatory roof and killed myself; you wouldn't have minded anything but the broken glass—but youmustbelieve that I never saw Mr. Towle on the street before. Hehasfollowed me about; he told me so this morning. But he never spoke to me once, and I did not know it. I never have thought of seeing him."
"How extremely ingenuous and naive!" put in Gwendolen, with an ugly titter; "quite after the pattern of a cheap variety actress, indeed! I wonder, mamma, that Mr. Towle took the pains to propose marriage to Jane in the dull, old-fashioned way. He might as well have eloped without ceremony."
Jane stared at her cousin, her face slowlywhitening. "Do you realize what you have said to me, Gwendolen?" she asked in a stifled voice. "Yes. I see that you do. If you were a man I should—killyou. But you are onlyyou, so I shall content myself by never speaking to you again."
"Gwendolen, mylove, will you kindly leave us for a few minutes," said Lady Agatha, very calm and stately. "I cannot permit your young ears to be sullied by this mad talk. Really, I fear that the unfortunate girl's reason has been—" She paused significantly and touched her forehead. "I am told there has always been a marked weakness in her mother's family. Go, my love, go!"
"I shall go, too," said Jane bitterly. "I have nothing more to say to you, Aunt Agatha. I have told you the exact truth, and you may believe it or not as you like." She turned and followed Gwendolen out of the room.
That young lady, hearing the step behind her, fled with a hysterical shriek to the shelter of her mother's room. "What do you think, mamma,the creature was actually pursuing me!" Jane heard her say.
Then Jane went slowly up the stairs to her own room, where she remained quite alone and undisturbed for the remainder of the day. At intervals, during the course of the dreary afternoon, she could hear faint sounds of opening and shutting doors below stairs. Once Percy's loud voice and the clatter of his stout little shoes appeared to be approaching her room; then some one called him in a subdued voice; there was a short altercation carried on at a gradually increasing distance; then silence again.
A horrible sense of disgrace and isolation gradually descended upon the girl. She sobbed wildly as she looked over her few cherished possessions preparatory to packing them in the box she dragged in from the attic; her mother's watch, a locket containing her father's picture, a ring or two, her shabby little gowns and meager toilet things. By the time she had locked and strapped the box with shaking fingers she was shivering with cold and faint with hunger.
The latter primal urge finally drove her forth and down the rear stairways to the kitchen, where she found the servants in full tide of preparation for dinner.
"Lud ha' mussy, Miss Jane Evelyn!" cried Susan. "Where 'ave you be'n to look that white an' done hup?"
"In my room," said Jane shortly. "Will you give me some tea and bread, Susan? I'll take it up myself. No; please don't follow me. I wish to be alone."
"Somethink's hup wi' 'er," observed cook sagaciously, as Jane disappeared with a brace of thick sandwiches cut by the zealous Susan.
"They'd orto be 'shamed o' theirsels; that they 'ad, a-puttin' upon a sweet young lady like Miss Jane Evelyn," opined Susan. "I'd like to give 'em all a piece o' my mind; it 'ud do me good. It would so!"
"You're a goose, Susan," laughed cook. "An' so is she, if all I 'ear is c'rrect. Tummas says as 'ow that military-appearin' gent wotcomes 'ere is crazy to marry 'er. An 'e's rich's cream!"
"Oh, lud!" sniffed Susan, her nose in the air, "'e may be rich, but 'e's bald as a happle! She'd never 'ave 'im; I'll bet me hown 'air an' me combin's to boot."
When Jane awoke the next morning she stared for a moment at the brownish spot in the ceiling just over her bed, as she had done every morning during a series of London seasons. It was a sprawling indefinite stain, caused no doubt by some leak long since stopped in the roof overhead, but it possessed in Jane's eyes the weird peculiarity of assuming various pictorial shapes which matched the girl's own passing experiences. Once she remembered seeing in it a train of gypsy wagons, with a peculiarly alluring and picturesque gypsy plodding on before—this in the days when she longed to run away, yet did not quite dare for fear of being caught and brought back ignominiously to taste the sharp sting of the ferrule, which lay darkly in wait for evil doers in the upper left-hand drawer of Lady Agatha's private desk.
Of late years the stain had assumed theappearance of a mountain valley, with a lofty castle perched high amid inaccessible cliffs. There was a long series of romances connected with this imaginary abode, in every one of which Jane herself, in a robe of white samite, bound about the waist with a girdle of red gold, figured as heroine. Sometimes a hostile army, their spears and pennants showing dimly through the trees, would defile stealthily through the dark passes, to intrench themselves before the castle moat, where Jane would parley with them, intrepid and unblenching in a glistening coat of chain armor fitting her lithe figure like a serpent's skin. Again, a solitary knight with closed visor overshadowed by ebon plumes could be seen pulling in his foaming charger below the embattled terraces awaiting a glimpse of the white figure above.
On this particular morning beetling cliffs, castle and all had vanished and Jane, rubbing the dreams from her eyes, beheld a wide expanse of tumbling ocean, with a sky piled high with flying clouds, and in the foreground, ploughingits way through the foam, a stately ship. Jane stared unwinkingly at the vision for a long minute, then her eyes descended in startled haste to the floor, where rested the locked and strapped box, with O. A. B. in white letters on its end. Jane sat up in the bed with a queer choking in her slender throat. If Oliver Aubrey-Blythe were alive, his one daughter would not be driven forth friendless into the wide world to make her difficult way.
Twenty minutes later, refreshed by her bath and dressed in the gown she had chosen for her travels, Jane was quite her cheerful self again. She was also unromantically hungry, and after a brief period of indecision descended boldly to the breakfast room, where she was tolerably certain of finding none of the female members of the household.
Mr. Robert Aubrey-Blythe was apparently just about finishing his repast and his newspaper. He looked up as his niece entered the room. "Good morning, Jane," he said fussily. "You are late."
"Yes, Uncle Robert," very meekly, "I overslept this morning."
"I—er—in short, Jane, I saw Towle again yesterday, at the Club," pursued Mr. Aubrey-Blythe, thoughtfully gazing at the girl through his double eyeglasses. "The man is—er—quite daft about you, Jane. I own I was astonished. Ha-ha! very amusing, I'm sure."
"I'll never speak to Mr. Towle again—never!" cried Jane, her cheeks flaming. "The idea of his daring——"
"Tut-tut, girl; don't be a fool!" advised Mr. Aubrey-Blythe testily. "What Towle said was—er—quite correct, quite as it should be, in case—you—er—. By the by, Jane, why can't you hit it off better with Lady Agatha and Gwendolyn? I'm infernally bored with having to hear about your interminable squabbles; I am, indeed. And it's beastly bad taste in you, Jane, to be always getting up scenes. You ought to know that."
"There'll be no further scenes between Gwendolen and myself," said Jane, verycalm and dignified. "I can promise you that, sir."
"Well now, upon my word, that sounds something like," said Mr. Aubrey-Blythe, pushing back his chair. "I trust you'll keep that in mind hereafter. We—er—shall endeavor to do our duty by you, Jane; and you, on your part——"
The girl's sudden and unexpected response to this well-meant attempt at reconciliation shocked and astonished her worthy relative beyond measure. She arose from her chair and put her two young arms about his neck with something very like a sob. "I do thank you, Uncle Robert, for all you've done for me," she said. "I've not meant to be disagreeable or ungrateful since I've lived in your house; indeed I've not. But I—couldn't help it, and I'm sorry for—everything!"
"Come—come—er—I say!" spluttered Mr. Aubrey-Blythe. "You mustn't, you know, or I shall have to call Lady Agatha. I dare say you'll go on quite as you should after this."
"Good-by, uncle," said Jane, smiling and winking fast to keep the tears from falling off her thick lashes. "I'm glad I said it. You'll not forget."
Then she sat down with a very good appetite to the fresh coffee and eggs and bacon which were set before her. One must eat to live, however young and beautiful one may be, and whatever the base and undeserved cruelty of one's relations. She had not finished when Percy and Cecil clattered into the breakfast room, with every evidence of having carried on a spirited skirmish on the way downstairs.
"Hello, Jane, you here?" growled Cecil, drawing a long face. "We're to have no lessons to-day, mind!"
"Who said so?" inquired Miss Blythe tranquilly.
"Mamma said so. She said you were going to be sent away directly, and we're to go away to school. Hooray!"
"I don't want to go to school," whined Percy dismally. "I want Jane."
"Shut up, baby; you don't know what you're talkin' about. I don't want Jane, an' I'm glad the mater's goin' to ship her; so there! Here, you, Calkins, fetch us some hot muffins; these ain't fit to eat. And, I say, hustle some marmalade while you're about it!"
Miss Blythe arose from her place. "If you can't ask civilly for your food, Cecil, you don't deserve to have anything fetched," she said rebukingly.
"Cecil's a cad, anyhow," muttered Percy, staring truculently at his brother from under his light lashes.
"Aw! an' you're a bally baby!" retorted Master Cecil, stuffing half a muffin into his cheek. "My, won't you catch it in school, though!"
"See here, boys," said Jane seriously, "very likely I'll not see you again, for I am going away——"
"You're to besent, you mean," interrupted Cecil impudently.
"Be quiet, sir, and pay attention to what Ihave to say; it's the last time I shall take the trouble. You, Percy, have the instincts of a gentleman. If you'll go on telling the truth every trip, no matter what bully threatens you, and if you'll stand for what's decent and right you'll have nothing to fear, in school or anywhere else. As for you, Cecil, you've a lot to learn, and I heartily hope the big boys will thrash your meanness and cowardliness out of you before you're entirely spoiled, and I dare say they will. Good-by."
She stooped to kiss Percy warmly, and that small boy blubbered outright as he rubbed his smeary little face against the girl's smooth cheek. To Cecil she offered her hand, but withdrew it with a smile, as the grateful recipient of her counsels thrust his tongue into his cheek with a frightful grimace. "Good-by, boys," she repeated. "You'll find what I've told you is true before you've done."
It was a long, lonely day, passed in a dreary attempt to hasten the lagging hours with one of Susan's "shilling shockers," which that worthydamsel had pressed upon her adored young lady's attention as being "perfec'ly el'gant an' that thrillin' it ud raise yer 'air to read it." Jane found "The Duke's Revenge, or the Secret of the Hidden Staircase" insufficient to keep her wandering attention from the water stain on the ceiling, which by this time had assumed the appearance of a coach and pair careering at full gallop on the verge of a precipice. She passed the morning in momently dreading a summons from Lady Agatha, but none came, and after luncheon (which Jane decided to omit) peeping from her lofty window she caught a glimpse of that stately matron and her daughter magnificently attired sailing forth to their carriage. Later in the day she beheld the Hon. Wipplinger Towle, immaculately groomed and wearing a gardenia in his buttonhole, advancing up the street.
Ten minutes later Susan tapped at the door, the proud bearer of a slim white card on a diminutive salver. "I told Jeems as 'ow I thought I'd find you 'ere, miss," she said.
"You may say that I'm not at home, if you please, Susan," said Jane.
But Susan stood still in her tracks. "'Is 'air ain't much to brag of, I know, miss," she ventured at length; "an' 'e can't be called 'an'some in other pertic'lers, but I ain't sure as I wouldn't tak' up wi' 'im, seein' there ain't no lord nor dook 'andy. 'E's a gent'man, that 'e is; 'an you'd be a-ridin' in a kerridge o' yer own wi' nobody to worrit you, an'melidy's maid a-waitin' on you constant, instead of occasional like, as I'm forced now along wi' my reg'lar dooties."
Jane laughed outright. "You're a good soul, Susan," she said; "but your advice isn't exactly to my taste. Go down at once and do as I've told you. Later I've something to say to you; and I shall want your help, too."
By this Susan's eyes had lighted upon Jane's modest box, which stood locked and strapped for its long journey at the foot of Jane's little bed. "Oh, Miss Jane Evelyn," she blubbered, "you ain't a-goin' away!"
"I must," said Jane. "I can't stay here any longer. I'll tell you about it when you come up again. You must go down directly now and tell James to excuse me to Mr. Towle."
But James was engaged in parleying with another visitor when Susan arrived at the level of the reception room, and after an instant's reflection she smoothed down her immaculate apron, touched up the frills of her cap, and boldly presented herself before the Hon. Wipplinger Towle, who was waiting with his wonted middle-aged patience.
"Miss Jane Evelyn's be'n took bad wi' a wi'lent 'eadache, sir, an' will you kindly excuse 'er, sir." And Susan bobbed her very best courtesy.
Mr. Towle stood up and fixed his glass in his eye. "Hum—ah! I am very sorry to hear it. You will—er—tell Miss Aubrey-Blythe so, with my compliments, my good girl."
"Yes, sir; I will, sir; an' thank you kindly, sir," said Susan, slipping something into her apron pocket, with a broad grin.
Mr. Towle appeared to be gazing rebukingly at the frills on Susan's cap; but that astute damsel knew better than to withdraw too hastily. Presently he spoke again. "You are—ah—Susan; are you not?"
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir. I ain't nobody else but Susan, sir," beamed the girl encouragingly. "An' I'm that fond of Miss Jane Evelyn, if you'll believe it, sir, 'as I'd lay down willin' i' the mud an' let her walk over me, that I would, sir!"
"Hum—ah!" murmured the Hon. Mr. Towle, "that is very good of you, I'm sure, Susan; most praiseworthy, in short. Do you—er—attend Miss Blythe when she—er—travels? She is going out of town, I believe."
"I don't know no mor'n nothink what Miss Jane Evelyn's a-goin' to do, sir. I'd give me heyes to go wi' 'er; that I would; but I'll not be let, sir."
"Then you don't know where she is going?"
"No, sir; not yet, sir; but she'll tell me, sure, afore ever she goes. I 'ate to say it as Ishouldn't, but Miss Jane Evelyn 'arsn't many friends in this 'ere 'ouse but me an' cook an' may'ap Master Percy, 'im bein' the youngest of hall. I 'ear below stairs as 'ow she's to be sent off somewheres directly, sir, an' the young lads'll go to school hafter she's gone wot teached 'em faithful since the las' gov'ness went away."
"Hum—ah," mused Mr. Towle, scowling fiercely. "I say," he added abruptly, "this doesn't seem a very civil thing for me to do; but it's important I should know where Miss—er—your young mistress goes. I might be able to be of service to her, you know."
"Yes, sir; I gets your meanin' quite, sir," pursued the ecstatic Susan, feeling herself to be nothing less than confidential lady in a real, live novel of absorbing interest. "I'll let you know, sir, as soon as ever I finds out, an' find out I will, sir; you may depend upon it, sir."
"Thank you, Susan, my good girl; do so by all means," said Mr. Towle; then a second something clinked against the first in an adjacent apron pocket.
After which Susan sped up the stairs as fast as her feet could carry her, to find Miss Jane Evelyn calmly putting on her hat and veil before her little mirror.
"I wish you would call a cab for me, directly, Susan," said the young lady; "and could you help me carry this box down to the area door, do you think?"
"Oh, Miss Jane Evelyn, whereareyou goin'?" implored Susan, wild-eyed with haste and sudden alarm. "Don't do nothink rash, I himplore you, miss!"
"Don't be a goose, Susan; but do as you're bid. I have arranged to travel in America with a—lady. And you must help me get away out of the house without a scene; there's a good girl."
Susan sighed deeply. She was as wax in Miss Jane Evelyn's hands, and she knew it. "Does the missus know where you're a-goin', miss?" she ventured to inquire.
"No, Susan," Jane told her firmly. "I have decided to look out for myself from now on; Iam plenty old enough." Miss Blythe looked very tall and dignified as she said this, and Susan went meekly away to call the cab, fingering Mr. Towle's money as she did so with an air of guilty reserve.
It was quite dusk when Jane's modest luggage was finally strapped atop the cab, and Jane herself was seated within. Poor Susan stood blubbering at the curb. "I wisht to 'eavin's you'd think better of it, Miss Jane Evelyn," she whimpered. "I 'ate to see you a-goin' hoff like this wi' nobody to say good-by but me, an' a nice gent'man likely a-breakin' 'is 'eart to bits when 'e finds you're gone."
"Pooh!" said Jane, rather faintly; "he'll not care. Nobody will care but you, my good Susan. Good-by,dear, dearSusan! And thank you again for everything you've always been doing for me!"
"Oh, Miss Jane Evelyn, if you do be set on going'—as I see you be, I 'ope as 'ow you'll 'ave a most 'eavinly time, an' come back merried to a rich gent'man—for they do say as 'ow all thegents in Hamerica is a-rollin' in gold an' di'mon's; an' 'eavin knows you deserve the best of heverythink, Miss Jane Evelyn; that you do! God bless you, miss, an' thank you kindly! Good-by!"
Then the cabby slammed the door and Jane found herself rolling away to Belgravia Crescent, where Mrs. Markle, clad in a voluminous traveling cloak and heavily veiled, was waiting to join her. Mrs. Markle pressed the girl's hand in her fat, moist palm. "I was beginning to fear you would not, after all, come wiz me, dear child," she said sweetly. "I should have wept wiz ze disappointment."
Once on board ship Mrs. Markle's manner changed perceptibly. "You will not bozzer me while at sea," she said to Jane, rather sharply, "not—at—all—you comprend? I am seeck—ah! I suffer wiz zemal de mer, an' I not talk—nevaire. You sleep in anozzer cabin—ze stewardess she will show you. But stay, your jacket iss too—what you call it—too theen—not war-rm for the sea. It iss so cold—ugh! see!I make you warm wiz zis." And Mrs. Markle drew from her steamer trunk a luxurious fur-lined cloak which she threw upon Jane's slender shoulders.
"Do you mean that you want me to wear this cloak?" asked Jane, astonished beyond measure. "Oh, thank you! You are very kind; but I think my own jacket will be quite comfortable. I could not wear a borrowed garment."
The woman was smiling broadly, but the smile slowly faded as she stared at Jane's flushed face.
"Eh—but w'y not?" she demanded. "You evaire cross ze ocean before zis?"
"No," confessed Jane; "but——"
"Zen you do as I say. You would fr-r-eeze in zis sing," and she fingered Jane's modest wrap contemptuously. "Come," she murmured persuasively; "you will please me—yes? I ha-a-te to have anyone wiz me feel ze discomfort. Ah, now, see!"
Jane blushed resentfully, then sighed, as the luxurious folds fell about her little figure.
"Why, it just fits me!" she exclaimed in an astonished voice.
"Certainment!" smiled the woman, passing her fat, jeweled fingers complacently over the girl's shoulders. "I am very good judge of ze figure. I was sure it would fit."
"What, did you buy it for me?" cried Jane, quite overcome by such kindness.
"Why sure I did!" purred the woman. "An' ze leetle cap, too—see?" And she settled a coquetish yachting cap into place on Jane's head. "Ze hats wiz fezzers, zey blow into bits an' fly away at sea. You leave zis leetle coat an' hat wiz me till we come in port, zen I gif zem to you alright. But mind, you mus' not spik to anybody on ze ship—not—one—word—of—me! You un'erstan'—eh?"
Jane stared at the woman's scowling face with something like fear. But as she looked the frown on Mrs. Markle's large face melted into quick laughter. "You're alright—alright, a real nize young lady," she murmured, "you will not spik to men or to any womans—no, nevaire. Gonow, an' make ze voyage. I see you once every day after zedejeuner."
Jane stepped out rather uncertainly into the brilliantly lighted corridor beyond the stateroom door, then paused with a startled face. Something strange and powerful had begun to throb in the unknown depths beneath her feet, slowly at first, then steadying to a monotonous beat—beat. The screw of the great ship, which was to bear her to new and strange experiences beyond the sea, was in motion.
Several hours later Lady Agatha returning from a dinner party, very much out of temper because her hostess had stupidly given the rich American wife of an up-country baronet precedence over her, found a note skewered to her cushion with a big black-headed hat pin (Susan's device, borrowed from a shilling shocker).
"Aunt Agatha:" (she read) "I am going to America, and as I do not intend to return, you will have no further reason to regret my 'unfortunate influence' over your children."Please say good-by to Percy for me. He is areal Aubrey-Blythe, and I am sorry that I shall never see him again. But I shall not pretend that I am sorry to be leaving your house. You will be glad to be rid of me, I know; and I am equally glad of this opportunity of going away. So we are quits."You seemed to feel that I do not appreciate what you have done for me in the past. I think I have and do appreciateeverything; I have thought of little else of late. And this has led quite directly to my present determination. Good-by, good-by!"Jane Evelyn Aubrey-Blythe."
"Aunt Agatha:" (she read) "I am going to America, and as I do not intend to return, you will have no further reason to regret my 'unfortunate influence' over your children.
"Please say good-by to Percy for me. He is areal Aubrey-Blythe, and I am sorry that I shall never see him again. But I shall not pretend that I am sorry to be leaving your house. You will be glad to be rid of me, I know; and I am equally glad of this opportunity of going away. So we are quits.
"You seemed to feel that I do not appreciate what you have done for me in the past. I think I have and do appreciateeverything; I have thought of little else of late. And this has led quite directly to my present determination. Good-by, good-by!
"Jane Evelyn Aubrey-Blythe."
On the day following, the Hon. Wipplinger Towle was likewise the recipient of a communication, the contents of which he finally deciphered with difficulty. It was written on pink paper, strongly scented with cheap perfumery, and was fetched to his lodgings, so his man informed him, "by a very respectable appearin' pusson in blue an' scarlet livery."
"i sed as ow i wud leve yu no, sir, wen mis Jane Evelyn went away,"—he read—"shes gon to America, that is awl i no, sir, she went suddint, or i wud ave towld yu. if i ad munny i wud follo. if the shu fitz, put it awn. Susan Haythorne."
The six days of the voyage passed uneventfully enough. Jane Blythe, obeying Mrs. Markle's instructions, spoke to no one, and although one or two women, muffled to their eyes in wraps, stared at her in sleepy curiosity from their steamer chairs, and an elderly man restored her head covering, which on one occasion escaped its moorings and blew across the deck, no one attempted to enter into conversation with her. Jane accepted this circumstance as she accepted everything else in her new and strange surroundings. She ate regularly, which could be said of very few of the other passengers, and slept soundly at night after long, delightful days spent on deck in the keen mid-ocean air, and with it all her thin face rounded into a lovely radiance of girlish bloom, which caused the retiring Mrs. Markle to exclaim in fretful amazement.
That lady's large, flaccid countenance had assumed a peculiar, olive-green tint which the glaring electric lights in her cabin accentuated to an unpleasant ghastliness. She was very short in her communications with Jane in the brief interviews which took place each day after luncheon.
"You spik to anyone since I see you—n'est-ce-pas?" she would demand, staring eagerly at Jane from the midst of her pillows. "Non? Tres bien!say nossing to womans asking questions; to mens, nossing. I ha-a-te zem all."
"But no one has spoken to me, except to say 'good morning' at the table," Jane made haste to assure her.
"Alright—tres bien," muttered Mrs. Markle. "Go now—vite! and to-morrow—no, next day, we come in port. Zen I tell you one leetle sing you do for me."
"I have done nothing for you yet," replied Jane, in genuine distress. "Would you not like me to read aloud to you for a while, or bathe your head with cologne? I should beso glad to do something to make you comfortable."
But Mrs. Markle waved her aside with a fretful motion of her dingy, jeweled hands. "Go; make ze voyage as you like. I want nossing—nossing till we come in port. Zen I say what you mus' do. A mos' leetle sing, I tell you."
On the last day when the women passengers were beginning to look less like rows of Egyptian mummies put out for an airing, and a buzz of cheerful conversation pervaded the decks and cabins, Jane was astonished to find Mrs. Markle sitting in her stateroom, fully dressed and elaborately frizzled and coiffured, as on the day she had first seen her.
"Oh, are you better? I am so glad!" exclaimed Jane. "Won't you come up on deck for a while, and see all the people?"
"Non!" snorted Mrs. Markle. "I will not. I am not able to walk yet. I am—what you call it—we-e-k from ze illness. Now leesten tomoi, I gif you your hat an' coat. Put zem on, an' leave ze fur wiz me. Zen stay in cabintill ze customs officer comes aboard. You have no articles dutiable—non?"
Jane stared at her in mute amazement. "I don't—know," she stammered.
"Have you di'mon's, watches, fezzers—laces—eh?" sneered Mrs. Markle, "kid gloves, silks, bronzes—in your so leetle box?—non? Say so, zen; when zey ask you. Zes so gra-a-nd United Sta-a-tes mek you pay—comprenez?—for all such sings. An' see, before we land at ze dock, you come back to me here. I s'all ask you to help wiz ze luggage."
But Jane was not asked to carry anything, when at last, the big ship securely fast at her dock, the two prepared to go ashore.
"See, now, Jane," said Mrs. Markle, "zere is one leetle sing I wis' not to lose—a so small package. Do you mek it safe inside your jacket, so it be not lost for me. I haf no place to keep it. Do not take it out. Say nossing to nobody. I gif you money ven you gif it safe tomoi. Zen in ze customs, you will go by your box in ze place marked 'B'; I mus' stay in 'M.' After all ispassed we go on. You haf nossing dutiable— I haf nossing; we are quick through. Zen we go to see ze so gr-r-and sights in America—oui!"
Jane permitted the woman to fasten a flat package, securely wrapped in soft paper, in the loose folds of her blouse. Then the two made their way to the deck, and from thence across the gang plank into the great, noisy place, where the luggage of the passengers was being rapidly sorted into vast piles.
As Mrs. Markle had predicted, they seemed likely to be quickly passed through the customhouse. Jane's modest luggage was thrown down almost at her feet, and, following Mrs. Markle's careful directions, she at once drew the attention of a waiting official to it.
The man gruffly demanded her keys; unlocked the trunk; rumpled its scant contents with a perfunctory hand; replaced it; scribbled a cabalistic design upon its lid with a piece of chalk. Then, as if moved by an after thought, he turned to the girl who stood looking on.
"Have you anything dutiable about your person?" he asked sharply; "any jewelry—laces—or such like?"
"I have my locket with my father's picture," confessed Jane, trembling, "and mother's wedding ring; oh, sir, please don't take them away from me. They'd be no good to anyone but me."
The man was gazing at her keenly. Something in his stern eyes reminded Jane of the mysterious flat package Mrs. Markle had given into her charge.
"And I have a—a small parcel, too," she faltered; "I don't know what is in it."
"Give it to me; I'll soon tell you," said the man grimly.
"It doesn't belong to me, sir," added Jane, trembling still more as the inspector's practiced fingers quickly undid the wrappings.
Then she stared in astonishment as the man shook out yards and yards of costly, filmy lace.
"You didn't know what was in it—eh?"
"No, sir," said Jane.
"Where did you get it, miss?"
"The lady I am traveling with asked me to carry it for her," faltered Jane. "Oh, but I mustn't lose it. You must give it to me directly. I am sure it looks very valuable."
"You're right it does," said the man grimly. "I guess you'll have to come with me, young woman, and we'll see what else you're carrying for the lady."
"Oh, I've nothing else!" protested Jane, "and Mrs. Markle is waiting for me; I see her now."
"Where?" demanded the official, keenly alert. "Point her out to me!"
"The large lady yonder with the long cloak—. Oh, she is looking at me now! I am afraid she will be displeased about the lace. But of course, I had to tell you when you asked me."
"Of course!" echoed the man, with a sneer, "the ladies are always careful to tell me everything of the sort. Now, you'll go with this woman; she'll look into your case. And I'll just step across and speak to Mrs. Markle."
The next hour in Jane Blythe's history is best passed over in pitying silence. At the end of it a pallid, tremulous girl was confronting a stern-faced official to whom she related in detail the circumstances of her short acquaintance with Mrs. Markle.
"She asked you to leave your hat and jacket in her cabin, did she?" he interrupted sharply, at one point in the narrative.
"She said it was too thin for the sea," Jane told him. "She was very kind and loaned me a warm cloak lined with fur."
"Did you notice anything peculiar about your own jacket when you put it on to leave the ship?"
"No, sir," said Jane; "I was too much taken up with having reached America to notice that it was thicker and lumpy in spots."
"It was very neatly done," put in the female inspector, whose name was Forbes. "The woman had ample time during the voyage to quilt thousands of dollars' worth of laces between the lining and the outside. It isevidently an old game successfully played before this."
Then she stepped to one side to make room for a second inspector who entered from the rear accompanied by Mrs. Markle herself, unbending and majestic.
"I s'all complain of zis outra—a—ge! You s'all be arrest,bêtes, animals—all!" announced Mrs. Markle in a shrill, high-pitched voice. "Zere was nossing dutiable in my luggage—I was alrightaussi—n'est-ce pas?"
The woman inspector shrugged her shoulders. "I found nothing," she agreed. "But—" She glanced expressively at Jane who had fixed her clear hazel eyes reproachfully upon Mrs. Markle.
"Is this the person in whose employ you crossed from England?" demanded the presiding official of Jane.
"Yes, sir, this is Mrs. Markle," replied Jane politely.
"Lies!—all lies!" snapped the stout woman. "Nevaire before have I seen zis young woman.My name is Madame Melbrun. I dema-a-nd my releaseimmediatement. Zis adventuress is a stra-a-nger tomoi; I have nossing to do wiz her."
Jane's eyes opened wide with shocked surprise. "Oh!" she cried. "How can you say that?"
Mrs. Markle had folded her fat hands across her capacious form with an air of haughty innocence. She did not once look at Jane. "I have no articles dutiable," she repeated. "I am first-class passenger—name Madame Melbrun—you find it so on ze passenger list. I dem-a-and my r-r-rights!"
"Let her go," ordered the presiding official, shrugging his shoulders, "she's got us; but then we've got her, too."
Mrs. Markle swept out without so much as a glance in Jane's direction; nevertheless that young person shivered a little as if conscious of the woman's murderous thoughts.
The inspector was writing something in a ledger with a pen which scratched sharply. Heraised his eyes as the pen ceased its mordant protest. "You may go," he said to Jane.
"Where may I go?" asked the girl piteously.
"Anywhere you like," returned the inspector briskly. "You are free. Better keep out of Madame Melbrun's way, though. You owe her something like five thousand dollars, and she'd like to collect. Better be more careful in your choice of mistresses next time you hire out, young woman."
The woman inspector looked pityingly at Jane. "You come with me," she said. "I'll help you put your jacket together again."
Bertha Forbes was as good as her word, and better. When she found Jane had no friends in America and little money, she took her to her own boarding house in a narrow, dirty street near the North River pier, and later introduced her to a reliable employment agency.
Jane was far too young and inexperienced in the ways of the great and wicked city of New York to be suitably grateful for these kind offices; but she thanked Miss Forbes warmly,even while she declined to follow her later counsels.
"You'd better go back to your aunt," Miss Forbes had said grimly. "It isn't pleasant to be snubbed by rich relatives, I'll admit, but it's far better than—some other things I could tell you of; and I'll see to the transportation."
Jane set her small white teeth. "I'll not go back to Aunt Agatha," she murmured passionately. "I am strong—far stronger than I look. I can work."
"Very good," said Bertha Forbes, who was merely a lonely, good-hearted woman, when she was off duty. "I'll help you get a place."
But the stars in their courses seemed to fight against Jane. There were numbers of persons indeed who were looking for a "refined young woman, English preferred," to act as nursery governess; but, unluckily, the refined and undeniably attractive Miss Blythe had no references beyond a manly-looking scrawl of Bertha Forbes's composition, in which Jane was described as being a young English woman knownto the writer as a well-educated person of good, moral character.
"I am afraid," said Jane, with an ingenuous blush, "that it hurts your conscience to say all that about me, considering the circumstances of our first acquaintance."
"No," said Miss Forbes, "my conscience is not of the abnormally sensitive variety, in the first place; in the second, I am morally certain that you are exactly what you say you are. But the truth is, my good girl, that my convictions, while entirely satisfactory to myself, will not hold water if it comes to investigating them, and the people who are willing to pay well for having their children kept out of their way are quite apt to investigate. It gives them an easy conscience, you see."
Added to this unconvincing dimness of her immediate background was Jane's ingrained habit of telling the truth upon occasions when an elusive reticence would have been far more prudent.
One impulsive lady, it is true, was about toengage Jane out of hand, being irresistibly attracted by her smile and manner. But before concluding the matter she chanced to ask Miss Blythe why she had come to America.
"I came to America," said Jane, endeavoring to be discreet "because I was—very unhappy in England."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Newport, scenting a mystery, "and why were you unhappy in England?"
Jane was silent for a space. "I don't see why I should tell you," she said at last, with a proud lifting of her little head; "my troubles concerned no one but myself."
Mrs. Newport raised her eyebrows. "I mustinsistupon knowing everything about your past," she said conclusively, "else I cannot engage you."
Jane arose with the air of a duchess in disguise. "Good morning, Mrs. Newport," she said.
Bertha Forbes shook her head when she heard of this circumstance. "I'm sorry you didn't seefit to tell the woman something about yourself," she said. "There is really nothing to be ashamed of in your story, except the smuggling part—that I'd advise you to keep to yourself."
"No," said Jane stonily. "I have nothing to be ashamed of; but the fact that I wish to work for my living does not give that woman, or any other, the right to ask impertinent questions about my private affairs."
"Why, yes," disagreed Miss Forbes dryly; "it does. Mrs. Newport was about to engage you to play the young mother to her three darlings, while she golfed and motored and otherwise disported her fashionable self; the very least she could do was to assure herself of your fitness for the position. And this involved a knowledge of your Alpha as well as your Omega; you see that; don't you?"
Being very far from stupid, Jane saw, and when, on the following day, Mrs. Narragansett's housekeeper interviewed Miss Blythe, that young person was prepared to be frank and open to the point of telling all her pitiful little story.
"My name," she began, in response to Mrs. Pott's initial question, "is Jane Evelyn Aubrey-Blythe."
Mrs. Potts bestowed a supercilious glance upon the young person. "And what was your last position as nursery governess?" she further demanded.
"I taught my cousins, Percy and Cecil Aubrey-Blythe, in London and at Blythe Court."
"Indeed! And why did you leave that situation,ifyou please?"
Jane drew a quick breath. "Must I answer that question?" she entreated, blushing hotly, a circumstance which the experienced Mrs. Potts noted with growing disfavor.
"You certainly must," that lady assured her with business-like coldness.
"I—I thought my aunt was unkind to me," faltered Jane, with every appearance of guilt. "I was very much vexed with her and—and with my Cousin Gwendolen, and so——"
"Your aunt's name, if you please? And youmay also state the occasion of her being unkind to you."
"My aunt's name is Lady Agatha Aubrey-Blythe," said Jane, endeavoring to pull herself together with very little success. "She was unkind to me because—because— She accused me of— No; I—I cannot tell you."
"It is quite unnecessary, Miss—Aubrey-Blythe," Mrs. Potts assured her, with an unpleasant smile. "You are not, I am sure, a suitable person for the situation. Good morning."
Jane wept a little when she confided this last failure to Bertha Forbes's sympathizing ear. "I couldn't tell that woman what Aunt Agatha said to me about Mr. Towle; now, could I?"
"She wouldn't have believed it, if you had," said Miss Forbes gruffly. "Better try another tack," she added, still more gruffly. "Better yet, go back to your uncle. He can't be a bad sort, from what you tell me."
"Uncle Robert? Oh, no! he is—he has never been unkind to me. I—I quite love UncleRobert; that is to say, I should love to love him, if he would let me."
"Then you'll go back to England like a sensible girl; tell your uncle you've made a fool of yourself, but you'll try not to do it again. Think it over till to-morrow morning, and remember I'll take care of the transportation."
Jane reflected upon this eminently sane proposition over night; then she faced her new-found friend and advisor with a pale but determined face. "Thank you for offering to pay my passage back to England," she said, "but I really can't accept it. I couldn't face Aunt Agatha and Gwendolen and—and the others. I'd rather scrub floors than to do that! Perhaps I'll have to scrub in the end, for my money is almost gone."
Bertha Forbes stared at the girl speculatively. "If you will tell them at the employment agency that you're willing to do house work, you'll soon find a place," she said; "there are plenty of people who will hire you to work in their houses, and ask few questions about your past.But it's no fun to scrub floors, my young friend, unless the floors happen to be your own. I never triedthatmyself; but I've seen deluded young women who seemed to think it a vastly agreeable pastime, if there was only a young man in the case."
And this is how it came about that Miss Jane Evelyn Aubrey-Blythe—just two weeks from the time she informed the invisible forces of the universe that things would have to change—found herself humbly seeking entrance at the side door of a modest, detached villa, situated in a modest, detached suburb of New York. "Things" had changed, indeed!
There was, apparently, no one at home in the modest detached villa; for, although Jane could hear the trill of the electric bell within, the door remained fast shut. After a discreet interval she ventured to sit down for a minute's rest on a little green bench set beneath the budding vines. Then she drew a deep breath. It was very quiet, and the air blowing over wide expanses of vacant lots was sweet and warm. Dandelions were in bloom amid the green April grass, and an American robin sang loudly in a tall elm near the front gate. Jane looked about her with a homesick flutter of her sore heart. The raw suburb, with its muddy road, its hastily constructed sidewalks, its ornate houses with their protruding balconies, bay-windows and hideous roof lines, broken by extraneous ornamental railings and dormer windows of noknown style of architecture, offended eyes accustomed to the garden trimness and ordered beauty of England.
Bertha Forbes's parting advice recurred to her mind with an added touch of poignancy: "It may not be pleasant to be snubbed by one's rich relations; but it's better than some other things I know of."
Jane wondered—for a fleeting minute—if she had made a fool of herself. If, after all, she would not better have endured accustomed woes than to fly to ills she knew not of.
But such tardy reflections were speedily ended by the sound of voices and footsteps from the rear. Jane rose hastily to her feet just in time to behold a tall, broad-shouldered young man appear around the corner of the veranda at an ambling trot, while a small boy of two or three plied a switch about his heels and jerked the scarlet lines attached to his person.
"Det-tup!" shouted the boy vociferously. "Det-tup, I say!"
But the young man had already caught sightof Jane. "Hold on, Buster," he said, turning to the child, "till I speak to the lady. Did you ring?" he added, addressing Jane, with a polite bow.
"Yes," she told him; "but no one answered. I wish to see Mrs. Belknap—on business," she added hastily.
"Ah, yes," he returned, apparently absorbed in his contemplation of Jane's undeniable beauty. "Mrs. Belknap is not at home; but—oh, don't go—er—she'll be at home soon. In fact, she told me she was expecting some one, and asked me to——"
"I think she expected me," said Jane coldly. "I am the new maid—that is, if I suit."
The young man stared incredulously. "I—I beg your pardon," he stammered, a wave of color passing over his boyish face. "I don't know what you'll think of me; but I—er—fancied you were a friend of Mrs. Belknap's. She was expected this afternoon, and I——"
"No; I am the maid," said Jane haughtily."If Mrs. Belknap is coming home directly, I will wait here till she comes."
She sat down again on the green bench and fixed her hazel eyes on the remote distance.
The small boy threw down his whip and climbed up the steps. "I want a piece of bwead an' butter," he said confidentially, "an' I want a dwink of water, an' I want——"
"Buster!" called the young man warningly. "Come here!"
But the infant paid no heed. "I want a piece of bwead an' butter," he repeated in a louder voice, "an' I want a dwink of water, an' I want——"
"Were you speaking to me?" inquired Jane, withdrawing her eyes from the safe horizon and looking down at the child.
"Yeth," he assented, "I want a piece of bwead an' butter, an' I want a dwink of water, an' I——"
"Come with me, Buster! I'll get them for you," volunteered the young man. He was deliberately divesting himself of the scarlet harness."Won't you come in?" he went on, turning to Jane. "I see it's beginning to rain."
Reluctantly she passed in at the door he held wide for her. "Please sit down," he urged. "I'm sure Mrs. Belknap will be at home very soon. She's only gone out for an hour or so."
"I want a d-w-i-nk!" vociferated the small boy.
"Yes, I gathered as much from your remarks; come on, old fellow."
Jane sat down, and the young man and the child disappeared into the unknown regions beyond. Jane could hear the boy's shrill voice, and the deeper replies of the man. Her cheeks were very red, and she sat stiffly erect. She felt unreasonably vexed with herself, with the child, but most of all with the young man. He was unlike any masculine person of her acquaintance, she reflected; still he had spoken to her very civilly, though not in the tone a gentleman should use to an inferior. But was he, after all, a gentleman? These class distinctions were said to be very puzzling in America, Jane remembered.She resolved not to speak to this particular young American again. It would not, she concluded sagely, be the correct thing to do.
A distant crash of breaking crockery, an infantile shriek, an exclamation of deep dismay preceded a hasty opening of the closed door. The ingenuous countenance of the man was thrust hastily within. "Oh, I beg your pardon! but could you come out and—er—help me a minute? Buster has tipped the milk all over himself, and I—oh, please do—that's a good girl—. I don't know what in thunder—. Hold hard, old fellow, I'm coming!"
The last by way of reply to the frenzied shrieks of rage and despair which issued from the rear.
Jane's austere expression relaxed perceptibly as she surveyed the agitated and imploring countenance of the young American.
"Oh, thanks; you're awfully good!" he was saying, as Jane arose, preparatory to accompanying him to the scene of the disaster. "I just set the bowl of milk on the table, you know—he wanted milk by the time we had reached the commissariat—and while I was hustling for the bread, he reached up to investigate and—you see what followed."
The infant was seated in a pool of milk on the floor; milk dripped slowly from his flaxen curls, the tip of his chubby nose, and his pink cheeks. His round fists were applied to his milky eyes, while his rosy mouth emitted scream after scream of anguish.
"Is he hurt?" inquired Jane, in a business-like tone.
"He must have caught a whack of the bowl as it fell, I suppose," admitted the man. "What shall we do?"
Jane had already helped herself to an apron which hung conveniently near; she turned up her cuffs. "A towel and a basin, please," she suggested. Then she stooped over the howling infant and lifted him gently to his feet.
"Do 'way!" he shrieked, thrashing out vigorously with fists and feet; "I want my muzzer!"
Jane skillfully evaded the attacks, while she plied the towel with a calm mastery of the situation, which roused the wonder and warm admiration of the man.
"Just quit that kicking, won't you, Buster?" he suggested, in a conciliatory tone. "I declare, I believe I've found a—stick of candy—no—but it's a nickel to buy one with."
The magic word so mendaciously inserted acted with its accustomed power. Jane, busy with her beneficent offices in which the towel and basin played a conspicuous part, scarcely noticed the fact that the young American, whom she had so recently decided to ignore, was kneeling close at her side apparently intent upon a well-meant attempt at assistance.
"Why, Jack Everett—what in the world!" exclaimed an unfamiliar voice from the doorway.
All three participants in the late tragedy raised their eyes to the pretty and—to Jane's notion—somewhat too smartly dressed young woman, who was surveying the scene in an attitude of extreme surprise.
The man rose rather shamefacedly to his feet; the small boy, breaking away from Jane, dashed forward with a loud, ecstatic whoop to precipitate himself and his milky pinafore upon the lady; while Jane hastily turned down her cuffs, a deep flush of vexation mounting to her forehead.
"I 'pilled all 'e milk, muzzer!" shouted the infant. "Zen I bumped my head, an' Icwiedan' Icwied!"
"Where is Mary?" demanded the newcomer.
"Mary has just 'shtipped out for a minut'," explained the young man mildly. "She announced her intention of doing so shortly after you left the house. Buster and I have been keeping house as well as we knew how; and then—this—er—young lady——"
"I am the maid from the Streeter agency," said Jane distinctly. She felt sure now that the man was not a gentleman; she also decided that she disliked him exceedingly.
"Oh!" murmured the lady, turning a keenlypenetrating and speculative gaze upon Jane. "Well, I am glad you've come. What is your name?"
"My name is—Jane," replied that individual, drawing a deep breath. The "Aubrey-Blythe" refused to be uttered.
"And I am Mrs. Belknap," graciously returned the young woman, apparently paying no heed to the omission. "I do hope," she added plaintively, "that Mary's sister hasn't been taken suddenly ill again. Mary has so many relatives, and they are nearly always ill—or dead."
Jane looked her astonishment.
"Mary is perfectly devoted to her family," Mrs. Belknap went on, "and that is really why I am hiring another girl. Mr. Belknap says Imusthave somebody to fall back upon when Mary is away. Can you cook?"
"Why, no, madam," said Jane stiffly. "I understood that I was to be a nursery governess, or parlor maid. Mrs. Streeter didn't seem to understand exactly."
"Why, of course, I shall want you to helpme look after Buster," chimed in Mrs. Belknap, with a somewhat offended air, "and wait at table, and answer the bell, and do the sweeping and dusting, and the cooking and dish washing on Mondays and Tuesdays—regular second work, you know. Mary is really an excellent servant—when she's here. But now that she's out she may not come back for three or four days. If it wasn't so nearly impossible to get a good cook out here I should have changed long ago. But we're so near New York. I dare say, though, I shall get along very well now that I've got you."
The young man had turned his broad back on the two, and now strolled out of the kitchen with an air of extreme unconcern which ruffled Jane's temper afresh.
Her new mistress had disburdened herself of several parcels. "If you'll bring these upstairs for me," she said pleasantly, "I'll show you how to dress Buster—this thethirdtime to-day—then I'll help you with the dinner. Of course, Mary may come back. But I'm afraid not. Shehasn't been out for nearly a week, and I suppose she took advantage of my being in town."
Mrs. Belknap sighed profoundly, and Jane gathered up the parcels with a hesitating air. Unknown ills loomed very large at the present moment.
"Oh, by the way, did you bring your working clothes?" Mrs. Belknap wanted to know. She paused, with one foot on the stairs, for Jane's answer.
"Yes, madam; that is, I brought a black frock and some white aprons."
Jane's proud little head was flung back haughtily.
"And caps? You've no objections to a cap, I hope, because I shall require you to wear one. I bought some sweet little frilled ones to-day. I want you to put one right on. There's one thing more, I'm sorry I haven't two rooms for servants; but this house is so small, you see it's impossible. You won't mind rooming with Mary; she's very good-natured—as a rule. If you'll just come upstairs to the attic floor, I'llshow you the way. Mary isn't so very neat about her room, though she's a splendid cook and laundress, andso willing—when she's here. Oh, dear! this is worse than I thought. Mary is so careless about opening her windows!"
Mrs. Belknap tip-toed daintily across the floor and flung the two windows wide. Then she turned a dismayed face upon Jane. "Mary isn't so very orderly," she repeated, rather vaguely. "But"—briskly—"now that you're here I do hope you'll try and keep this room in better order. That's always a second girl's work."
"What is a 'second girl,' if you please?" asked Jane. "I'm afraid I couldn't——"
"Oh,don'tsay that!" implored Mrs. Belknap hastily. "I'll explain about the work later. You won't find it hard. We're a small family, only myself and husband, and little boy—only one child—and my brother, Mr. Everett, is staying with us for a while."
"I couldn't sleep in this room, Mrs. Belknap," said Jane, in a low voice. Her eyes said plainly "I will not."
Mrs. Belknap fetched a deep, dispirited sigh. "I could put a cot in the trunkroom, I suppose," she said. "But, just for the present, won't you change your dress and— Oh, yes, we haven't spoken of wages or days out; have we? I was so upset to find Mary gone and Buster in such a mess. I'll tell you all about that later. I'll make everything satisfactory. But you see, I must hurry and get dinner started. I'm afraid the range fire is out, and Mr. Belknap will be at home at six. Please come down as soon as you can."
Jane relented a little at the tone of entreaty in the young woman's voice. "She's very young to be keeping house," she told herself wisely, as she invested her trim little figure in the black housemaid's gown with white cuffs and collar, which she had purchased at Mrs. Streeter's suggestion. "And she's certainly very odd in her manners toward a servant. But then, she's an American."
When at last she made her way to the kitchen Jane found her young mistress in a neat shirtwaist and short skirt actively engaged in preparing a meal. Mrs. Belknap appeared to know exactly what to do, and in a miraculously short time had vegetables cooking, a salad in course of preparation, and a steak neatly trimmed and ready for broiling.
"Won't you set the table, Jane? You'll find the linen in the sideboard and the silver, too. Then put the plates to warm and a medium-sized platter and two vegetable dishes. I see Mary had the decency to leave a custard ready, and there's plenty of fruit."
As Jane awkwardly spread the cloth, and rummaged in the drawers for the required silver, she heard Mrs. Belknap's distinct American voice in the kitchen: "—not a bit of good, I'mawfullyafraid, Jack,—afraid of doing anything, I could see that at a glance—Yes, one of those 'high-class servants.'Pretty?No, I don't think so—not at all. I'm surprised at you, Jack! I fear she's only one more in the long list of failures. Oh,dear, I'd give anything for a realgoodgirl! It does seem——"
Jane guiltily opened the door. "Did you say I should lay the table for four, ma'am?" she asked.
"No, indeed; Buster will eat first, and he's almost starved, too, poor little darling! Yes, sweetheart, mother's hurrying. Jane, won't you take his bread and milk and this soft egg, and feed him at that little side table in the dining room? Or, no—" as the youngster vociferated his displeasure at this arrangement. "Do you want mother to feed you, darling? Carry him in the other room, please, Jack, and I'll come and feed him. Do you think you can broil this steak, Jane, and mash the potatoes?"
"I'll try, ma'am," said Jane coldly; "but I don't know anything at all about cooking."
"You don't? Why, how extraordinary!" exclaimed Mrs. Belknap suspiciously. "I should think you would know enough to broil a steak and mash potatoes, even if you have always been a parlor maid or a nursery governess. Do you think you can coax Buster to eat his supper?"
"I'll try, ma'am," repeated Jane; "but of course I'm a stranger to—Master Buster."
"Well, I think if you will try to look pleasant, and if you'll not be quite sowoodenin your manner that he'll not dislike you. He likes almost everybody. If Buster doesn't like you, you will be of very little use tome."
Mrs. Belknap spoke in a tone of crisp decision which betrayed her rapidly growing conviction that Jane would not "do."
Jane divined this, and it piqued her pride, already sorely wounded. She walked into the dining room, with her pretty head held very high indeed, to encounter Mr. John Everett's blue eyes fixed upon her with an expression of respectful sympathy. He had thoughtfully installed his small nephew in a tall highchair, and was awkwardly tying a bib about his neck.
"I'm to feed Master Buster, if you please, sir," said Jane, with a severe tightening of her pretty lips.
"All right," agreed Mr. Everett cheerfully. "Now Buster, if you'll be a good boy and eatyour supper without howling for your mother, I'll go down to the grocery store and buy you some candy. Do you hear, young man?"
"Yeth," assented the infant, fixing solemn, expectant eyes upon Jane. "Will you bwing her some, too?"
Apparently Mr. Everett did not hear this question. "Now, mind, Buster," he said seriously, "no kicking, no howling for mother. Sit up; be a man, and eat this supper like a Trojan. I'll be back before you're through, with at least four chocolate drops."
Jane sternly suppressed the feeling of gratitude, which threatened to well up in her homesick heart, with an exuberance entirely disproportionate to the occasion. But John Everett had already caught the upward flicker of the girl's long lashes, and the shadow of a smile which hovered about her mouth. This particular young American was thinking of many things as he strode briskly toward the grocery; but chiefly of the arena presented by his sister's small kitchen, and of the varied actors therein.