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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 54418
   :PG.Title: Mr. Wycherly's Wards
   :PG.Released: 2017-03-23
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: \L. Allen Harker
   :DC.Title: Mr. Wycherly's Wards
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1912
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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MR. WYCHERLY'S WARDS
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      MR. WYCHERLY'S WARDS

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      BY

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      \L. ALLEN HARKER

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      AUTHOR OF "MISS ESPERANCE AND MR. WYCHERLY," 
      "MASTER AND MAID," "A ROMANCE OF THE NURSERY," 
      "CONCERNING PAUL AND FIAMETTA," ETC.

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      NEW YORK
      CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
      1912

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      COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY
      CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

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      Published January, 1912

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      BOOKS BY \L. ALLEN HARKER

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      PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

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      Miss Esperance and Mr. Wycherly
      Mr. Wycherly's Wards
      Master and Maid
      Concerning Paul and Fiammetta
      A Romance of the Nursery

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      To
      MY DEAR FRIEND
      JEAN MARGARET CARNEGIE BROWN

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      *Emerson says, "To have a friend you must be a friend."*
      *That, dear, is why you have so many.*

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   CONTENTS

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CHAPTER

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I.  `"The Flittin'"`_
II.  `The House Opposite`_
III.  `The Princess`_
IV.  `The Beggar Maid`_
V.  `Their Meeting`_
VI.  `Mr. Wycherly Adds to His Responsibilities`_
VII.  `Jane-Anne Swears Fealty`_
VIII.  `Jane-Anne Assists Providence`_
IX.  `The Quest`_
X.  `Fortune's Wheel`_
XI.  `The Cult of Bruey`_
XII.  `Found!`_
XIII.  `A Far Cry`_
XIV.  `An Experiment`_
XV.  `The Philosophy of Beauty`_
XVI.  `The Pursuit Continued`_
XVII.  `The Philosophy of Effort`_
XVIII.  `Gantry Bill`_
XIX.  `The Starling Flies Away`_

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.. _`"THE FLITTIN'"`:

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   MR. WYCHERLY'S WARDS

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   CHAPTER I

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   "THE FLITTIN'"

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   |  "When lo there came a rumour,
   |    A whispering to me
   |  Of the grey town, the fey town,
   |    The town where I would be."
   |            FRANCIS BRETT BRETT-SMITH.

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The village was thunderstruck.  Nay,
more; the village was disapproving,
almost scandalised.

It was astounded to the verge of incredulity
when it heard that a man who had lived in
its midst quietly and peaceably for five-and-twenty
years was suddenly, and without any
due warning whatsoever, going to remove to
the south of England not only himself, but the
entire household effects of a dwelling that had
never belonged to him.

It is true that the minister pointed out to
certain of these adverse critics that by her will
Miss Esperance had left both house and
furniture to Mr. Wycherly in trust for her
great-nephews; but people shook their heads: "Once
the bit things were awa' to Oxford wha' kenned
what he'd dae wi' them?"

Such conscientious objectors mistrusted
Oxford, and they deeply distrusted the motives
that led Mr. Wycherly to go there in little
more than a month after the death of his true
and tried old friend.

That it was a return only made matters
worse, and the postman, who was also one of
the church elders, summed up the feelings of
the community in the ominous words: "He
has gone back to the husks."

Even Lady Alicia, who liked and trusted
Mr. Wycherly, thought it was odd of him to depart
so soon, and that it would have been better to
have the boys up to Scotland for their Easter
holidays.

What nobody realised was that poor
Mr. Wycherly felt his loss so poignantly, missed
the familiar, beneficent presence so cruelly,
that he dreaded a like experience for the boys
he loved.  The "wee hoose" in the time of its
mistress had always been an abode of ordered
cheerfulness, and Mr. Wycherly wanted that
memory and no other to abide in the minds of
the two boys.

It was all very well to point out to
remonstrating neighbours that March and not May
is "the term" in England; that he was not
moving till April, and that the time would just
coincide with their holidays and thus save
Edmund and Montagu the very long journey to
Burnhead.  Neither of these were the real reasons.

The "wee hoose" had become intolerable to
him.  Hour by hour he found himself waiting,
ever listening intently for the light, loved
footstep; for the faint rustle that accompanies
gracious, gentle movements; for the sound of
a kind and welcoming old voice.  And there
came no comfort to Mr. Wycherly, till one day
in a letter from Montagu at Winchester he
found these words: "I suppose now you will
go back to Oxford.  Mr. Holt thinks you
ought, and I'm sure Aunt Esperance would
like it.  She always said she hoped you would
go back when she wasn't there any more.  It
must be dreadfully lonely now at Remote, and
it would be easier for us in the holidays."

"I suppose now you will go back to
Oxford."  All that day the sentence rang in
Mr. Wycherly's head.  That night for the first time
since her death he slept well.  He dreamed that
he walked with Miss Esperance in the garden of
New College beside the ancient city wall, and
that she looked up at him, smiling, and said,
"It is indeed good to be here."

Next day, as Robina, the servant, put it,
"he took the train," and four days later
returned to announce that he had rented a
house in Oxford and was going there almost
at once.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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If Mr. Wycherly's sudden move was made
chiefly with the hope of sparing the boys
sadness and sense of bereavement in this, their
first holidays without their aunt, that hope was
abundantly fulfilled.

It was a most delightful house: an old, old
house in Holywell with three gables resting on
an oaken beam which, in its turn, was
supported by oak corbels in the form of dragons
and a rotund, festive-looking demon who
nevertheless clasped his hands over "the place
where the doll's wax ends" as though he had
a pain.

Two of the gables possessed large latticed
windows, but the third was blank, having,
however, a tiny window at the side which looked
down the street towards New College.

At the back was a long crooked garden that
widened out like a tennis racquet at the far end.

It was all very delightful and exciting while
the furniture was going in and the three stayed
at the King's Arms at the corner.

Edmund and Montagu between them took it
upon themselves to settle the whereabouts of
the furniture and drove the removal men nearly
distracted by suggesting at least six positions
for each thing as it was carried in.  But finally
Mr. Wycherly was bound to confess that there
was a certain method in their apparent madness.
For as the rooms in Holywell filled up,
he found that, allowing for difference in their
dimensions and, above all, their irregularity of
shape, every big piece of furniture was placed
in relation to the rest exactly as it had been in
the small, square rooms at Remote.

Boys are very conservative, and in nothing
more so than in their attachment to the
familiar.  They pestered and worried that most
patient foreman till each room contained exactly
the same furniture, no more and no less, that
had, as Edmund put it, "lived together" in
their aunt's house.

Then appeared a cloud on the horizon.  Lady
Alicia, who loved arranging things for people,
had very kindly written to a friend of her own
at Abingdon, and through her had engaged "a
thoroughly capable woman" to "do for"
Mr. Wycherly in Oxford.

"She can get a young girl to help her if she
finds it too much after you're settled, but you
ought to try and do with one at first; for a
move, and such a move—why couldn't you go
into Edinburgh if you want society?—will about
ruin you.  And, remember, no English servant
washes."

"Oh, Lady Alicia, I'm sure you are mistaken
there," Mr. Wycherly exclaimed, indignant
at this supposed slur on his country-women.
"I'm sure they look even cleaner and
neater than the Scotch."

"Bless the man!  I'm not talking of
themselves—I mean they won't do the washing, the
clothes and sheets and things; you'll have to
put it out or have someone in to do it.  Is
there a green?"

"There is a lawn," Mr. Wycherly said,
dubiously—"it's rather a pleasant garden."

"Is there a copper?"

"I beg your pardon?" replied the bewildered
Mr. Wycherly, thinking this must be some
"appurtenance" to a garden of which he was
ignorant.

"There, you see, there are probably
hundreds of things missing in that house that
ought to be in it.  You'd better put out the
washing."

Mr. Wycherly felt and looked distinctly
relieved.  The smell of wet soapsuds that had
always pervaded Remote on Monday mornings
did not appeal to him.

And now, when all the furniture was in its
place and the carpets laid; when the china and
pots and pans had been unpacked by the
removal men and laid upon shelves; when the
beds had been set up and only awaited their
customary coverings; on the very day that the
"thoroughly capable woman" was to come and
take possession of it all, there came a letter from
her instead to the effect that "her mother was
took bad suddint," and she couldn't leave
home.  Nor did she suggest any date in the
near future when she would be at liberty to
come.  Moreover, she concluded this desolating
intelligence with the remark, "after having
thinking it over I should prefer to go where
there's a missus, so I hopes you'll arrange according."

Here was a knock-down blow!

They found the letter in the box at the new
house when they rushed there directly after
breakfast to gloat over their possessions.

The wooden shutters were shut in the two
downstairs sitting-rooms; three people formed
a congested crowd in the tiny shallow entrance,
even when one of the three was but ten years
old.  So they went through the parlour and
climbed a steep and winding staircase to one
of the two large front bedrooms.  There, in
the bright sunlight of an April morning,
Mr. Wycherly read aloud this perturbing missive.

"Bother the woman's mother," cried Edmund
who was not of a sympathetic disposition.
"Let's do without one altogether, Guardie.  We
could pretend we're the Swiss Family Robinson
and have awful fun."

"I fear," said Mr. Wycherly sadly, "that
I, personally, do not possess the ingenuity of
the excellent father of that most resourceful
family."

"Shall I telegraph to Lady Alicia?" asked
Montagu, who had lately discovered the joys
of the telegraph office.  "She could poke up
that friend of hers in Abingdon to find us an
orphan."

"No!" replied Mr. Wycherly with decision.
"We won't do that.  We must manage our own
affairs as best we can and not pester our friends
with our misfortunes."

"How does one get servants?" asked Montagu.

Nobody answered.  Even Edmund for once
was at a loss.  None of the three had ever
heard the servant question discussed.  Old Elsa
had lived with Miss Esperance from girlhood;
dying as she had lived in the service of her
beloved mistress.  Robina had come when the
little boys were added to the household and
remained till Mr. Wycherly left for Oxford, when
she at last consented to marry "Sandie the
Flesher," who had courted her for nine long
years.

Mr. Wycherly sat down on a chair beside his
bed immersed in thought.  Montagu perched
on the rail at the end of the bed and surveyed
the street from this eminence.  As there were
neither curtains nor blinds in the window his
view was unimpeded.  Edmund walked about
the room on his hands till he encountered a
tin-tack that the men had left, then he sat
on the floor noisily sucking the wounded
member.

It seemed that his gymnastic exercises had
been mentally stimulating, for he took his hand
out of his mouth to remark:

"What's 'A High-class Registry Office for
servants'?"

Mr. Wycherly turned to him in some excitement.

"I suppose a place where they keep the names
of the disengaged upon their books to meet the
needs of those who seek servants.  Why?  Have
you seen one?"

Edmund nodded.  "Yesterday, in yon street
where you went to the bookseller.  It was about
three doors up, a dingy window with a wire
blind and lots of wee cards with 'respectable'
coming over and over again.  They were all
'respectable' whether they were ten pounds or
twenty-four.  I read them while I was waiting
for you."

"Dear me, Edmund," exclaimed Mr. Wycherly
admiringly, "what an observant boy you
are.  I'll go there at once and make inquiries.
In the meantime I daresay we could get a
charwoman to come in and make up the beds for us,
and so move in to-morrow as arranged.  They
can't all be very busy yet as the men have not
come up."

"But there's only three beds," Edmund
objected; "she can't make them all day."

"She can do other things, doubtless," said
Mr. Wycherly optimistically; "she'll need to
cook for us and," with a wave of the hand, "dust,
you know, and perhaps assist us to unpack
some of those cases that are as yet untouched.
There are many ways in which she could be most
useful."

"I'd rather have Swissed it," Edmund murmured
sorrowfully.

"Shall we come with you?" asked Montagu,
who had an undefined feeling that his guardian
ought not to be left to do things alone.

"No," said Mr. Wycherly, rising hastily.
"You might, if you would be so good, find the
boxes that contain blankets and sheets and
begin unpacking them.  I'll go to that office
at once."

He hurried away, walking fast through the
sunny streets, so strange and yet so familiar, till
he came to the window with the wire blind that
Edmund had indicated.  Here he paused, fixed
his eyeglasses firmly on his nose and read the
cards exhibited.  Alas! they nearly all referred
to the needs of the servantless, and only two
emanated from handmaidens desirous of
obtaining situations.  Of these, one was a
nursemaid, and the other "as tweeny," a species
unknown to Mr. Wycherly, and as her age was
only fourteen he did not allow his mind to dwell
upon her possibilities.

He opened the door and an automatic bell
rang loudly.  He shut the door, when it rang
again, greatly to his distress.  He seemed to be
making so much noise.

The apartment was sparsely furnished with a
largish table covered with rather tired-looking
ledgers; two cane chairs stood in front of the
table, while behind it was a larger leather-covered
chair on which was seated a stout, formidable
woman, who glared rather than looked at
Mr. Wycherly as he approached.

She really was of great bulk, with several
chins and what dressmakers would call "a
fine bust."  Her garments were apparently
extremely tight, for her every movement was
attended by an ominous creaking.  Her hair was
frizzed in front right down to her light
eyebrows; at the back it was braided in tight
plaits.  She regarded Mr. Wycherly with small,
hostile eyes.

He had removed his hat on entrance, and
stood before her with dignified white head
bowed in deference towards her, courteously
murmuring, "Good morning."

As she did not make any response, he
continued, "I am in need of a competent
cook-housekeeper, and thought perhaps——"

"How many servants kep'?" she demanded
with a fire and suddenness that startled
Mr. Wycherly.

"I had thought of trying to do with one."

"'Ow many in fambly?" and this alarming
woman opened one of the books in front of her
and seized a pen.  There was in her tone such a
dreadful suggestion of, "Anything you may say
will be used against you," that when she dipped
her pen into the ink Mr. Wycherly positively
trembled; and grasped the back of one of the
cane chairs as a support.

"For the larger portion of the year I shall be
alone," he said rather sadly, "but during the
holidays my two wards——"

"Male or female?"

"Really," Mr. Wycherly remonstrated, "what
has that got to do with it?  As a matter of fact
my wards are boys."

All this time she had been making entries in
the ledger; now she looked up to fire off,
abruptly as before:

"The booking fee is one-and-six."

Mr. Wycherly took a handful of silver out of
his pocket and abstracted this sum and laid
it upon the desk.  She of the ledger ignored
the offering and continued her cross-examination:

"What wages?"

Mr. Wycherly mentally invoked a blessing
upon Lady Alicia's practical head as he replied
quite glibly, "From twenty to twenty-five
pounds, but she must be trustworthy and capable."

"What outings?"

Here was a poser!  But the fighting spirit had
been roused in Mr. Wycherly.  He would not
be browbeaten by this stout, ungracious person
who took his eighteenpence, and so far had done
nothing but ask questions, affording him no
information whatsoever.

"That," he retorted with dignity, "can be
arranged later on."

"Your name and address?" was the next
query, and when he furnished this information,
carefully spelling his name, it pained him
inexpressibly to note that she wrote it down as
"Witcherby," at the same time remarking in a
rumbling tone indicative of displeasure, "Very
old 'ouses, most inconvenient, most trying
stairs....  'Ow soon do you want a general?"

"A what?" asked Mr. Wycherly, this time
thoroughly mystified.

"A general, that's what she is if there's no
more kep'.  You won't get no cook-'ousekeeper
unless she's to 'ave 'er meals along with you,
and a little girl to do the rough work."

"She can't possibly have her meals with me,"
cried Mr. Wycherly, crimson at the very thought.
"It would be most unpleasant—for both of us."

"Then as I said it's a general you wants."

"And have you upon your books any staid
and respectable young woman—preferably an
orphan—"  Mr. Wycherly interpolated,
remembering Montagu's suggestion, "who could come
to us at once?"

"Not, so to speak, to-day, I 'aven't; but
they often comes in of a Monday, and I'll
let you know.  I could send 'er along; it isn't
far."

The ledger was shut with a bang as an intimation
that the interview was at an end, and
Mr. Wycherly fared forth into the street with
heated brow and a sense that, in spite of his
heroism in braving so dreadful a person, he was
not much further on his quest.  "Monday, she
said," he kept repeating to himself, "and to-day
is only Thursday."

When he got back to Holywell, the boys were
standing at the front door on the lookout for
him.  They rushed towards him exclaiming in
delighted chorus: "We've got a woman.  We
thought we'd ask at the King's Arms, and they
told us of one."

"What?  A servant?" asked Mr. Wycherly
with incredulous joy.

"No, no, a day-body.  The boots knew about
her; she lives down Hell Lane, just about opposite."

"Edmund!" Mr. Wycherly remonstrated.
"However did you get hold of that name?"

"Hoots!" replied Edmund.  "Everyone calls
it that.  Her name is Griffin, and she's coming
at once.  Have *you* got one?"

"No," said Mr. Wycherly, "not yet.  Boys,
it's a most bewildering search.  Can either of
you tell me since when maid-servants have
taken to call themselves after officers in the
army?  The rather alarming person in charge
of that office informs me that what we require
is a 'general.'  Do you suppose that if we
should need a younger maid to help her we
must ask for a 'sub-lieutenant'?"

"Perhaps they are called generals when
they're old," said Montagu thoughtfully; "at
that rate we ought to call Mrs. Griffin a
field-marshal.  She's pretty old, I can tell you, but
she's most agreeable."

"Probably," said Mr. Wycherly, "in time to
come they will get tired of the army and take
to the nomenclature of the Universities.  Then
we shall have provosts and deans and wardens.
But I'm glad that you have been more successful
than I have.  I've no doubt we can manage
with Mrs. Griffin until we get a maid of our own."

"I think it was mean of that body with the
mother," said Edmund; "she didn't even say
she'd come as soon as she could.  But I think
the Griffin will be fun, and if she can't do it all
we'll get the Mock-Turtle to help her."

"Was it very high-class, that registry?" he
continued; "it didn't look at all grand outside."

"I cannot judge of its class, I have never
been to such a place before and I earnestly
hope I may never be called upon to go there
again, for it is a species of inquisition, and
they write your answers down in a book.  A
horrid experience."  And Mr. Wycherly shuddered.

By this time they had reached the house and
he was sitting, exhausted, in his arm-chair in
his own dining-room.  The boys had opened
the shutters and casement, and in spite of a
thick coating of dust everywhere it looked
home-like and comfortable.

"*Richly* built, never pinchingly" is as true of
ancient Oxford houses as of her colleges.  There
seemed some mysterious affinity between the
queer old furniture from Remote and that
infinitely older room.  The horse-hair sofa with
the bandy legs and slippery seat that stood
athwart the fireless hearth was in no way
discordant with the beautiful stone fireplace and
shallow mantelshelf.

Mr. Wycherly surveyed the scene with kind,
pleased eyes; nor did he realise then that what
made it all seem so endearing and familiar was
the fact that on the horse-hair sofa there
sprawled—"sat" is far too decorous a word—a
lively boy of ten, with rumpled, curly, yellow
hair and a rosy handsome face from which
frank blue eyes looked forth upon a world that,
so far, contained little that he did not consider
in the light of an adventure.

While balanced on the edge of the table—again
"sat" is quite undescriptive—another
boy swung his long legs while his hands were
plunged deep in his trouser pockets.  A tall,
thin boy this, with grave dark eyes,
long-lashed and gentle, and a scholar's forehead.

Montagu, nearly fourteen, had just reached
the age when clothes seem always rather small,
sleeves short, likewise trousers: when wrists are
red and obtrusive and hair at the crown of the
head stands straight on end.

Neither of the boys ever sat still except when
reading.  Then Montagu, at all events, was lost
to the world.  They frequently talked loudly
and at the same time, and were noisy, gay and
restless as is the usual habit of their healthy
kind.

Strange companions truly for a scholarly
recluse!  Yet the boys were absolutely at ease
with and fearless of their guardian.

With him they were even more artlessly
natural than with schoolfellows of their own age.
Their affection for him was literally a part of
their characters, and, in Montagu's case,
passionately protective.  The elder boy had
already realised how singularly unfitted
Mr. Wycherly was, both by temperament and habit,
to grapple with practical difficulties.

"Ah'm awfu' hungry," said Edmund presently,
in broadest Doric.

"Edmund," remarked his guardian, "I have
noticed on several occasions since you returned
from school that you persist in talking exactly
like the peasantry at Burnhead.  Why?"

"Well, you see, Guardie, for one thing I'm
afraid of forgetting it.  And then, you know, it
amuses the chaps.  *They* admire it very much."

"But you never did it in Scotland," Mr. Wycherly
expostulated.

"Oh, didn't I.  Not to you and Aunt Esperance,
perhaps, but you should have heard me
when I got outside——

"I don't like it, Edmund, and I wonder your
masters have not found fault with you."

"They think I can't help it, and it makes
them laugh—you should hear me say my
collect exactly like Sandie Croall——"

"Indeed I wish to hear nothing of the kind,"
said Mr. Wycherly in dignified reproof.  "I
can't think why you should copy the lower
classes in your mode of speech."

"I'm a Bethune," Edmund replied in an
offended voice.  "I *want* people to know I'm a
Scot."

"Your name is quite enough to make them
sure of that," Mr. Wycherly argued, "and you
may take it from me that Scottish gentlemen
don't talk in the least like Sandie Croall."

At that particular moment Edmund was busily
engaged in doing a handspring on the end of
the sofa, so he forebore to reply.  The fact was,
that like the immortal "Christina McNab"
Edmund had, early in his career at school,
decided that to be merely "Scotch" was
ordinary and uninteresting, but to be "d—d Scotch"
was both distinguished and amusing, and he
speedily attained to popularity and even a
certain eminence among his schoolfellows when he
persisted in answering every question with a
broadness of vowel and welter of "r's"
characteristic of those whom Mr. Wycherly called
"the peasantry of Burnhead."  Moreover, he
used many homely and expressive adjectives
that were seized upon by his companions as a
new and sonorous form of slang.  Altogether
Edmund was a social success in the school world.
His report was not quite equally enthusiastic,
but, as he philosophically remarked to
Montagu, "It would be monotonous for Guardie
if we both had good reports, and your's makes
you out to be a fearful smug."

Whereupon Montagu suitably chastised his
younger brother with a slipper, and the
subject was held over to the next debate.

Presently there came a meek little tinkle
from the side-door bell.

"That'll be the Griffin," cried Edmund
joyfully; "I'll open to her."

It *was* the Griffin, and their troubles began
in earnest.





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.. _`THE HOUSE OPPOSITE`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   THE HOUSE OPPOSITE

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..

   |  "Still on the spire the pigeons flutter;
   |    Still by the gateway flits the gown;
   |  Still on the street, from corbel and gutter,
   |    Faces of stone look down.
   |
   |  Faces of stone, and other faces...."
   |                A. T. QUILLER-COUCH.

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Mrs. Griffin was not in the least like
her name.  She was a sidling, snuffling,
apologetic little woman, who, whenever a
suggestion was made, always acquiesced with
breathless enthusiasm, gasping: "Yessir;
suttingly sir; *any*\think you please sir."

That night they dined at the comfortable
King's Arms for the last time and moved in
after breakfast on the morrow.  Mrs. Griffin
did not shine as a cook.  Their first meal
consisted of burnt chops, black outside and of an
angry purple within, watery potatoes and a
stony cauliflower.  This was followed by a
substantial apple dumpling whose paste strongly
resembled caramels in its consistency, while
the apples within were quite hard.  Even the
lumpy white sauce that tasted chiefly of raw
flour, hardly made this an appetising dish.

She had, it is true, by Mr. Wycherly's order,
lit fires in all four front rooms.  The bedrooms
were over the two living-rooms, and, like them,
were wainscotted, irregular in shape, and fairly
large, light and well-proportioned, each with
wide casement window.  Except the study,
every room in the house had at least two doors,
and between the two front bedrooms there was
yet another, in a delightful, passage-like recess.
In Mr. Wycherly's study, which was on the first
floor at the back—with a high oriel window that
looked forth on the garden—no fire had been
put as yet, for his books were not unpacked but
stood in great wooden cases, stacked against the
wall, one on the top of the other, three deep.
Wisps of straw and pieces of paper still lay
about; and where his books were concerned
Mr. Wycherly was quite practical.

During the day Mrs. Griffin, as she put it,
"swep' up the bits" in the other rooms
(Mr. Wycherly locked the study and carried the key),
and volunteered to go out and "get in some
stores" for the morrow.  This offer he gratefully
accepted, entrusting her with a couple of
sovereigns to that end.  It took her the whole
afternoon, and she seemed to have patronised
a variety of shops, for Mr. Wycherly, who
remained in the house to look after it, was kept
busy answering the side door and receiving
parcels.

He had sent the boys to explore Oxford.
They found the river and didn't get back till
tea-time, a meal where the chief characteristics
consisted of black and bitter tea and curiously
bad butter.

They supped on tinned tongue and dry bread,
and even the boys were glad to go to bed early
in their grand new room.

The night before Mr. Wycherly left for England
the minister came to see him.  At first they
talked of the move; of Oxford; of the great
change it would make in the lives of the three
most concerned.  Then it was borne in upon
Mr. Wycherly that Mr. Gloag was there for some
special purpose and found it difficult to come to
the point.

At last he did so; cleared his throat, looked
hard at his host, and then said gravely: "I
hope you fully realise, that in undertaking the
sole guardianship of those two boys you must
carry on the excellent religious training given
them by Miss Esperance.  There must be no
break, no spiritual backwardness...."

"I assure you," Mr. Wycherly interposed,
"that there is no lack of religious training in our
English schools; it forms a large part...."

"That's as it may be," the minister interrupted.
"It's the home religious training to
which I referred, and it is that counts most in
after life.  For instance, now, did not Miss
Esperance daily read the Bible with those boys
when they were with her?"

"I believe she did," Mr. Wycherly replied meekly.

"Well, then, what is to prevent you from
doing the same and so carrying on her work?"

"I will do my best."

"Remember," said the minister, "we are
bidden to search the scriptures, and the young
are not, as a rule, much given to doing it of their
own accord."

"That is true," Mr. Wycherly agreed, wishing
from his heart that they were, for then he
would not be required to interfere.

"Then I may depend upon you?" asked the minister.

"As I said before, I will do my best," said
Mr. Wycherly, but he gave no promise.

And now as he sat in his dusty dining-room—Mrs. Griffin's
ministrations were confined to
"the bits" and did not extend to the furniture—on
this, the first evening in their new home, he
heard the scampering feet over his head as the
boys got ready for bed, and the minister's words
came back to him.  "He's right," he thought
to himself, "it's what she would have wished,"
and spent as he was he went upstairs.

Their room was in terrible confusion, for both
had begun to unpack, and got tired of it.  Thus,
garments were scattered on every chair and most
of the floor.  There were plenty of places to put
things; all the deep old "presses" and
wardrobes had come from Remote, and the house
abounded in splendid cupboards; but so far
nobody ever put anything away, and
Mr. Wycherly wondered painfully how it was that
Remote had always been such an orderly house.

He sat down on Edmund's bed.  "Boys," he
said, "you used always to read with Miss
Esperance, didn't you?"

"Yes, Guardie," Montagu answered; then,
instantly understanding, he added gently:
"Would you like us to do it with you?"

"I should," said Mr. Wycherly gratefully;
"we'll each read part of the Bible every day,
and I'd like to begin now.  Can you find your
Bibles?"

This entailed much searching and more
strewing of garments, but finally the school
Bibles were unearthed.

"Let's begin at the very beginning," Edmund
suggested, "then it'll take us years and years
only doing it in the holidays."

"Oh, but we'll read a good bit at a time,"
said Montagu, who disliked niggardly methods
where books were concerned.  "It won't take
so long really."

"Well, anyway, Guardie, we can miss the
'begats,' can't we?  and the 'did evils in the
sight,'" Edmund said beseechingly.

"We'll see when we come to them,"
Mr. Wycherly answered.  "Who will begin?"

Edmund elected to begin, and read Chapter
I. of Genesis.

Montagu read Chapter II. and Mr. Wycherly
Chapter III.; but he got interested and went on
to Chapter IV.  He had just reached the verse,
"*And Cain talked with Abel, his brother: and
it came to pass when they were in the field, that
Cain rose up against Abel, his brother, and slew
him,*" when the book was pulled down gently
by a small and grubby hand, "Thank you,
Guardie, dear," Edmund said sweetly, "I don't
want to tire you, and you know we never did
more than *one* chapter with Aunt Esperance.
One between the three of us!"

"I always sympathise with Cain," Montagu
remarked thoughtfully.  "I'm perfectly certain
Abel was an instructive fellow, always telling
him if he'd only do things some other way how
much better it would be.  Younger brothers are
like that," he added pointedly, looking at Edmund.

"That view of the case never struck me,"
said Mr. Wycherly.

"It always strikes me every time I hear
it," Montagu said bitterly.  "It's just what
Edmund does.  He makes me feel awfully
Cainish sometimes, I can tell you; always
telling me I ought to hold a bat this way, or
I'd jump further if I took off that way, or
something."

"Well, you're such an old foozle," cried
Edmund with perfect good nature.  "So slow."

"I do things differently from you, but I do
most of 'em every bit as well."

"So you ought, you're so much older."

"All the more reason for you to shut up."

The conversation threatened to become
acrimonious, so Mr. Wycherly intervened by
asking mildly: "Is there anything either of you
would like me to explain?"

"Oh, dear, no," Edmund exclaimed heartily.
"Not till we come to Revelations.  Then it's
all explanation.  It takes Mr. Gloag an hour to
explain one wee verse, so I fear we'll only be
able to do about a word at a time."

"But you must not expect me," Mr. Wycherly
cried in dismay, "to be able to explain things
as fully as Mr. Gloag, who is a trained theologian."

"We shouldn't *like* you to be as long as Mr. Gloag,
Guardie dear; we shouldn't like it at all,"
Montagu answered reassuringly.

Whereupon, much relieved, Mr. Wycherly
bade his wards good-night, and departed downstairs
again where he sat for some considerable
time pondering Montagu's view of the first
fratricide.  "It seems to me," he said to himself,
"that it is I who will be the one to receive
enlightenment."

.. vspace:: 2

It was three days since they had, as
Mr. Wycherly put it, "come into residence," and
during that time Mrs. Griffin's cooking had not
improved.  Neither had the house become less
dusty or more tidy.  The time was afternoon,
about five o'clock, and they sat at tea; a
singularly unappetising tea.

Smeary silver, cups and plates all bearing the
impress of Mrs. Griffin's thumb, two plates of
thick bread-and-butter and a tin of bloater-paste
were placed upon a dirty tablecloth.
Neither Mr. Wycherly nor the boys liked bloater-paste,
but Mrs. Griffin did.  Hence it graced the
feast.

Edmund was tired of bad meals.  The novelty,
what he at first called the "Swissishness,"
was wearing off, and as he took his place at
table that afternoon there flashed into his mind
a vivid picture of the tea-table at Remote.
Aunt Esperance sitting kind and smiling behind
the brilliant silver teapot that reflected such
funny-looking little boys; the white, white
napery—Aunt Esperance was so particular
about tablecloths—laden with scones, such good
scones, both plain and currant!  Shortbread in
a silver cake-basket; and jam, crystal dishes full
of jam, two kinds, topaz-coloured and ruby.

Somehow the sight of that horrid tin of
bloater-paste evoked a poignantly beatific
vision of the jam.  It was the jam broke
Edmund down.

He gave a dry sob, laid his arms on the table
and his head on his arms, wailing: "Oh, dear! oh,
dear!  I wish Aunt Esperance hadn't gone
and died."

Mr. Wycherly started up, looking painfully
distressed.  Montagu ran round to his little
brother and put his arm round his shoulder—at
the same time he murmured to his guardian:
"It's the butter, it really is very bad."

"It's all bad," lamented Edmund; "we shall
starve, all of us, if it goes on.  One morning
that bed-making body will come in and she'll
find three skeletons.  I know she will."

Mr. Wycherly sat down again.  "Edmund,
my dear little boy," he said brokenly, "I am
so sorry, I ought not to have brought you here
yet...."

"Look, look at poor Guardie," whispered
Montagu.

Edmund raised his head.

"Would you like me to telegraph to Lady
Alicia and ask her to have you for the rest
of the holidays?  I know she would, and
by-and-bye, surely, by-and-bye we shall find some
one less incompetent than that—than Mrs. Griffin."

Edmund shook himself free of his brother's
arm and literally flung himself upon his
guardian, exclaiming vehemently: "No, no, I want
to stay with you.  It's just as bad for you."

It was worse, for Mr. Wycherly could not
restore exhausted nature with liberal supplies of
Banbury cakes and buns.  For the last three
days he had eaten hardly anything and was,
moreover, seriously concerned that the boys
were assuredly not getting proper food.  He
would have gone back with them to the King's
Arms immediately he discovered how extremely
limited were Mrs. Griffin's powers had it not
been that just then he received the furniture
removers' bill, and, as Lady Alicia had warned
him, it was very heavy.

He had come in to tea with a sore heart that
afternoon, for Mrs. Griffin had half an hour
before informed him that she could not come
on the morrow; so that now even her poor
help would be lost to them.  She was going,
she said, to her "sister-in-law" at Abingdon
for Sunday, as she needed a rest.

"So much cookin' and cleanin' is what I ain't
used to; no, not if it was ever so; and I can't
keep on with it for long at a stretch.  I'll come
on Monday just to oblige you if so be as I'm
up to it."

"I wish you had told me this sooner,"
Mr. Wycherly remonstrated, "then perhaps I might
have been able to obtain help for to-morrow
elsewhere."

But what they were to do on the morrow was
no concern of Mrs. Griffin's.  It was an easy
and lucrative place and she wanted no interlopers.
But she also wanted her outing to Abingdon,
and she was going.

Mr. Wycherly poured out the black tea and
Edmund attacked a piece of bread-and-butter.

The red rep curtains from the dining-room at
Remote were hung in the dining-room at
Oxford, but they in no way shrouded its inmates
from the public gaze except when they were
drawn at night.  The house stood right on the
pavement; even a small child could see in, and
a good many availed themselves of the privilege.

Over this room was the boys' bedroom.  Here
there were no "fixtures" on which to suspend
curtains, nor did it strike either of the three
most concerned that blinds or curtains were an
immediate necessity.  They had all lived in a
house that stood so far from other houses (as
its name signified) that such a contingency as
prying neighbours never occurred to them and
it never entered their heads to concern themselves
with those on the other side of the road.

Presently Mrs. Griffin brought in a note held
gingerly between her finger and thumb,
remarking that it was from the "lady as lives
hopposite."

Mr. Wycherly opened it hastily, found he had
mislaid his glasses, and handed it to Montagu
to read.

Edmund immediately rushed round to assist
Montagu, thinking it was probably an invitation,
and Edmund liked invitations.

Montagu read it slowly and impressively as
follows:—

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

"DEAR SIR,

.. vspace:: 1

"I think it only right to inform you that I
can see the young gentlemen performing their
ablutions and dressing and undressing both
when the light is on and in the morning.  Such
publicity is most distressing, and I venture to
suggest that blinds or curtains should be affixed
in their room without delay.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Yours faithfully,
       "SELINA BROOKS."

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Wycherly sank back in his chair with a
groan.  "I quite forgot curtains and blinds,"
he exclaimed in bitter self-reproach.  "There
are none in my room either; do you suppose the
people in the next house can see *me*?"

"Sure to!" cried Edmund gleefully; "they'll
be writing next that they can see an *old*
gentleman 'paforming his ablutions'; but I can't see
how they do for we all wash in the bath-room,
and that's at the back.  I suppose they see us
washing our teeth and you shaving.  I wonder
if that's more depressing or they don't mind so
much?"

"But what can we do?" Mr. Wycherly exclaimed
despairingly.  "It is already Saturday
evening and we ought to have blinds or
something now, to-night.  How do they fix blinds,
by the way?"

Montagu went and stood at the window and
gloomily surveyed the houses opposite.

"You can't see a thing in her house," he
said sadly.  "There's white curtains with frills
downstairs and a straight thing right across the
windows upstairs, and a looking-glass in one
window shows just above the straight thing.
You've got that, you know, for shaving; we
might put ours there too; it would fill up a bit.
It's against the wall just now because we liked
to see out."

"Oh! they'd just peek round it," said Edmund.
"We'd best nail a sheet across for to-night."

"But won't that look funny from outside?"
Montagu objected.

"Not half so funny as us skipping about with
nothing on," Edmund retorted.

Mr. Wycherly sat, his elbows on the table,
his head in his hands: "Boys, boys, it is
appalling that at the very outset we should have
scandalised a neighbour and made ourselves a
nuisance."

"Not a nuisance, Guardie," Edmund remonstrated;
"she must have *liked* to watch us or
she wouldn't have done it.  If Mrs. Thingummy
had kept behind her own curtains she couldn't
have seen us so plain."

Here Mrs. Griffin tapped at the door again,
opened it about three inches, and called
through: "A lady to see you, sir."

"That'll be your one come to complain,"
Edmund whispered to his distracted guardian.

"Am I interrupting you?  May I come in?"
asked an exceedingly pleasant voice which
was followed by a kind-looking, pretty young
lady, who was rather surprised at her reception.

What she saw was a handsome, white-haired
old gentleman seated at a table with his back
to the light.  Ranged on either side of him were
two boys who regarded her with looks of dark
suspicion, and on the faces of all three dismay
and consternation were writ large, while
Edmund's face was both tear-stained and
exceedingly dirty.

Mr. Wycherly rose hastily as she came in.

Pretty Mrs. Methuen, wife of one of the
youngest dons in Oxford, was quite unused
to manifestations other than those of pleasure
at her approach, and she stopped abruptly
just inside the door to remark rather incoherently:

"Perhaps it is too soon; it may be inconvenient,
but my husband asked me to call directly
you arrived to see if I could be of any
use....  He is still fishing in Hampshire,
and as I passed I saw that you were here."

Mr. Wycherly let go of the table, which he
had seized nervously, and advanced to shake
her outstretched hand.  Montagu pulled out a
chair for her.

"Pray be seated," said Mr. Wycherly.  "It
is most kind of you to call....  These are
my wards."

The lady took the proffered chair and shook
hands with the boys, who still looked dubious,
although Edmund was distinctly attracted.

On Mr. Wycherly's gentle, scholarly face
bewilderment struggled to break through the
mask of polite interest through which he
regarded his visitor.

"You've only just come, haven't you?" she asked.

"We've been living in the house for three
days, but we are far from being properly
established; our servant has not arrived yet...."

"And we keep on finding out things we
haven't got," Edmund interpolated.

"We hope to be a little more settled before
term begins," Mr. Wycherly continued, ignoring
Edmund.

"Have you been able to get everything you
want?" asked the lady.  "Should you need any
information about the best shops ... or the
people who do things ..."

"Ask about blinds!" whispered the irrepressible
Edmund.

"You are most kind," Mr. Wycherly began,
again ignoring his younger ward, "but..."

"Mr. Wycherly," the lady said suddenly, "I
don't believe you have a ghost of an idea who I
am.  Did the woman not announce me?  My
husband is Westall Methuen, son of your old
friend, and my father-in-law wrote saying that
I was to be sure and call directly you arrived in
case I could be of any use."

"I am ashamed to say," replied Mr. Wycherly,
in tones full of courteous apology, "that if
Mrs. Griffin did announce your name I did not catch
it.  I assure you..."

"She never said any name, just 'a lady,'"
Edmund again interrupted, "and we thought
you must be *her*."

"Were you expecting somebody dreadful that
you all looked so horrified when I walked in?"
asked Mrs. Methuen with laughter in her eyes as
she turned to Edmund as being plainly the most
communicative of the party.

"Well, we thought it very likely you had
come to complain," Edmund continued, "and
that is always rather beastly."

Mrs. Methuen did not possess six brothers
without a familiarity with such possibilities.
She did not press for an explanation, but
tactfully changed the subject.  Nor had she been
in the room five minutes before she discovered
that man and boys were all equally incapable
of starting to housekeep, and that everything
was in a desperately uncomfortable state.  She
herself had been at a "Hall."  She knew
Mrs. Griffin's type, and the very tea-table told its
own dismal tale.  She was young, kind-hearted,
and energetic; nor had she been in Oxford long
enough to achieve the indifference to the affairs
of outsiders that is said to characterise the
inhabitants of that city.  So she promptly
asked them all three to lunch on the morrow,
nor would she take any denial; and she further
suggested that the boys should walk back with
her there and then so that they would know
where to come.

The boys were charmed, and the three set
off down the street, while Mr. Wycherly watched
them from the front door till they turned the
corner into Mansfield Road.  He went up to his
study unaccountably cheered and comforted.

"After all," he reflected, "I might ask that
most charming young lady for advice if we fall
into any serious dilemma.  She looks so
extremely alert and capable.  Nevertheless, we
must try to manage our own affairs without
plaguing kind friends to assist us."

He forgot all about the curtainless windows,
and set himself to unpack the large case marked
"Earlier Latin Authors" that stood by itself
nearest the door.

Mrs. Methuen took Edmund by the arm,
asking confidentially: "Now what mischief had
you been up to when I came in?  What did you
expect the people to complain about?  Don't
tell me if you'd rather not, but I know a good
deal about boys, and I might be able to help."

"It wasn't us," Edmund answered quite seriously.
"It was Guardie.  He was afraid of
them grumbling.  Our one had complained already."

"Mr. Wycherly!" Mrs. Methuen repeated in
astonishment.  "Oh, nonsense!  I'm perfectly
sure he would never do anything anyone could
complain of."

"Not willingly," said Montagu, who began to
think it was time he took a small part in the
conversation, "but, you see, people in this town
seem rather huffy about curtains and blinds
and things, and we've always lived in the
country, where no one could see in, so we never
thought of it.  We were so proud of having the
electric light too, but now it seems we'd have
been better with just candles, for then, perhaps,
Miss Selina Brooks wouldn't have written to
complain.  We'd best go to bed in the dark to-night."

"But do you mean to tell me someone wrote
to complain that they could see you?"

"Yes, she did," cried Edmund.  "'Paforming
our ablutions' and 'it was very depressing,'
and Guardie thinks the lady in the house
opposite him will be writing next—you see, there's
two houses opposite us; we're kind of between
them, and one can see right into our room
and the other right into his; but his bed's in
a deep recess, so perhaps he wasn't quite so
depressing."

Mrs. Methuen stood still in the middle of the
road, seemingly not quite sure whether to laugh
or to cry.  Finally she laughed, but her voice
was not very steady as she said: "Oh, poor
dear Mr. Wycherly; how dreadful!"

"Oh, do you think," cried Montagu, "that
you could tell us where we could buy blinds
or something now, to-night?  Such things do
worry him so, and then he blames himself and
remembers Aunt Esperance is away, and it feels
so sad somehow.  You see she always did
everything like that."

"But that's the very sort of thing I can help
in," cried this kind and understanding young
lady, and this time she took Montagu's arm,
so that they all three were linked confidingly
together.  "Did you bring no curtains from
Scotland?"

"I don't know what we brought.  There's
boxes and boxes not unpacked yet.  Perhaps
it will be better when the servant comes, but
you never saw such a muddle as there is just
now," groaned Montagu.

"But why isn't your servant there to help
you?  It seems to me that just now is the
time when she could be of the very greatest use."

"She was coming," Edmund said gloomily,
"but her miserable mother went and got ill, and
now she won't come at all, and there's only
Mrs. Griffin.  Do you know Mrs. Griffin?"

"I do not," Mrs. Methuen replied decidedly,
"and from what I saw of her when she let me in,
I don't desire her further acquaintance.  How
did you get her?"

"It was the man in the blue cotton jacket;
we asked him, and he gave us a lot of names,
but we chose Mrs. Griffin 'cause she lived so
near and we liked her name.  We got her, not
Guardie."

"That, I should think, is a comforting
reflection for Mr. Wycherly," Mrs. Methuen
murmured; "but here we are.  Now I'll take you in
to see my baby and meanwhile I'll find some
curtains and come back with you, and we'll put
them up with tapes; that'll do anyway until
Monday.  You'll be well shrouded from the
public gaze and can depress nobody—what a
curious way to put it though."

"It was 'distressing,' not 'depressing,'"
Montagu explained.

"Well, she depressed Guardie anyhow.  I'll
go into the attic when I get home, and if I can
see the least little bit of her doing anything *I'll*
write and complain."

"You won't be able to see," Montagu said
sadly; "she sleeps at the top, and her house is
higher than ours—I saw her open her window
yesterday while I was in bed."

"You wait," said Edmund, wagging his curly
head.  "I bet you I'll see something somehow—and
then I'll punish her for vexing Guardie."

"I expect she only meant to be kind,"
Mrs. Methuen suggested.  "She probably realised
that you, none of you, had thought of anyone
seeing in."

"She might have waited a wee while," said
Edmund, not at all disposed to take a charitable
view of Miss Selina Brooks; "one can't have
everything straight in a new house all in a
minute.  Why is your house like a church outside?"

Mrs. Methuen laughed.  "It isn't in the
least like a church inside.  Come and see!" and
as she opened the front door the boys followed
her into a square hall furnished like a room.  It
was a big house, and extremely comfortable,
with wide staircase and easy steps not half so
steep as those in Holywell.

Mrs. Methuen ran up very fast, the boys after her.

She took them into a room where a plump,
pink baby, about eighteen months old, had just
been bathed and was sitting smiling and majestic
on the nurse's knee.  His clothing, it was a
boy baby, as yet consisted of a flannel band;
while a dab of violet powder on one cheek gave
him a rakish air.

"My precious," said Mrs. Methuen, kissing the
scantily attired one; "you must look after these
gentlemen for me for a few minutes;" and she
forthwith vanished from the room.

The nurse smiled and nodded to them.  The
baby remarked, "Mamma!" to no one in
particular, and looked puzzled and hurt that she
could tear herself away so soon.  He wasn't
used to it.

Edmund and Montagu advanced shyly towards
their youthful host.

"Say how d'you do to the nice young gentlemen,
like a good baby," said the nurse in tones
that subtly combined command and supplication.

"Do," said the baby obediently.

"Will I turn for him?" asked Edmund, who
had an idea that infants must always be amused
or else they cried.  Without waiting for an
affirmative he flung himself over on his hands
and turned Catherine wheels right round the
room.  Edmund was light and active and an
adept in the art.  The baby was charmed.  His
fat sides shook with delighted laughter, and he
shouted gleefully, "Adain!"

Nurse deftly slipped a little shirt over his
head and a flannel nightgown over that, and
behold! he sat clothed and joyous on her knee
before Edmund had finished his second acrobatic feat.

Edmund walked on his hands.  He did
handsprings.  He turned somersaults, and finally
played leap-frog with Montagu, but whatever
he did that insatiable baby shouted, "Adain,"
bouncing up and down on his nurse's knee in
enthusiastic appreciation of the entertainment.

Meanwhile Mrs. Methuen had found and
packed up two pairs of thick cream-coloured
casement curtains.  She ran tapes in them
ready to put up, for she was convinced there
would be no rods; she also packed a hammer
and nails, but she never knew what it was
caused her to slip her travelling flask of brandy
into the pocket of her coat.

She fetched the boys, and her small son
roared in indignation at their departure, which
upset her extremely.

However, it was getting late and the windows
in Holywell were bare.

Meanwhile Mr. Wycherly had been working
very hard: stooping and lifting, carrying and
stretching, to arrange the Earlier Latin
Authors in the top shelf of an empty bookcase.
Some of the authors were heavy and calf-bound
and Mr. Wycherly, who had eaten hardly
anything at all that day, began to feel very
tired.  He was quite unused to violent
exercise of any kind, and presently he became
conscious of a most unpleasant pain in his left
side.  "A stitch, I suppose," he said to
himself and went on stooping and lifting, for he
had come to the last layer of books and wanted
to feel that one case at any rate was unpacked.

The boys and Mrs. Methuen returned, but he
didn't hear them.

"I'll go upstairs and begin at once," said
Mrs. Methuen, "and you needn't tell
Mr. Wycherly anything about it till I've gone."

She and Edmund went up into Mr. Wycherly's
bedroom while Montagu tried to find his
guardian.  He was not in either of the
sitting-rooms.  That they had seen from the windows
before they came in.  Nor was he in the kitchen
or the garden.  At last Montagu bethought
him of the hitherto unused study, climbed the
steep, crooked staircase, and went down the
sloping passage to look.

Mrs. Methuen was standing on a chair at one
side of the window fastening the tape of a
curtain round a nail she had just knocked in,
while Edmund stood on another chair at the
other side, holding the rest of the curtain that
its fairness might not be sullied by contact with
the extremely dusty floor, when Montagu burst
into the room looking very frightened.

"D'you think you could come?" he asked
breathlessly.  "I'm afraid Guardie's ill or
something, he's so white and he doesn't seem able
to speak for gasping."

Down went the nice curtains in an untidy
heap on the dressing-table as Mrs. Methuen
leapt off the chair, seized something from her
coat which was lying on the bed, and followed
Montagu.  Edmund had already gone.

Mr. Wycherly was sitting huddled up in his
chair.  His face looked wan and drawn in the
fading light; he certainly was breathing heavily
and with great difficulty.  But when he saw
Mrs. Methuen he made an ineffectual attempt
to rise.  She tore the silver cup from the bottom
of the flask and tumbled the contents hastily
into it.

"Don't try to get up," she said as she knelt
down beside him; "you're a little faint; drink
this, please, at once."

She literally poured the brandy down
Mr. Wycherly's throat.  "Clear those books off the
sofa, boys," she commanded; "carefully now!
Ah, that's better.  Now you must lie down
for a few minutes; it's bad to sit forward like
that."

Somehow in three minutes this energetic
young lady had taken entire command of the
situation.  Mr. Wycherly was helped on to the
sofa, Edmund had fetched a rug to cover him,
and she and Montagu were wrestling with the
huge gothic window, which should have opened
like a door in the centre and was, apparently,
hermetically sealed.  At last it yielded to their
combined efforts, and the sweet, fresh evening
air rushed into the room.

"Please finish the brandy," said Mrs. Methuen
in precisely the same voice in which she
would have adjured her baby not to leave any
milk in his bottle.  "You're completely done
up; no proper food, no fresh air.  I never felt
anything like the atmosphere of this room;
and then stooping and lifting heavy books on
the top of all the rest.  No wonder your heart
gave out.  I can't think why they make the
cups of flasks such an awkward shape."

Mr. Wycherly meekly took the cup from her
hand and drained it.  Already his face looked
less ashy and he could speak.

"I cannot tell you," he began——

"Don't try to tell us anything yet; for five
minutes you are to stay perfectly quiet.  I'll
leave Montagu in charge, and he is not to allow
you to stir till I come back.  Come, Edmund."

Edmund's round face was very serious as he
followed Mrs. Methuen back to the bedroom.
Aunt Esperance, as he always put it, "was
away."  Aunt Esperance, who had seemed a
necessary part of life—beneficent, immutable,
inevitable.  Yet she had gone, and her place
knew her no more.  Might not a like thing
happen to Mr. Wycherly?  And, if so, what
was to become of him and Montagu?

Edmund was not imaginative.  He lived his
jolly life wholly without thought of the
morrow.  But at that moment he was startled
into a realisation of how much he loved his
guardian.

As once more he and Mrs. Methuen mounted
their two chairs and started to put up the
curtains again he looked across at her and noted
with a sudden painful contraction of the heart
that her face was very grave.

"You don't think, do you," he asked in a
low voice, "that Guardie is going to die?"

Mrs. Methuen started and nearly dropped the
curtain.  "Oh, dear, no," she exclaimed
hastily; "but you must take more care of him and
not let him lift books or anything of that sort.
When people are not very young they have to
take things easily.  You and Montagu must
unpack the books and he can arrange them, but
you must not let him stoop over the cases.
Do you understand?  He mustn't do it."

They finished the curtains in no time, and
when Mrs. Methuen went back to the study
Mr. Wycherly hastily arose from the sofa,
where he had lain obediently ever since she
put him there.

"I don't know how to thank you," he began——

"Please don't try," Mrs. Methuen said
briskly.  "The boys and I are having such
fun, but I'm sorry to say that I must—I simply
must—give you a little lecture.  Boys! someone
is knocking at the front door; go down
and see who it is while I scold Mr. Wycherly."

Mrs. Methuen's own kitchen-maid, accompanied
by a stout, fresh-coloured woman, carrying
a large brown-paper parcel, were at the
door, and Mrs. Methuen herself came down in
a minute or two, when she explained that the
rosy woman was one Mrs. Dew, that she had
come "to look after them," and would stay
with them till they got a proper servant.
Moreover, the kitchen-maid carried a large
basket of provisions.  The fires had gone out in
both kitchen and dining-room, and the evening
was growing chill.  That kitchen-maid lit both
in no time.  Mr. Wycherly was brought
downstairs and installed in his big chair by the
dining-room fire, and Mrs. Methuen went home.
Yet once more she came back that night, and
she swept the two boys up to their room and
insisted on their putting all their clothes in
drawers and cupboards under her supervision,
and she and Mrs. Dew did the same by
Mr. Wycherly without informing him of the fact.

Nothing could less have resembled the
methods of Mrs. Griffin than those of Mrs. Dew.
With her advent everything was changed at the
house in Holywell.  Order was evolved out of
chaos, dust disappeared as if by magic, boxes
were unpacked and removed empty to the attic,
while, most important of all, meals were
punctual and appetising.

Mrs. Dew had the extremely deferent manner
of the well-trained servant who has "lived in
good families."  To Mr. Wycherly this manner
was immensely soothing, coming as it did after
his long experience of the dictatorial and
somewhat familiar bearing of the Scottish servants
at Remote.  Mrs. Dew "knew her place" and
kept to it rigidly, and Edmund found her rather
unapproachable.  Anything like reserve in his
intercourse with his fellow-creatures was
abhorrent to Edmund, and he pursued Mrs. Dew
with questions as to her past, her present, and
her future, getting, however, but small
satisfaction for his pains.

"Have you any children, Mrs. Dew?" he
demanded one day, when he had sought her in
the kitchen for social purposes.

"No, sir, not of my own."

"Any grandchildren?"

"Certainly not, sir."

"No one belonging to you at all?"

"Of course, sir, I 'ave my relations, same as
other folks."

"What sort of relations?"

"Well, for one, sir, I have a niece."

"Big or little?"

"About your own size, sir, though, I daresay,
she's a bit older."

"Where does she live?"

"With me, sir, when she isn't at school.
She's an orphan."

"Oh, like us.  Where is she now?"

"Here, in Oxford."

"What's her name?"

"Jane-Anne, sir; but if I may say so, I don't
think the kitchen's the proper place for a young
gentleman like you."

"When shall I see Jane-Anne?"

"I don't suppose as you'll see her at all, sir,
your paths in life being, so to speak, different."

Edmund sighed.  "I wish you were a more
telling sort of person, Mrs. Dew," he said sadly.
"If you like to ask me any questions, you'll
soon see what a lot I'd tell you."

"I hope I know my place better, sir!" Mrs. Dew
remarked primly.

That afternoon he gave it up as a bad job.

Edmund did not forget his grudge against
Miss Selina Brooks.  By some curious mental
process of unreasoning he traced Mr. Wycherly's
sudden faintness, that had frightened them so
much, to that good lady's letter about the
curtainless windows.  She had worried his Guardie,
and therefore she was his enemy.

It did not in the least affect Edmund's opinion
of her that Mr. Wycherly wrote a most courteous
note thanking her for hers.

Edmund intended to be even with Miss Selina
Brooks, but he bided his time.

The attics in Holywell were particularly large
and splendid.  There were only two, and they
occupied the whole of the top floor, while each
was reached by a separate staircase, and had
no communication with the other.  In all, there
were five different sets of stairs in that old house.
One attic was dedicated to the reception of
empty boxes; but the other—which possessed a
heavenly little crooked room opening out of it,
in that third gable which boasted the small
square window looking sideways down the
street—Mr. Wycherly had given to the boys for their
very own play-room.

At present there was nothing in it save two
or three derelict chairs and a four-post bed with
canopy and voluminous white dimity curtains.
For some reason best known to herself, Mrs. Griffin
had put up the curtains belonging to this
bed which nobody wanted.

Just outside one of the doors on that landing
was a curious little cupboard with strong oak
doors, not more than three feet high.  This
cupboard was very dark, apparently very deep, and
quite devoid of shelves or pegs.

During their first uncomfortable days the
boys had not felt particularly interested in
cupboards; but as things grew more peaceful and
accustomed Edmund of the inquiring mind
discovered this particular cubby-house.  Montagu
was not with him at the time, as now that
they were settled, he did Greek for an hour
every morning with Mr. Wycherly just before
luncheon.

Edmund thrust his arm in as far as it would
go, but couldn't reach the back, though the floor
seemed to slope upwards.  Carefully propping
the door open with a chair, he crawled in on
hands and knees.  Once in, he found that floor
and roof sloped steeply upwards and the roof
was just over his head, he couldn't even kneel.
He crawled further in, quite a long way, and the
tunnel turned sharply to the right.  He could
no longer see the glimmer of light from the
landing, but he had reached the end of the tunnel.
At the same moment his head struck something
that stuck out, and when he put up his hand he
felt that it was a key by its shape.  This was
most exciting and must be investigated at once.
There was no room to turn, so Edmund half
crawled, half slid backwards out of the sloping
tunnel, and flew downstairs to get some matches.
To his joy he met nobody, which was as well, for
he was covered with dust and cobwebs from
head to foot.  He rushed upstairs again feeling
very adventurous and important, and once more
crawled into the cupboard to the very end of the
tunnel.  He struck a match and found that he
was up against another door, in the roof this
time and precisely like the first one in every
respect except that it had a large, heavy lock at
one side, and in the lock was the rusty key that
had hit him on the head.  By no endeavour
could Edmund get that key to turn.  He lit
match after match, throwing them carelessly
on the old oak floor in a fashion that would have
made Mr. Wycherly's hair stand on end had
he seen it, and finally decided that alone he could
not manage that door, and that Montagu must
be taken into the secret.

Montagu was still closeted with Mr. Wycherly,
so Edmund wandered into the kitchen, where
Mrs. Dew, exclaiming at his appearance,
promptly dusted, brushed, and washed him, much to
his annoyance.  However, he bore it with as
good grace as possible, and then with
disarming meekness asked: "What do you do,
Mrs. Dew, when a key won't turn; an old sort of
key in an iron lock?"

"Have you been down in the cellar, Master
Edmund?" Mrs. Dew asked suspiciously.  "Is
that where you got all that dust and cobwebs?
You've no business there, you know, meddlin'
with locks."

"I haven't been near the cellar," Edmund
answered indignantly; "dust and cobwebs seem
just to come and sit on me wherever I go; I
can't help it.  But what do you do to a box,
now, that won't open?" he added diplomatically,
"when the key sticks and won't turn?"

"You wait till afternoon, sir, and I'll help you
to open any box you want opened.  But you
might go and oil the lock if you like, then it can
soak in till I come."

Edmund joyfully accepted the little bottle of
oil and the feather that Mrs. Dew offered him,
and flew upstairs again.  This time he borrowed
the candle from beside Mr. Wycherly's bed,
lighted it, and took it with him.

Into his cupboard he went.  He oiled and
oiled: himself, the lock, the door, and the floor.
He tried the key with one hand, he tried it with
two.  He got fearfully hot and exceedingly
cross, and still that key refused to turn.  Finally,
in a rage, he put his shoulders under the door
and heaved with all his might.  The door in the
roof seemed to yield a little, and this inspired
Edmund to further efforts.  He shoved and
shoved, and pushed and pushed, till at last, quite
suddenly, the whole thing gave, opening
upwards and outwards.  Edmund's head emerged
into the light of day, and with rapture he
discovered that he had only to step out on to the
flat roof of a portion of the next house, which
was considerably higher than Mr. Wycherly's.

His mysterious door was a skylight that had
been boarded in.  Why that curious tunnel was
cut off from the rest of the house they never
knew, but the little square of leads was a source
of infinite joy to Edmund and Montagu till they
grew too wide to wiggle through the passage.
Nor did Edmund, with the curious reticence of
children, inform either Mr. Wycherly or
Mrs. Dew of his find.

A low parapet faced the street, and sloping
slate roofs formed the two other sides of this
delightful square.  Edmund advanced to the edge
of the parapet.  He found that he looked
straight across the road into a top bedroom of
the house opposite.  A bedroom so high that it
had only curtains, ordinary dark curtains, not
drawn at all; no short blind, and only a low
dressing-table and small looking-glass to fill up
the window.  Edmund sat down hastily lest he
should be seen, for there was somebody in the
room opposite.  Somebody with bare arms who
was doing her hair.

Cautiously Edmund's head appeared above
the parapet, and a look of vindictive glee
overspread his hot and dirty face.

It was Miss Selina Brooks herself, and fate
had delivered her into his hands.

The hair of Miss Selina Brooks was not
abundant, and she added to it sundry tresses such
as are described by fashion-papers as "graceful
adjuncts."  Edmund waited till the adjuncts
were all in their proper place.  Then he
descended into his passage, shut the oak skylight,
shut also the little gothic door leading to this
undreamt-of paradise, retired to the bath-room
to wash, lest Mrs. Dew should catch him again;
and then, very quietly, went downstairs to the
parlour, where, in the words of the French
exercise, he sought "pens, ink and paper."

Edmund did not possess the pen of a ready
writer; it was some time before he drafted a
letter to his liking, but in its final form the
missive ran thus:—

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

"DEAR MADDUM,

.. vspace:: 1

"I think it only right to inform you that I
can see you doing your hair, both what is on
and what is off, and I find it very depressing.
I therefore venture to suggest that a blind
should be affixed without delay.  It's worse
than ablushuns.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Yours truly,
       "EDMUND BETHUNE ESQRE."

.. vspace:: 2

This Edmund folded and placed in an envelope,
which he sealed with his great-grandfather's
seal.  He then trotted across the road
and dropped it into Miss Selina Brooks' letter-box.

Unlike Mr. Wycherly, Miss Brooks did not
write to thank Edmund Bethune, Esqre. for
his information; but that afternoon Nottingham
lace curtains were put up at that top window,
so closely drawn that not even a chink
remained between them.  When he beheld
them Edmund smiled seraphically.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PRINCESS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE PRINCESS

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  "Thro' light and shadow thou dost range,
   |    Sudden glances, sweet and strange,
   |  Delicious spites and darling angers,
   |    And airy forms of flitting change."
   |                        LORD TENNYSON.

.. vspace:: 2

There were white curtains at the
windows in all the front rooms now.
Mr. Wycherly's books were ranged on their
appointed shelves and the packing cases removed
to the attic.  Mrs. Dew was admitted to the
study with duster and broom, and it began to
look home-like and habitable.  Once more did
Mr. Wycherly sit at his knee-hole table
engaged in his great work upon the Nikomachean
ethics.  The family was settling down.

"Will everybody come and see us now they
know we're here?" asked Edmund, who had
invaded the study one afternoon just after
luncheon.

"I'm not at all sure that anyone will come
and see us," Mr. Wycherly answered serenely.
"Why should they?"

"Oh, well, for friendliness.  How are we to
get to know people if they don't come and see
us?  Shall we go and see them?"

"Certainly not," Mr. Wycherly said hastily.
"That would be pushing and impertinent."

"But I like knowing folks," Edmund persisted.
"I knew everybody at Burnhead."

"Burnhead is a little village.  Oxford is a
big town, and in big towns people are too busy
to concern themselves about newcomers."

"Not Mrs. Methuen," Edmund argued.  "She
takes a great interest in us."

"She is a kind and gracious lady," said
Mr. Wycherly, "but you mustn't expect everybody
to be like Mrs. Methuen."

"I don't want them to be like her.  I want
them to be different; but I want some more
people to come soon.  I know the milkman, of
course, and the butcher and two postmen (we'd
only one in Burnhead), but that's not enough.
You see they don't come in and have a crack.
The butcher's an awfully nice man.  I wish
you knew him, Guardie.  Why don't they ever
come in?"

"I expect they are too busy.  As it is, it
seems to me that some people's meat must
arrive very late if you have already found time to
discover the butcher's amiable qualities during
his morning visit."

"You should hear him whistle," Edmund persisted.
"I'd give anything to whistle like him."

Mr. Wycherly did not answer.  His mental
attitude with regard to the butcher's musical
efforts was coldly unsympathetic.

"Why do you never whistle, Guardie?"

"I don't feel the smallest desire to whistle."

"But, *why* don't you?"

Just at this moment Mrs. Dew appeared
bearing a tray with a visiting card upon it,
while behind her came Montagu, breathless
with excitement, to announce that "a lady and
a gentleman and a wee girl were waiting in the
parlour to see Mr. Wycherly."

On the card were the names of "Mr. and
Mrs. William Wycherly."

"There, Edmund," said Mr. Wycherly,
"you've got your wish.  Here are visitors,
and one of them is an old friend," and looking
really pleased he hastened downstairs to the
parlour, followed by the boys.

Seated in the deep window-seat was a tall
young lady with fair hair; beside her was a
little girl, and a gentleman was standing on
the hearthrug.  As Mr. Wycherly came in the
lady crossed the room towards him holding out
both her hands.  She seemed extraordinarily
glad to see him, and he held the friendly hands
in his for quite a long time, while she laughed
and blushed and introduced her husband.
Then she turned to the boys: "Do neither of
you remember me?  Six years is a long
time—but you might, Montagu?"

"Weren't you bonnie Margaret?" Montagu
asked shyly.

"She is bonnie Margaret," said Mr. Wycherly,
"and this is my nephew."

"Nobody is taking any notice of me," said
a clear, high voice, and the handshaking group
in the middle of the room turned to look at the
little figure standing all lonely in the window-seat.

"That is our daughter Herrick," laughed
Mrs. Wycherly; "a very important person—quite
unused to be overlooked."

This was evident.  The small girl stood in
the seat silhouetted against the window, a
quaint, sedately fearless little figure with a
somewhat reproving expression on the round
face framed in a Dutch bonnet.  Under the
bonnet and over her shoulders billowed masses
of yellow curls that broke into misty clouds of
fine spun floss that caught and held the April
sunshine.  Her short-waisted coat, reaching
nearly to her heels, was of a warm tan-colour,
and she carried a large, imposing-looking muff
of the same material bordered with fur.

Her mother lifted her down and led her to
Mr. Wycherly, who bowed gravely over the
small hand extended to him, but did not kiss
her, as she evidently expected him to do; for
she looked at him with large, trustful eyes,
smiling the while a confident smile that showed
even white teeth and deliciously uneven dimples
in cheeks as fresh and pink as the almond
blossom just then bursting into flower.

Mrs. William Wycherly was Lady Alicia's
youngest daughter.  Montagu vaguely remembered
that there was a great fuss at the time
of bonnie Margaret's marriage, and that he had
heard it whispered that she had run away and
that her mother was very angry.  So he looked
with great interest at the gracious and beautiful
young woman who had been so kind to
them when they were little.  Certainly retribution
did not appear to have overtaken her.
She looked radiantly well and happy, and
Montagu decided that her husband looked kind and
pleasant.  Herrick stood leaning up against her
mother's knee, silently taking stock first of
Montagu, then of Edmund, then of Montagu
again, turning her gravely scrutinising eyes
from one to the other without a trace of
embarrassment or shyness.

Presently Mr. Wycherly suggested that the
boys should show Herrick the garden.

"Will you go with them, darling?" asked her
mother, and Herrick, evidently satisfied with
her investigations, declared her willingness to
do so.

Once outside the parlour door, the steep,
crooked staircase attracted her attention.

"I'd like to go up that; can I, boy?" she
asked Edmund.

"Let's take her and show her our attic," he
suggested.  Edmund loved the attics.

"Shall I carry you?" asked Montagu; "it's
a long stair."

"Certainly not," said the little girl with
great dignity; "peoples as old as me always
walk upstairs."

She fell up a good many times during the
ascent, for she kept stepping on her long coat
in front, and every time she tripped she said:
"Oh, dear, how tahsome!"

At length they reached the attic, and the
moment she saw the four-post bed with the
curtains she made a dart towards it, crying
joyfully, "Oh, what a beautiful castle it will
make.  Now we can play my game."

She attempted to scramble up on to the bed,
but again the coat got in the way and prevented her.

"Please take it off," she commanded, standing
quite still, "and my bonnet."

Montagu unbuttoned the coat and untied the
strings of the bonnet.

"That's better," she said; "now we can begin."

In a moment she was up on the bed and had
darted behind the curtains which she immediately
drew closely till she was well hidden.

Montagu and Edmund looked at one another.
What in the world did this portend?

Presently the curtains were parted a little,
and a round, rosy face appeared in the aperture.

The boys stood at the end of the bed looking
awkward and sheepish.

"Go on," she said impatiently; and she
stamped her foot.  "You must *say* it now."

"But we don't know what to say.  Is it a
game like proverbs, or what?" asked Edmund.

Herrick sighed, and stepped out from behind
the curtains.  "I suppose I must esplain," she
said, "but I thought everybody knowed that
game; it's my most favourite play.  This,"
she said, waving her hand dramatically, "is a
*gloomy* wood"—mere printers' ink can never
depict the darkness and density of that wood
as portrayed in Herrick's voice—"and you are
a wandering prince."

"Which of us?" asked Edmund; "or are we
both princes?"

"No, there can't be two, there can only be
one.  You'd better be him," she said, pointing
to Montagu, "you're the biggest, and the littler
one can be his servant."

"A varlet," Montagu, who was just then
much under the influence of Sir Walter Scott,
suggested helpfully.

"A Scotch varlet, mind," Edmund stipulated.

"And presently you see," continued the little
girl as though there had been no interruption
of any kind, "a most frowning sort of castle,
but just as you're wondering what you'll do
there appears at the window——"

"Castles haven't got windows," Edmund
objected, "only kind of slits."

"This castle has a casement," Herrick
responded with dignity.  "Don't interrupt—and
the curtains are drawn, but pesenly they are
drawn back, and then you see *the* most beautiful
princess you ever dreamed of——"

"And then?" asked Montagu.

"Why, you go down on your knees, of course,
and say so.  Now, let's begin; you do need
such a lot of esplanation."

The princess retired behind her curtains; the
prince and the varlet, who manifested an
unseemly inclination to giggle, marched about the
room.

"By my halidome!" exclaimed the prince,
who had determined to play the part after the
fashion of his then favourite characters, "this
place is stoutly fortified."

"Will we win through, think ye?" asked the
varlet familiarly.

"Hush!" said a voice from behind the curtains.

They were parted.  First the ravishingly
lovely countenance (it really was an adorably
pretty little face, intensely solemn and earnest)
appeared, then more of the princess, till she
stood revealed in short embroidered muslin
frock and a blue sash.

Flump!  Prince and varlet went down on
their knees.

"What light from yonder window breaks?"
exclaimed the prince, who had been doing
"Romeo and Juliet" at school, and thought the
quotation appropriate.

"An' wha'll yon lassie be, prince?" asked
the varlet.

"I," said the princess slowly and solemnly,
"*I* am the Princess Hildegarde——"

"Losh me!" interjected the varlet.

"Silence, dog!" said the prince severely.
"How came you here, fair lady?"

"I am imprisoned in this dreadful castle,"
the princess continued plaintively, "by a
wicked baron, an enemy of my kingly father."

"Where is the baron, lady?  That we may
slay him!" valiantly exclaimed the prince.

"Is your faither deed?" further inquired the
varlet, who really was shockingly familiar.

"He died"—here the princess faltered and
looked almost as though she might weep at any
moment—"while I was yet a babe, nigh upon
forty years ago."

"That's a long time," murmured the prince
thoughtfully.

"It is," the princess agreed, "and meanwhile
my evil cousin has usurped the throne——  Now
let us do it all over again."  Here she
spoke in a perfectly natural voice.  "Perhaps
you'll be a bit better this time.  You ought
to be much more surprised when I first
appear, you ought to be struck dumb with
amazement and delight, and then say all sorts
of beautiful things.  You should see my daddie
do it."

"No, no," protested the varlet, as he arose
and rubbed his knees, "we've got to find that
old baron first and kill him.  Wouldn't you
like to be the baron now for a change?"

"Certainly not," said the princess with great
dignity.  "I'm only the princess always; we
never have killings or horrid things of that
sort.  Are you ready?"

"Wouldn't you like to see the garden?"
Montagu suggested; "it's very very pretty."

"I've seen plenty of gardens, thank you.
This town is all over gardens.  Are you ready?"

The princess was once more shrouded by her
curtains.  Edmund looked despairingly at Montagu.

"Shall we show her our secret place?" he
whispered.  "We simply can't play that silly
old game all over again."

"She's got such a smart frock on," Montagu
objected.  "Suppose she got dirty."

"What secret place?" asked the princess,
emerging from behind the curtains.

"It's a wee tunnel, and you go up it and
come out on the roof, but you'd spoil your
dress.  Are you going to a party, that you're
so fine?"

"I'm not fine," the princess cried indignantly.
"It's just an or'nary dress; it'll wash.
*Do* show me the secret place."

"Will you promise not to play princess when
we get there?" Edmund demanded.

"Not if you don't like it," she answered,
looking very surprised; "but it's such a lovely
game."

"Hush! they're calling us," Montagu
exclaimed; "we must go down."

"But the secret place," cried Herrick.  "I
must see the secret place."

"You can't now; we must go.  Next time,
perhaps.  All right, Guardie, we're coming.  Here,
you'd better let me carry you, the stairs are
awfully steep.  Bring her coat and things, Edmund."

This time the princess consented, and Montagu
staggered downstairs bearing this precious
and, for him, exceedingly heavy burden.

"What have you been doing, children?"
Mrs. Wycherly asked.

"I didn't want to go in the garden," Herrick
said as if that explained everything.  "So we
went upstairs and there was a lovely bed and
we played princess, but they're not good.  They
didn't do it really well.  You and daddie are
much better."

Mrs. Wycherly looked across at her husband
and laughed.  "One needs educating up to
that game," she said.  "I daresay Edmund and
Montagu will play it very well when they've got
little girls of their own."

"They didn't seem to 'preciate me much,"
the child said sadly, "but," tolerantly, "they
did their best.  I like the big one, he's more
respectful."

When their visitors had gone, Edmund
sought Mr. Wycherly and climbed upon his
knee.

"Funny little kid, wasn't she?" he said.

"She is a remarkably beautiful child."

"Yes, she is nice to look at; all that hair's
so jolly.  We were very good to her, Guardie,
really; we did everything she asked us once—but
we really couldn't do it all over again."

"Do what all over again?"

"Oh, be princes and admire her, and rubbish.
She wouldn't let us kill the wicked baron
or anything really jolly like that."

"You've had very little to do with girls,
ever," Mr. Wycherly said thoughtfully.  "It is
rather a pity.  I sometimes wish we knew some
nice little girls for you to play with.  They
have, I expect, a refining influence."

"I don't want any refining influences if it's
princesses and that sort of thing.  I couldn't
go on doing it to please anybody."

"She's only a baby, Edmund.  You liked all
sorts of queer games when you were very little.
I'm sure I'd be quite willing to play princes or
anything else to please the young lady."

"And go down on your knees?"

"Certainly," said Mr. Wycherly, who, however,
looked rather startled, "if it gave her
pleasure."

"I suppose we gave her pleasure," Edmund
grumbled, "but she didn't seem over-pleased,
somehow.  I can't think *what* she wanted,
really."

"Perhaps she didn't know herself."

"Oh, yes, she did, for she was so sure we
were doing it wrong."

"Perhaps," suggested Mr. Wycherly, with
unconscious irony, "it is a better game for
two."

"Well, you won't catch Montagu and me
playing that game anyhow."

"Who knows—some day," said Mr. Wycherly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BEGGAR MAID`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE BEGGAR MAID

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  "Who loves me? dearest father, mother sweet,
   |  I speak the names out sometimes by myself,
   |  And make the silence shiver.  They sound strange,
   |  As Hindostani to an Ind-born man
   |  Accustomed many years to English speech;
   |  Or lovely poet-words grown obsolete,
   |  Which will not leave off singing."
   |                      E. B. BROWNING.

.. vspace:: 2

That evening, after the princess and her
parents had gone, Mrs. Dew asked Mr. Wycherly
if she might "pop out" for an hour
or so before supper just to run home and see
that all was well.

Mrs. Dew always "popped," and according to
herself, invariably ran, though such modes of
progression seemed hardly in keeping with her
stout, comfortable figure.

Before she left, she warned the boys to listen
for knocks and rings during her absence—"though
'tisn't likely," she said, "as anyone'll
come to the side-door; the tradespeople's all
been."

Mr. Wycherly was shut in his study and the
boys were preparing to go out into the garden
where they assuredly would hear no knocks or
rings, when there came a faint and timid rap at
the side-door.

Edmund rushed to open it, and there stood a
little girl of about twelve, who asked in a modest
whisper: "Please, sir, can I see my aunt a
minute?"

"Is Mrs. Dew your aunt?" Edmund demanded.

"Yes, sir, please, sir.  Can I see her?"

"She's just gone out, not five minutes ago."

"Oh dear," sighed the little girl, "then I
must have missed her."

"Was she going to see you, do you think?"
Edmund asked.  He always took the deepest
interest in his fellow creatures.

"I expect so, but there's so many ways one
can come.  I shall be certain to miss her again
going back and then——"

"And then," Edmund repeated.

"She'll be cross with me," the little girl
replied, and smiled at Edmund.

Edmund smiled back and a friendly,
confidential spirit was at once established.

They looked at each other in silence for a
minute.

The visitor was dressed in a brown stuff frock
of some stiff, unyielding woolen material.  She
wore a buff coloured cape reaching to the waist
and a hat of black straw, trimmed with a brown
ribbon, of that inverted-pie-dish shape
seemingly peculiar to female orphans educated in
charitable institutions, for no other mortal ever
wears such an one.

The pale face under the shadow of the inverted
pie-dish was odd and arresting.  The eyes,
long-lashed and brilliant, were really brown eyes,
almost the colour of old, dark sherry; deep-set
under delicately pencilled, very black eyebrows.
Her mouth was rather large with well-cut full
red lips and strong even white teeth; but her
face was painfully thin, the cheeks so hollow
and the chin so sharp that her eyes dominated
everything, were out of proportion, and
imparted to the beholder an uncomfortable sense
of tragedy and gloom almost painful—until she
smiled.  Then the slumbering fire in the great
eyes was quenched and they looked peaceful and
pleasant as clear brown water under sunshine in
a Devonshire trout stream.

"Hadn't you better come in and wait for your
aunt?" Edmund suggested.  "If you go back
now you're certain to miss her."

"May I?" asked the little girl, smiling all
over her face.  "May I?  I hope aunt won't
mind."

"Come in," said Edmund, and shut the door.

The side-door opened straight into the scullery;
then came the kitchen, large, orderly, and
comfortable; opening out of that was a
housekeeper's room not yet completely furnished.
Edmund led his guest through these apartments
and across a narrow passage to the dining-room
where Montagu was sitting on the floor
fastening on his pads.

"Here's Mrs. Dew's niece!" Edmund
announced.  "This is Montagu," he continued.
"What's your name?  We can't call you
Mrs. Dew's niece all the time."

Montagu arose from the floor and shook
hands in solemn silence after the manner of
boys.

"My name's Jane-Anne, please, sir," said the
little girl.

"My name's Edmund, please, miss," that
youth remarked, grinning broadly.

Jane-Anne looked surprised.  She saw
nothing unusual in her mode of address.

For a minute the three stood and stared at
each other.

"Would you like," Edmund asked in tones of
honeyed politeness, "to see me bowl to him?
I was just going to when you came."

"Please, sir," said Jane-Anne with commendable
alacrity, "I should like it very much."

"Perhaps," Montagu suggested, though not
over hopefully, "you'd like to field."

"Field," repeated Jane-Anne; "what's that?"

"Run after the ball when he hits it, and throw
it back to me," Edmund explained.

"Oh, I could do that—do let me—it would be
lovelly."

"Oh, you shall field as much as you like,"
Edmund promised graciously, and they all went
into the garden.

Jane-Anne took off her hat and cape and
hung them on the roller.  It was then to be
seen that her little nose was very straight and
almost in a line with her forehead; no "dint,"
as Edmund called it, between the eyes.  And
her hair, parted in the centre from her brow
to the nape of her neck, was black, immensely
long and thick, and tightly plaited in two big
pig-tails, each tied with a crumpled bit of brown
ribbon.

Jane-Anne could run very fast and was quite
a fair catch, but she could not throw, as
Montagu put it, "a hang" except in directions
wholly undesirable.  She very nearly flung one
ball through Mr. Wycherly's study window in
her endeavours to send it to Edmund bowling
at the other end of the lawn.  So it was settled
that she must roll the ball along the grass, which
she did with fair precision.

The grass was wet and spongy after heavy
rain that morning.  Jane-Anne's boots were
heavy and clumsy, and when she slid, as she
often did, she peeled the grass right off.

"I say," Montagu exclaimed, "you're making
a frightful mess of the grass.  I think you'd
better stop fielding."

"I'll take them off," Jane-Anne exclaimed
eagerly.  "I can run much faster in my stockings."

This she did, regardless of the damp and
unhindered by either of the boys, who thought it
was very "sporting" of her.

"This afternoon," said Montagu, while she
was unlacing them, "we had a little girl who
insisted on playing at being a princess, and when
you came I was afraid you'd want to play
something of that sort too; perhaps the beggar
maid, for a change."

"I shouldn't ever want to *play* that," she
said very low, and to his dismay he noticed that
her mouth drooped at the corners and her eyes
were full of tears.  She stooped her head over
the boot she was unlacing, but Montagu had
seen her face.

"Oh, don't," he exclaimed.  "Whatever is
the matter?  I was only in fun and you know,
in the story—it's a poem—I read it this very
afternoon—the beggar maid became the Queen."

"*Did* she?" cried Jane-Anne.  "Are you
sure?  How lovelly!  I'd like to play at being a
princess," she added wistfully.  "It's not much
fun to play what you are already.  You see I
am a sort of beggar maid."

"Oh, nonsense," said Montagu, "you're not
in rags, your clothes look very strong and
comfortable."

"They're strong, but they're not at all
comfortable, they're so stiff"; and Jane-Anne rose
lightly to her feet holding her arms out straight.

The brown garment was made after a fashion
of many years ago—the sleeves and body tight
and skimpy and narrow-chested; the skirt
unnecessarily full and heavy.

"I think you're rather like Mrs. Noah," said
Edmund, "only you've more hair and petticoats."

Jane-Anne dropped her arms, stooped, and
picked up the boots.  "Aren't they frightful?"
she said.  "That's the asylum.  We all have to
wear them."  Whereupon she cast the boots
violently away from her and they bounded into
the midst of a herbaceous border.

"Now," she said, with a little dancing movement
indicative of relief, "you'll see that I can
run."

"What was that you said about an asylum?"
Edmund asked suspiciously.  "I thought only
mad people went to asylums."

"It's the Bainbridge Asylum for female
orphans," Jane-Anne explained.  "I'm female
and I'm an orphan, and I wish I wasn't.  I'm
at school there and I hate it.  But I'm generally
ill, so I have to go to the hospital, and there it's
lovelly."

"Why are you ill?" asked Edmund.

"It's so cold.  If I go on being ill any more,"
she added hopefully, "they won't keep me.
It's because I'm an orphan I have to go—it
makes it easier for aunt."

"But we're orphans too and we don't go to
asylums," Edmund objected.

"Ah," said Jane-Anne, "you're rich, you see."

"Indeed we're not," said Montagu.  "We're
very poor really; Aunt Esperance said so."

"Poor!" echoed Jane-Anne scornfully, "and
live in that beautiful house and have Aunt
Martha for a servant.  Oh, no, you can't be
poor—not really."

"You see, there's Guardie, he takes care of
us," Montagu explained, "but we're really
orphans, too, you know."

"Are you?  I'm so sorry," and she looked it.

"Oh, you needn't be a bit sorry for us.  We're
very jolly, thank you," and Edmund spoke in
rather an offended tone.  Pity was the last
thing he expected or desired.

"I beg your pardon," she said quickly.  "I
know it's quite different for you; you're gentry,
you see."

The boys glanced at one another and were
horribly uncomfortable.  In some queer,
subconscious way they felt that they had
unaccountably and unintentionally been "snobby"
to Jane-Anne.

"Come on," said Edmund, "we're wasting time."

The game was keen and exciting.  Jane-Anne
flew about on her slender stockinged feet, and in
spite of the stiff brown dress, there was
something singularly fleet and graceful in her
movements.

The pleasant pinky light had already changed
to grey when from the house there came the
sound of a hand-bell rung vigorously.

"Mercy!" exclaimed Edmund, "that's for us
to wash.  Mrs. Dew must be home and it's
nearly supper-time."

Montagu was already half-way to the house
when Jane-Anne caught Edmund by the arm,
exclaiming, "Oh, let me get my boots.  Don't
go without me, and don't say I took them off.
I don't know what Aunt'd say.  I'm sure she'll
think it forward of me to play with you."

"Rubbish," said Edmund.  "Hurry up.  We
asked you, and I hope you'll come often.  You'd
learn to chuck up a ball in time, and your
running's simply ripping."

"Can the princess one throw balls?" Jane-Anne
asked as she laced a boot at lightning
speed.

"I don't know.  I shouldn't think so; she's
a very little kid, you know."

"I should like to see her; is she like a
princess, really?"

"Well, she is rather.  She has a demandly
sort of way as if she expected everybody to do
as she likes.  You could see her if you came
to-morrow morning.  They're coming then, I
know."

"I'd love to, but what would aunt say?  I'm
certain she wouldn't let me; not in the morning
when she's so busy."

"You come to the front door and I'll let you
in myself and take you up to the attic.  She's
certain to want to go back there.  She doesn't
seem to care for gardens."

"Oh, I do," cried Jane-Anne; "gardens are
lovelly; but I'll come," she added excitedly.
"I'll wait across the road, then you can see me
from the window and let me in.  Mind you don't
forget."

They ran back to the house and Edmund
escorted Jane-Anne as far as the kitchen, where
Mrs. Dew was standing at the fireplace dishing
up.

"Jane-Anne came to see you, Mrs. Dew,"
Edmund announced loudly from the doorway,
"but you'd just gone, so we asked her in to
wait till you came back."

Mrs. Dew turned hastily and beheld her niece
standing just behind her.

"But I've been back over an hour," Mrs. Dew
exclaimed.  "Wherever have you been since,
Jane-Anne?"

"We asked her to play cricket with us,"
Edmund explained.  "We never heard you come
in.  Good-bye, Jane-Anne, I must go and wash."

Wagging his curly head meaningly in token
of the assignation for the morrow, Edmund
departed and Jane-Anne was left face to face with
her aunt.

"Well!" that good woman ejaculated.
"You've given me a pretty turn.  I couldn't
think where you was gone; evening and all, and
then to think you've been all this time playing
with the young gentlemen like one of
theirselves, and me never so much as dreaming
where you was.  What possessed you to come
at all, Jane-Anne?"

"I was lonely, Aunt Martha, I wanted to see you."

"You might have seen me over an hour ago
if you'd a' chose.  Well, now you must run
back home before it gets dark.  I can't let you
wait for me to take you, there's all them dinner
things to wash up.  How hot you are child!
Mind you don't catch cold, and school beginning
next week."

Jane-Anne looked wistfully at the sizzling
cutlets in the frying-pan.  She had started off
before her tea and was very hungry.  Her aunt
had turned again to the range and was absorbed
in lifting her cutlets out one by one and setting
them to drain on a dish covered with white
paper.  As she carefully placed the last one,
she turned and saw the flushed, wistful little
face under the shadow of the inverted pie-dish.

"There, child," she said impatiently, "don't
dawdle, it's late enough as it is, and Miss
Morecraft 'll be in a fine taking where you can have
got to."

"Good-night, Aunt Martha," Jane-Anne said
obediently, and held up her face to be kissed.

Mrs. Dew stooped and kissed the child with
great kindness and felt in the pocket of her skirt.
"You buy a cake for your supper," she said,
pressing a penny into Jane-Anne's hand, "on
your way back.  I can't give you anything here
for the food's not mine, and to take my
employer's victuals is what I never have done nor
never will."

Jane-Anne flung her arms round her aunt's
neck.  "I do love you, Aunt Martha," she
whispered chokily.

"There, there, do get home, and remember
that if so be as I'm out when you call, you're to
go away again and not come in as bold as brass
as if you was a friend of the family—playing
with the young gentlemen and all.  Folks ought
to keep to their proper stations."

"But he asked me to come and play," Jane-Anne
expostulated.

"Law bless you, Master Edmund'd ask in a
tramp off the road, he's that full of caddle.
Now look sharp, child, and get home."

Jane-Anne let herself out at the side-door
and went through under the archway into the
street.  It was quite deserted, and as she passed
the dining-room window she stopped, and
pressing her face against the glass, looked in.

The electric light above the table had a
rose-coloured shade and filled the room with a warm,
soft light.  A bright fire was burning on the
hearth, for the evenings were still cold and a
shrewd wind blew down the empty street.  To
Jane-Anne, shivering now after being much too
hot, the room looked inexpressibly comfortable
and cheery.

Mr. Wycherly, his white hair shining with a
silvery radiance, was standing with Montagu,
newly promoted to a dinner-jacket on the
hearth-rug.  His hand was on the boy's
shoulder, and he smiled down at him, for Montagu
was talking eagerly.  There was evidently such
perfect confidence and affection between what
Jane-Anne called "the beautiful old gentleman"
and the boy for whom she had just been
fielding, that she felt a passionate desire to be
there too.  Surely anyone who looked so
gracious and benign would have a kindly word for
her.  Should she rap at the window and attract
their attention?  Somehow she was certain that
neither of them would be cross.  Her eyes filled
with tears, and the figures standing on the
hearth-rug became blurred and indistinct, but
she saw her aunt come in and cross towards the
window to pull down the blind.  Jane-Anne
darted away, the big tears chasing each other
down her cheeks.

"I wish I was that kind of orphan!" sobbed
Jane-Anne.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THEIR MEETING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   THEIR MEETING

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  "For may not a person be only five,
   |  And yet have the neatest of taste alive?
   |  As a matter of fact, this one has views
   |  Of the strictest sort as to frocks and shoes."
   |                              AUSTIN DOBSON.

.. vspace:: 2

Little Herrick had no companions of her
own age except for an occasional visit to
cousins.  Therefore did she invent comrades
for herself and sternly impose them upon her
family.

There was "Umpy dear" who, as his name
suggested, was a meek, inefficient sort of
person, often in trouble of various kinds, but
always entirely amiable and desirous of pleasing.
Quite other was "Mr. Woolykneeze," a stern,
characterful personality who was quoted as an
authority on all questions of manners and
deportment.  Even Janet, the commonsensical,
trembled before Mr. Woolykneeze.  One day
at tea, having toothache, she had ventured to
leave a piece of crust upon her plate, when
Herrick remarked it and said sternly,
"Mr. Woolykneeze thinks it's very impolite to leave
bits, 'specially crusts," and poor Janet was
fain to soak the crust in her tea and mumble
it that way rather than offend this mysterious
and invisible censor.

When asked the age of "Umpy dear," Herrick
always persisted that he was "three months
and one day."  He never grew any older and
his social solecisms were surely excusable in one
of such tender age.  "Mrs. Miff" was "Umpy
dear's" mother, and her character was
believed to have been founded on that of a
charwoman who occasionally came to the house.
Like her offspring she was meek and rather
feckless, frequently arousing the wrath of
Mr. Woolykneeze by her untidy and careless habits.

No one knew whence Herrick got the names
or how she divined their various characters,
but the people were there and had come to
stay, and her family had to put up with them.

Her visit to Oxford opened up whole vistas
of new possibilities.  Here were two real boys
with whom she had been allowed to play.  It
is true that they did not fall into her scheme
with that instant understanding and obedience
to which she was accustomed from her parents,
but still they played after a fashion, a new and
piquant fashion, and Herrick went back to the
King's Arms after her visit to Holywell
chattering incessantly of "Monkagu" and
"Emmund," and demanding an instant return to
their society.  She wept bitterly when she
found she could not go back that night, and
declared that Mr. Woolykneeze and Umpy dear
were equally upset.  Her father suggested that
these gentlemen might stroll round by
themselves, when Herrick, regarding him with
tearful astonishment, sobbed out: "They'd never
be so unkind as to go wivout me.  Besides,
Umpy dear might spill something on your
uncle's best carpet.  Can't *I* take them?"

"Not to-night, I fear."

"Why?"

"Because, you see, we've been already; it
would be troublesome to go twice."

"Why would it be troublesome?  I want to
play with those little boys again."

"They're not very little boys, you know.
They're a great deal bigger than you are.
Perhaps they don't care to play with little
girls."

At this Herrick opened her tearful eyes wide,
repeating in astonishment, "Not care to play
wiv *me*?  Why not?"

"Well, you see, boys don't always care for the
same games that girls like."

"But they're nice boys."

"I'm glad to hear it; still, you know, even
nice boys don't always care to play with little
girls."

Herrick sighed deeply.  It was a horrid
suggestion, the more so that she felt secretly
assured that the princess game had not been a
wild success.

"I want to see the varlet again," she persisted.

"Which is the varlet?"

"The littler one.  I do want him to play
wiv me."

"Perhaps he will to-morrow."

"D'rectly after breakfas', mind; you promise."

William Wycherly promised, and Herrick
went to bed to dream that "Emmund" and
"Monkagu" were walking down Holywell
arm-in-arm with Umpy dear and Mr. Woolykneeze,
and that they all four called at the hotel to
take her for a walk in St. John's Gardens.

Next morning Herrick woke very early.
Janet, her Scottish nurse, was having a
fortnight's holiday, therefore at that time her
mother was her sole guardian and attendant.
Her bed was in a little dressing-room off that
of her mother, the door between the two rooms
being left open.

For a little while Herrick was content to sit
up and wonder at the floors of the King's Arms
Hotel, which are not as ordinary floors, but
slope up and down in all sorts of unexpected
directions.  But she soon got tired of this, and
so effectually roused her devoted parents that
the three of them were down in the coffee-room
and had finished breakfast by half-past eight.

"Now let us go and see your uncle, daddie
dear," Herrick suggested as soon as she was
lifted down from her chair.  It seemed so
extraordinary to her that anyone as old as her
father should have an uncle, and she never
failed to lay great stress upon the pronoun.

"We can't possibly invade them so early as
this," Margaret said firmly; "they're probably
not downstairs yet."

"Umpy dear thinks they're up and finished
breakfast," Herrick remarked in a detached,
impersonal tone, "*and* waiting for me."

"Well, I must beg to differ from Umpy dear.
We said we'd call about ten, and it won't be
ten for an hour and a half yet.  I must write
some letters, and you must amuse yourself
somehow while I do it.  What toys will you
have?"

"I'll look out of the window, sank you,"
Herrick remarked with dignity, and climbed
upon a chair that she might see over the wire
blind.

Her mother gave one amused glance at the
small offended back turned towards her and
went upstairs to get her writing-case.

William Wycherly, seeing his daughter
apparently engrossed in her inspection of the
street, strolled to the bureau to look up trains,
for they were to leave that afternoon.

No sooner was he out of sight than Herrick,
muttering something to the effect that
"Mr. Woolykneeze *knows* they're waiting,"
scrambled down from the chair and tip-toed out to
the hall and thence into the street.

No one saw her, for none of the other
sojourners at the King's Arms were down, and
at that moment there was not even a waiter in
the hall.

It was a perfect April morning.  The sun
shone clear and warm, and a shy, caressing
wind lifted Herrick's curls and turned them to
a haze of golden floss as she stepped daintily
to the pavement and looked up street and
down street carefully.  Then, as fast as her
sturdy legs would carry her, she ran till she
reached Mr. Wycherly's gabled house.

But there she was met by a difficulty, for
she could reach neither knocker nor bell.  For
a moment she stood undecided in the doorway,
but she was not lacking in resource.  She
couldn't quite see into the windows but she
could reach them with her hand.  She selected
that on the left-hand side of the door
and tapped on the glass.  No response;
evidently there was no one in that room.

She tried the other.  Still no one came to
see who was there.

A passing boy, who noted her efforts,
inquired good-naturedly: "Want to get in,
missie?"

"Please!  Would you ring for me?" she
asked, smiling up at him in bewitching
fashion; "there doesn't seem to be anybody in
those rooms."

The boy rang loudly, knocked like a postman,
and went up the street, where he waited a few
doors off to see what happened.

The door was opened.

Mrs. Dew looked down at this hatless, golden-haired
person in an elaborate blue linen smock
the colour of her eyes, and recognised
yesterday's visitor.

"Come in, my dear," she said hospitably.
"They're none of 'em down yet, but I can
hear the young gentlemen hollerin' and
rampagin', so they won't be long——"  "Parents
want to get her out of the way for a bit, I
expect," she thought to herself, "her
mamma must get pretty tired of it without no
nurse."

Herrick followed Mrs. Dew into the dining-room,
where breakfast was laid.  "One minute,
my dear," said that good woman, "I must just
pop back to my bacon and eggs, then I'll come
and see to you."

But Herrick had not come to see Mrs. Dew.
No sooner was she left alone than she sought
the steep, narrow staircase and began to climb
upstairs, whispering as she went, "You'd better
take my hand, Umpy dear."

Two doors on the landing were open.  The
bathroom faced her, empty, and very wet.  She
walked straight through the second open door
on the other side of the landing and came upon
Montagu brushing his hair at the glass while
Edmund, still in his shirt-sleeves, was practising
a handspring on the end of his bed.

Montagu saw her reflected in the mirror and
in speechless astonishment watched her as she
paused well inside the doorway, announcing
genially, "We've all three come."

Edmund's feet dropped to the floor with a
flump.

"Mercy goodness!" Montagu ejaculated, and
dashed for the door that led into Mr. Wycherly's
room.  On this he thumped loudly; without
waiting for permission to enter, he opened it
just wide enough to thrust in his head, and
repeated, "They've all three come," in a
penetrating whisper.

Mr. Wycherly, who was shaving, dropped his
razor and turned a soapy and astonished
countenance towards Montagu, exclaiming, "What!
al——!" when he hastily changed his remark
to: "They've come to breakfast with us, have
they?  How exceedingly kind and friendly;
run down at once and ask Mrs. Dew to lay
three more places."

Herrick staring at Edmund, heard this and
said slowly: "They don't generally lay for
them."

"What?" cried Edmund, immensely interested.
"Don't you have plates and knives and
things?"

"*I* do," said Herrick; "at least not knives
'cept a silver one, but they never do.  They
*will* be pleased."

"But do you mean to tell me," Edmund
exclaimed, appalled at the eccentricity of the
Wycherly *ménage* as revealed by their daughter,
"that they eat things right off the cloth?
Whatever do they do when there's gravy?"

"They never has gravy, poor dears," said
Herrick sadly.

Edmund sighed.  As old Elsa would have
said, it was "ayont him"; and they both looked
so nice too.  It was impossible to imagine
Mr. and Mrs. Wycherly gnawing cutlets without so
much as a plate between them.  He got into
his waistcoat and jacket in thoughtful silence.
Montagu, who had not paid any attention to
these astonishing revelations, being filled with
hospitable concern as to whether there would be
sufficient bacon and eggs for three extra persons,
gave his hair one final thump with the brush and
prepared to go downstairs.

"Stop!" cried Edmund; "you haven't said
your prayers; hurry up!"  Both boys knelt
down by the bed, side by side, while Herrick
watched their bowed heads with solemn interest.

"Why don't you begin?" she asked impatiently
after a minute's silence.

"I've *done*," Edmund announced cheerfully,
arising from his knees, when Montagu followed
suit and rushed downstairs.

"But you didn't say anything."

"We don't say prayers out loud.  It's only
very little children say them out loud."

"Oh!" she said, as though suddenly
enlightened.  "Umpy dear says his very loud,
but Mr. Woolykneeze looks into his hat like a
grown-up genpleman; you can't hear a fing."

"But," Edmund objected, "one hasn't always
got a hat in the morning," and opening Mr. Wycherly's
door a very little, he called through:
"I say, Guardie, do you always say your prayers
into a hat?"

"Really, Edmund," said poor Mr. Wycherly,
much perturbed by this second interruption, "I
do so dislike doors being opened while I am
shaving, especially when as in this instance——"

Edmund banged the door.

"I'm sure he doesn't," he said confidently.
"He can't, for his hat's downstairs.  P'raps that
Mr. What's-is-name you mentioned has a special
kind."

"Mr. Woolykneeze has hundreds of hats,"
Herrick announced magnificently.

"What a lot of room they must take up,"
said Edmund, much impressed.

"They do," said Herrick, "rooms and rooms."

"Is yon Mr. Woolykneeze a relation?" Edmund
asked.

Herrick looked thoughtful.  "Not exactly,"
she said slowly, "but he's a dear fend."

"How many pairs of trousers has he?"

Here was a poser.  Herrick was not yet very
familiar with the science of numbers.  "I've
not seen them all," she said cautiously; "he
wears different ones every day.  Let's come
downstairs," she added quickly lest he should
ask more inconvenient questions.  "You may
show me the garden till bretfus is ready if
you like."

By the time Mr. Wycherly came down, six
places were laid for breakfast and Mrs. Dew
had cooked three extra portions of bacon and
eggs.  She rang the bell loudly and the boys
with little Herrick came in from the garden.

"Perhaps you'd better run along to the King's
Arms, Edmund, and tell my nephew and his
wife that breakfast is ready," said Mr. Wycherly.
"I thought, my dear," he added, turning
towards Herrick, "that you said your father and
mother had come.  I hope they haven't gone
away in despair because none of us were down."

Herrick looked up at him with candid,
forget-me-not blue eyes.

"No," she said gravely, "I never said they'd
come for they didn't."

"But you did!" Montagu exclaimed.  "You
said, 'We've all three come' when you first
came upstairs."

"So we have," she said.  "Mr. Woolykneeze
and Umpy dear and me; not mummy and
daddie.  I 'spect this is him now," as a loud
knock and ring came at the front door.

And sure enough it was William Wycherly,
so relieved to see his daughter safe that he
forgot altogether to scold her for running away.

Margaret, thinking her husband was in charge
of Herrick, had not hurried down and he,
returning to the empty coffee-room, concluded
that Herrick had been fetched upstairs by her
mother.  It was not till Margaret came down
that they discovered she had apparently
vanished into space.  William instantly fell into a
panic and was for summoning a detective at
once, when Margaret calmly interposed with the
suggestion that he should first look for his
daughter in his uncle's house.  After considerable
explanation which included the important
personalities of Mr. Woolykneeze and Umpy
dear, William was fain to go back to the King's
Arms without his daughter, and Herrick sat at
Mr. Wycherly's right hand, raised high in her
chair upon a dictionary and Cruden's Concordance,
and had breakfast all over again "wivout
a bib" as she joyfully announced.  The blue
smock also bore testimony to that fact when
the meal was over.  The extra bacon and eggs
were not wasted; Montagu and Edmund
consumed the lot.

By the time breakfast was over it was nearly
ten o'clock, and Edmund went to the front door
to look for Jane-Anne.  Sure enough she was
there waiting in a doorway just down the street.
Jane-Anne saw him and came out from her
doorway, advancing rather timidly.

"Where's Aunt Martha?" she whispered.

"Upstairs, making beds," Edmund answered,
"so we can't go to the attics, but you can come
into the garden.  There's only one room looks
out into the garden and that's Guardie's study.
He's gone there now so Mrs. Dew won't be in
that."

"Are you sure?" Jane-Anne whispered again.
"She'd be awfully vexed if she saw me."

"Come on.  That kid is here and she can't
stop long for we're all going out on the river.
Hurry up if you really want to see her."

Jane-Anne came in sideways, as though by
that means she made herself less conspicuous.

Herrick and Montagu were standing on the
lawn under an apple tree, looking at some
trumpet daffodils that were growing at its root.
Herrick, very gently, was lifting each yellow
bell to look inside it.

"Fairies live in these," she was saying, "but
it's such a beautiful morning, I 'spect they've
all flown away.  You have to be very early to
catch a fairy.  Who's that with Edmund and
what's she come for?"

"To see you, I think," Montagu replied.
"Jane-Anne's her name and she's Mrs. Dew's
niece."

Jane-Anne looked more haggard than ever
this morning; pale to ghastliness with dark
shadows under her great eyes, she was singularly
unattractive.  Little Herrick felt both puzzled
and repelled, but Margaret's teaching held good
and the child walked forward holding out her
hand with a little gracious air that was very
captivating.

"How do you do?" said Herrick.

To her surprise, this strange-looking person
dropped on one knee before her and taking the
eggy little hand in both her own, kissed it.

"You're quite right," Jane-Anne remarked
to Montagu over her shoulder, "she is like a
princess."

"You may kiss me if you like," said Herrick
graciously.

"If you please, miss, I'd rather you'd kiss
me if you will," said Jane-Anne humbly.  "I'd
like to think anything so pretty as you had
kissed me."

There was something so wistful and pathetic
in the pale face that gazed so longingly into
her own that little Herrick's warm heart was
touched and she flung her arms round Jane-Anne's
neck and kissed her heartily.

"Thank you," said Jane-Anne as she rose up
to her feet.  "I shall never forget it, never."

"Now I," interposed Edmund, who had
looked on with astounded disapprobation at
this display of sentiment, "I should loathe
and abominate anyone who kissed me and
I should try to forget it as soon as ever I
could."

"So should I," Montagu agreed, "rather—but
I suppose girls are different."

"Course they are," Herrick chimed in; "quite
different and much better and more precious.
Daddie says so."

This point of view did not appeal to the boys.

"I don't know about 'precious,'" Edmund
said scornfully.  "It depends what you mean
by precious."

"*I'm* precious," Herrick explained, "very,
very precious.  That's why they were so afraid
they'd lost me this morning, 'cause I'm so
precious."

"I'm not," said Jane-Anne.  "Female orphans
never are so far as I can make out, but
I'd like to be.  Oh, it would be lovelly!"

Herrick had been staring hard at Jane-Anne
for some minutes and at last could contain
herself no longer.

"Why," she demanded, "do you wear such
a funny hat?  Do you like it?"

"Why d'you wear no hat at all?" Montagu
interposed, vaguely aware that Herrick's
question was not tactful.

"I wear a bonnet generally," Herrick
remarked with dignity, "but I came out without
it this morning 'cause they were in such a
hurry.  D'you like my smock?" she asked,
turning to Jane-Anne.  "Mummy made it."

"I like everything about you," Jane-Anne
answered, with commendable enthusiasm.  "I
think you're a dear darling, and I hate all my
clothes, but I can't go about without any
because people would stare, beside it's generally
too cold."  And though the sun was shining
hot on the lawn, Jane-Anne shivered.

Montagu looked at his watch.

"We'll have to go and get ready," he said.
"We're all going on the river this
morning—they're going away this afternoon—and I
promised to take her back to the hotel at
half-past ten to have her face washed.  I wish you
were coming too," he added kindly, "but it's
not our party."

"Good-bye, little girl," said Herrick, "and I
hope you'll soon have a nicer hat, a really pretty
one."  And again Herrick kissed Jane-Anne.

"I'll let you out at the garden door," said
Edmund, "then we shan't run into Mrs. Dew."

Quite silently Jane-Anne followed him to the
end of the garden where there was a door in the
wall.  It was seldom used and the key was
stiff, but by great efforts with both hands,
Edmund managed to turn it.

"Come again, soon," he said hospitably,
"and we'll have some more cricket."

Jane-Anne murmured something unintelligible
and passed out with bent head, the pie-dish
effectually concealing her face.  Edmund
locked the door behind her and ran back to
the house.

Outside the garden, in Saville Road, it was
very quiet.  It is true there was a distant
rumble of carts from Holywell and a thrush
was singing in one of Mr. Wycherly's apple-trees,
but of human kind there wasn't a sign.

Jane-Anne went down on her knees, her
shoulder pressed close against the garden door.

"Dear God," she prayed, "I do so want to
be precious too.  Please let me be precious to
somebody.  Please do."





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.. _`MR. WYCHERLY ADDS TO HIS RESPONSIBILITIES`:

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   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   MR. WYCHERLY ADDS TO HIS RESPONSIBILITIES

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"Some cheeses are made o' skim milk and some o' new
milk, and it's no matter what you call 'em, you may tell which
is which by the look and the smell."  *Adam Bede*.

.. vspace:: 2

Next day Mrs. Methuen took the boys out
on the river for the whole afternoon.
She invited Mr. Wycherly to go too, but the
previous day had been his first experience of
his wards as oarsmen, and he came to the
conclusion that he preferred their society on land.

He was sitting at his writing-table in his
study.  The great oriel window was open and
he could see that there were already patches
of pink on the largest apple-tree, while the
pear-trees had shed their snowy blossoms and
shone brilliantly green against the blue and
cloudless sky.

It was a pleasant prospect from the study
window: the long irregular strip of garden,
with smoothly shaven lawn in the centre and
winding paths among borders where vegetables,
fruit and flowers grew side by side in perfect
amity.

The afternoon was singularly quiet, and,
knowing Mr. Wycherly's habits, one would have
felt that here was an excellent opportunity
for his great work on the Nikomachean ethics
which had been sadly neglected during the last
strenuous weeks.  Yet he neither took up the
pen nor did he open any of the fat, calf-bound
books piled one upon another at his elbow.

He sat very still, his long white hands resting
idly on the arms of his chair, his kind eyes
dreamy, his whole attitude eloquent of
contented tranquillity.

Presently there came a modest tap at the
study door, followed by the entrance of
Mrs. Dew with her small round tray, and on it a
rather dirty piece of paper which she
presented to Mr. Wycherly with the announcement:
"A young person to see you, sir."

Mr. Wycherly, roused from his agreeable
reverie, looked bewildered.

"A young person?" he repeated vaguely, "to
see me.  What sort of a young person, Mrs. Dew?"

Mrs. Dew's face preserved the non-committal
expression of one who has seen service in really
good families, as she replied: "A young woman,
sir, from the Registry Office, I should suppose."

Mr. Wycherly took the piece of paper off the
tray and read as follows:

"*M. Fairfield exp.: general character six
months twelve months plain cooking age 23 very
respectable.*"

There were no stops.

He looked beseechingly at Mrs. Dew, but her
eyes were bent upon the carpet and she waited
his pleasure a perfect monument of respectful
detachment.  Poor Mr. Wycherly had forgotten
all about his search for the accomplished
general.  Somewhere in the back of his brain
there lurked the consciousness that Mrs. Dew
was only a temporary blessing, really there "to
oblige Mrs. Methuen," till such time as a
suitable and permanent servant should be obtained;
but she fitted into her niche so perfectly, her
sway was so benevolent, if a trifle despotic,
that he began to look upon her as part of the
established order of things, and, since his one
visit to the High Class Registry Office, had
made no effort of any kind to find her successor.

"Couldn't you see her for me, Mrs. Dew?"
he entreated almost abjectly.  "You could
judge of her capabilities far better than I can."

Mrs. Dew raised her eyes and looked Mr. Wycherly
full in the face, shaking her head the
while: "No, sir, I think not, sir; it would be
more satisfactory for all parties if you was to
see the young person yourself."

Mr. Wycherly sighed heavily.  "Do you
think she seems likely to be suitable?"

Mrs. Dew's wholesome, good-natured face
once more became sphinx-like.  "I really
couldn't say, sir.  The appearance of the
young women of the present day is often very
much against them.  We can only hope they're
better servants than they look.  Shall I show
her up here, sir?"

"Please, Mrs. Dew, but I do wish you could
have interviewed her for me—wait one
moment.  Could you kindly suggest some of the
questions I ought to ask her?"

Mr. Wycherly's voice betrayed his extreme
perturbation and he swung round in his revolving
chair almost as though he had thoughts of
laying violent hands on Mrs. Dew to prevent
her departure.

She paused on the threshold and an
imaginative person might perhaps have discovered
a trace of pity in the glance she bent on
Mr. Wycherly's agitated figure.

"The usual questions, sir, will, I should think,
be quite sufficient."

And she shut the door behind her.

"The usual questions."

But what on earth were the usual questions?
Mr. Wycherly could only think of those in the
church Catechism.  He picked up the dirty
scrap of paper and read it again.  "Exp." conveyed
nothing to his mind.  They were coming
upstairs and he had no plan of campaign
arranged.  He felt absolutely forlorn and helpless.
Suppose the young person didn't go away of
her own accord?  How could he ever suggest
to her that the interview was at an end?  He
found himself longing for the moral support of
Edmund, who at all events, never lacked the
power of asking questions; and no sort of young
person, or, for the matter of that, old person
either, could inspire him with the unreasoning
terror his guardian felt at the prospect of the
*tête-à-tête* thus imminent.

Mrs. Dew opened the door.

"The young person," she announced, and
her disapproving expression changed to one of
downright horror as Mr. Wycherly rose to his
feet to receive his visitor.

She was a short, stout young woman, dressed
in a bright blue coat and skirt of the shade
known by drapers as "Royal."  Her hat was
large and was trimmed with tumbled pink roses.
Her hair was frizzy and flamboyant and her
boots creaked—Mr. Wycherly thought to
himself—infernally.

"Pray be seated," he said courteously.

The young woman selected a chair as far off
as possible and giggled affably.

"I understand," he began in a faint voice,
"that you think you would be able to undertake
the duties of—er—thorough general servant—that
I believe is the correct term?"

"I always 'ave been general," the young
woman replied, "though I did think of betterin'
myself, but Mrs. Councer she said as yours was
a heasy place with no missus naggin' at you an'
I thought it might suit me so I come along to
have a look at things.  It's a largish 'ouse for
one but I suppose you don't 'ave much cookin'
and waitin'."

"But there are three of us," Mr. Wycherly
interposed eagerly.  "I'm afraid that you would
find it too much.  You are rather young to
undertake the entire management of this
household.  You see there would be the housekeeping
to do—ordering, books to pay and so on, as
well as the actual work."

"Oh, I could do all that," she replied
confidently.  "I'll do the shoppin' meself.  I likes
a run out between my reg'lar times, an' I'd see
they didn't cheat you in the books, puttin' down
things you've never 'ad."

Miss Fairfield smiled happily at Mr. Wycherly.
She liked his looks.  She was sure he would be
easy to live with and probably would be
unaware of the existence of the followers.  In
common with every woman ever brought into
personal relations with him, she was certain that he
was in need of protection from the others, and
decided there and then that it was her mission
to see that he wasn't put upon by anybody else.

"When will you be requirin' my services?"
she asked.

Mr. Wycherly gasped.  "I should require to
consider the question," he said feebly, "and it
is usual, is it not, to give some——"

"My last mistress'll give me a character.  I
was there six months and she almost went down
on 'er knees for me to stop; but I couldn't, it
was such an 'eavy place."

"Are you a good plain cook?" Mr. Wycherly
asked, feeling here indeed was a leading
question; some of Lady Alicia's instructions were
gradually recurring to his mind.  "Can
you—er—do fish?"

"Fry fish, why bless you, sir, my last place
was a fried-fish shop, that's why I left.  One
gets tired of frying morning, noon and night.
I can do plain roast and boiled and milk
puddin's an' that, but I don't profess to do
pastry."

"Thank you," said Mr. Wycherly, and paused.
To get rid of her, he was on the point of saying
that he would consider her qualifications and let
her know his decision later, when his delicate
sense of honour pointed out that such a course
would not be quite straightforward dealing.
She was a terrible young woman and his fastidious
soul revolted from the very thought of the
fried-fish shop, but she was young and she was a
woman; it would not be fair to let her depart
with the impression that she was a likely applicant
when nothing on earth could induce him
to employ her.

"I fear," he added gently, "that you are not
quite experienced enough for us here, and therefore
I will not trouble your late mistress with
inquiries.  I am sorry you should have had to
come in vain—were you to put any expense?"

The girl gave a short laugh.  "I've only come
about half a mile," she said.  "I'm sorry I don't
suit you; I think I could be very 'appy in your
situation."

Poor Mr. Wycherly looked most unhappy.
He rose and rang the bell, saying:

"Mrs. Dew will show you the way out."  He
opened the door for her with the gravest
courtesy and she creaked downstairs, wondering why
she had not demanded at least "'arf a crownd"
for expenses.  "I'd 'a' got it too," she thought
to herself, "but it never entered me 'ead to say
nothin' to 'im but the plain truth an' 'im so
civil and affable."

Mr. Wycherly went back to his chair and
reached for a pamphlet dealing with the
philosophy of Eubulides, which he thought might be
soothing, but he had got no further than the
statement that, "in Eubulides positive faith was
superseded by delight in his own subtlety,"
when there came another knock at his door and
again Mrs. Dew presented herself.

"I beg your pardon, sir, for venturing to
intrude upon you," Mrs. Dew said respectfully,
"but did you come to any arrangement with the
young person?"

Mr. Wycherly laid down Eubulides.  "Oh,
dear, no," he groaned, "she was quite impossible.
A most well-meaning girl, I am sure—but——"

"I feared so, sir, from her very flashy appearance,
but one always hopes they may be better
than their looks.  Being only temporary I
should like to know you'd found someone really
suitable."

"Look here, Mrs. Dew," said Mr. Wycherly,
suddenly taking heart of grace.  "Why should
you be only temporary?  Could you not settle
down with us?  If you find the work too much
when my wards are at home why not get a
young girl to help you?"

"You're very kind, sir," said Mrs. Dew,
fingering her apron and looking embarrassed,
"but you see, I'm not without encumbrances.
Husband I've none, children I've none, but
what I have got is a niece and my bits of things.
I'm bound to keep a little home for her in the
holidays, that's why I can't take a permanent
situation.  You see, no one wants a child of
twelve tacked on to a servant for weeks at a time."

"But listen, Mrs. Dew, there is the cottage—the
little cottage off the kitchen where your bedroom
is now—why not bring your things and furnish
it and the housekeeper's room and there
would be a home for your niece?"

Mrs. Dew turned very red.  "It's most
uncommon kind of you, sir," she said, "but I
shouldn't like to take advantage of you.  You
see, it's just when the young gentlemen would
be at home her holidays come, and perhaps——"

"That, surely, would be the very time when
she could be of most use to you."

Mrs. Dew looked queerly at Mr. Wycherly,
then, as though forcing herself to speak against
her will, she said slowly: "You see, sir, I must
be straightforward with you.  If Jane-Anne
was like some girls—like what I was myself—I
shouldn't 'esitate to accept your very kind offer,
for it would make a great difference to me.  I
hate choppin' and changin' and if I may make
so bold, sir, you need a staid person here to
look after things, but Jane-Anne's the sort of
child what crops up continual.  I *couldn't*
promise for 'er as she'd keep 'erself to 'erself
like she ought.  I'd do my best, sir, to keep
her in our own part of the 'ouse, but——"

Mrs. Dew paused and shook her head.  Whenever
she was very much in earnest she dropped
into the speech of her youth; the aitchless,
broad-vowelled talk of the Cotswold country
whence she came.

"But, I shall like to see your niece about the
house," said Mr. Wycherly.  "It will be pleasant
to have a young girl growing up in our midst,
good for me and for the boys."

Again Mrs. Dew gave Mr. Wycherly that queer
look, half-scornful, half-admirative.

"You mustn't think, sir, that there's any
real 'arm in Jane-Anne," she said earnestly.
"There's nothing of the minx about her, I will
say that; but—I don't know how to put it
without being hard on the child, and yet it
wouldn't be fair to you, sir, to let her come
without telling you——"

Again Mrs. Dew paused and Mr. Wycherly
looked rather anxious.

"She do make a sort of stir wherever she do
go and that's the long and short of it."  And
Mrs. Dew relapsed into broadest Gloucestershire
again as she blurted out this startling fact.

"Stir," Mr. Wycherly repeated, "stir.  Do
you mean that she is a particularly noisy child?"

"No, sir, not that.  Jane-Anne isn't that;
but she does things no other child ever thinks
of doing and you can't seem to guard against it.
The very first month she was at the asylum,
she went and put 'er foot through a staircase
window trying to see some soldiers as was
passing.  They had a board meeting about it."

Mr. Wycherly laughed.  "It is unusual to
put one's foot through a window, but surely
that was an accident and not a moral offence?"

"It was a staircase window, as stretched all
down one side of that wing," Mrs. Dew said
solemnly, "and the bannisters was up against
it, and Jane-Anne she leant over cranin' 'er
'ead to see them soldiers, and she lost 'er
balance and swung back and drove 'er foot right
through and cut 'er leg so it bled dreadful."

"Poor child," said Mr. Wycherly, "that's one
thing she is quite safe from here.  There will
be no temptation for her to put her feet through
any windows.  Has she lost both her parents,
Mrs. Dew?"

"That's another thing," said Mrs. Dew,
dropping her voice mysteriously, "as I feel you
ought to know, and that is, Jane-Anne's father
was a Grecian."

"Really," Mr. Wycherly remarked, evidently
quite unmoved by what Mrs. Dew considered a
most damaging fact.  "A Greek; how interesting!
What was his name?"

"Staff rides," Mrs. Dew answered promptly.
"At least that's what I call it, but he called it
something longer.  I've tried to English it as
much as possible to match her really respectable
Christian name."

"Do you happen to remember how it was
spelt?" Mr. Wycherly asked.

"Yes, sir, S-T-A-V-R-I-D-E-S."

"Ah," Mr. Wycherly exclaimed; "now I've
got it.  Stavrides.  Quite a common Greek
name.  What part of Greece did he come from?"

"Athens, sir, an' it was there he met my
sister, who was lady's maid to Mrs. Methuen's
cousin.  She'd been schoolroom-maid first of
all, then when the young ladies grew up, they
had her taught dressmaking and hairdressin'
and took her everywhere with them.  And
when Lady Lettice married she took my sister
Jane with her, and they travelled a lot, an' in
Athens there was a carriage accident and my
sister was thrown out and stunned, and this
young man was passing and he picked her up,
and it seems he fell in love with her there and
then, for all her eye was swole up with the
bump she got—she was a very-good-looking girl
was Jane—anyway, 'e never rested till 'e'd
married 'er.  He was, I suppose, in a rather
better position than she was, though, from
bein' with the young ladies so constant, my
sister seemed to have caught their pretty ways,
and spoke exactly like them.  She wasn't a bit
like me," said Mrs. Dew simply, "you'd never
'ave thought we was sisters."

"What was Stavrides?" Mr. Wycherly asked.

"A sort of writer, sir, for newspapers.
When they got married he came to London,
and he was correspondent for some paper,
some Grecian paper.  It isn't a trade I thinks
much on, but he earned good money and he
insured his life heavy.  And then, just like
him it was, he forgot to pay the premium, fell
ill and died all of a hurry when Jane-Anne was
but four-year-old, and my sister was left
without anything at all but some forty pounds they
'ad in the bank."

"Poor thing," said Mr. Wycherly.  "What
did she do?"

"She did dressmaking, an' she took a lodger.
Lady Lettice an' the young ladies 'elped her all
they could, and she was doin' pretty well when
she took an' died, an' she left Jane-Anne to
me.  My 'usban' was alive then—not as he was
much use, an' I've done my best, but you see,
I'm only a servant an' not being out reg'lar
makes it harder.  Lord Dursley, he got her a
nomination for the asylum at Baresgill, but I
don't know if she can stop there.  It's very
cold up there in Northumberland, an' she's
got a delicate chest.  She've been there fifteen
months, but 'as 'ad a lot of illness, an' I don't
know if she can keep on.  They don't like it,
you see, sir, such a lot of illness."

"I understand it is some kind of an orphanage.
The boys, you know, spoke to me about
your niece, Mrs. Dew.  I quite look forward to
making her acquaintance.  Do they receive any
special training where she is?"

"Oh, yes, sir, it's a most superior place where
they train them for young servants.  They get
their education and their clothes and good,
thorough training in household duties, and when
they're seventeen they put them out in good
families that they know about, where they take
an interest in the servants and treat them well."

"It sounds an admirable institution," said
Mr. Wycherly.  "Are the children happy there?"

"Most of the girls, sir, are happy as birds.
It's a really good place, sir, plenty of wholesome
food, nice airy rooms—but there!  Jane-Anne
she frets something dreadful.  Sometimes I fear
she'll never make a good dependable servant.
If it's book-learnin', now, she's on to it like a
cat on to a mouse.  There's never no complaint
there—but you never know what flightiness
Jane-Anne 'll be after."

"You see," Mr. Wycherly said indulgently,
"she is only a child as yet.  We must have
patience.  Anyway, Mrs. Dew, I hope that is
settled.  Send for your furniture and for
Jane-Anne——"

"I am deeply obliged to you, sir," Mrs. Dew
said earnestly, "and I will endeavour to serve
you faithful.  I will arrange with Miss
Morecraft, her as I shares the 'ouse with, and I'll
fetch Jane-Anne most thankfully when she can
be moved——"

"Is she ill then?"

"She's managed to get a most fearful cold on
'er chest; 'ow I can't conceive, but so it is; she's
that hoarse and croupy, Miss Morecraft's kep'
'er in bed, and what I really came to ask, sir,
was if I might pop round after supper to see
'ow the child is."

"By all means, Mrs. Dew, and whenever she
can be moved, bring her here.  Then you can
look after her yourself."

Mr. Wycherly was very exhausted after this
long conversation.  He lay back in his chair
and closed his eyes with a sense of well-earned
repose.  Whatever this child—this window-breaking,
"cropping-up," generally disturbing
little girl might be, she could not be one half so
dreadful as the sort of servant Mr. Wycherly
saw himself a thrall to if Mrs. Dew deserted him.
Besides, Mrs. Dew, herself, would be there to
keep her in order.

"These domestic cares are very disorganising,"
he reflected.  He felt a positive distaste
for the Migrarian School of Philosophy just then.
The pamphlet on Eubulides lay open at his
elbow, but he ignored it.  Instead, he went over
to his book-case and took from it "Tristram
Shandy," which he dearly loved.  He opened
it at random, standing where he was, and his
eyes fell on this passage:

"*'I can't get out—I can't get out,' said the
starling.*

"*I stood looking at the bird; and to every
person who came through the passage, it ran fluttering
to the side towards which they approached it,
with the same lamentation of its captivity.  'I
can't get out,' said the starling.  'God help thee!'
said I, 'but I'll let thee out, cost what it will.'*"

"I wonder now," Mr. Wycherly thought to
himself, "if that poor little half-Greek girl feels
like Sterne's starling."





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.. _`JANE-ANNE SWEARS FEALTY`:

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   CHAPTER VII


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   JANE-ANNE SWEARS FEALTY

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"Minds lead each other in contrary directions, traverse
each other in numberless points, and at last greet each other
at the journey's end.  An old man and a child would talk
together; and the old man be led on his path and the child
left thinking."  JOHN KEATS.

.. vspace:: 2

Jane-Anne had managed to get an
exceedingly bad cold.  To run on wet grass
in stockings, if one wears the stockings all the
evening afterwards, is not a wise proceeding for a
delicate person.  And when, the next day, she
went to keep her tryst with Edmund, she knew
very well that her lung was at its old tricks
again; and that, had she been "at the Bainbridge,"
matron would have sent for the doctor.
He would have listened at her back with his
funny indiarubber tube, and would then have
muttered something mysterious about "crepitation."

Jane-Anne had her own idea of "crepitation,"
which she abbreviated to "the creppits."  She
always pictured this unfortunate lung as a
bent and aged person sidling along "with legs
that went tap-lapperty like men that fear to fall."

It was tiresome that lung; for whenever it
began its tap-lapperty entertainment she felt so
ill.  Her head ached and her legs seemed to
weigh tons; her throat was hot and painful,
and something seemed to flutter in the palms
of her hands like an imprisoned bird.

More dead than alive she crawled back from
her meeting with the princess to the stuffy little
house "down in St. Clement's" that her aunt
shared with Miss Morecraft, knowing full well
that bed would be her portion directly anyone
noticed how ill she looked.

Miss Morecraft, a dressmaker of severely
respectable and melancholy temperament, was not
observant, and it happened that just then she
was very busy, as her customers were nearly all
servants, and a new dress at Whitsuntide is
a matter of sacred ritual in that class.

She did, it is true, remark that Jane-Anne was
"a dainty feeder" when the child left her dinner
almost untasted, but she did not "hold with
pampering children," and having eaten her own
dinner with considerable relish, went back to
her work, having pressed Jane-Anne into the
service to do some basting.

It was not till the child nearly fainted during
the afternoon that Miss Morecraft awoke to the
fact that Jane-Anne was really ill.  She was
quite kind-hearted, and was rather shocked that
she should have made the child sew when she
was evidently unfit for any effort of the kind.
She put her to bed, made her a cup of tea, and
persuaded the milkman to call and tell Mrs. Dew
how matters were.

During the evening, Mrs. Dew "popped
round," took Jane-Anne's temperature, rubbed
her with liniment, scolded her well, kissed her
and tucked her up in bed, and left her
unaccountably cheered and comforted.

Next morning a strange, new doctor came.
He, too, listened at Jane-Anne's back with his
funny double telephone.  He, too, shook his
head and murmured something about crepitation
and congestion, just like the doctor at
"Bainbridge's."

"Shall I be able to go back to school?" Jane-Anne
croaked eagerly.  She was hoarse as a raven.

"When does school begin?" asked the doctor.

"It starts on the 5th of May.  I have to go
up on the 4th.  It's such a long way."

"And this is the 29th of April.  No, certainly
you won't.  You won't be fit for school for
another fortnight, if then.  Are you sorry?"

"No," said Jane-Anne candidly, "*I*'m not
sorry, but Aunt Martha'll be very sorry."

The doctor laughed.  "Well, you must do
your best to get well, that's all; but it's no use
your going anywhere till that lung has ceased
crackling."

Miss Morecraft was far too busy to attend
to Jane-Anne herself, and Mrs. Dew, recklessly
extravagant if there was real cause for anxiety
where her sister's child was concerned, sent in
a trained nurse.

The nurse did her duty by Jane-Anne, but
considered the post rather beneath her dignity,
and was not interested in the fidgetty little girl
with the large eyes who sent up her temperature
in an aggravating way by getting excited
over trifles.

One evening, when the temperature was once
more normal, Mrs. Dew informed Jane-Anne of
her arrangement with Mr. Wycherly.

"Shall we really live there?  Will it be our
very own home—not shared?" the child
demanded with incredulous delight.

"If there's any sharing it's Mr. Wycherly
what shares his house with us," said Mrs. Dew.
"I'm to have the cottage for myself, and we get
the housekeeper's room for a sitting-room."

"And I shall live in the house with those nice
boys?" Jane-Anne went on—"right in the same
house."

"Yes," Mrs. Dew said; "but you must
remember that you belong to the kitchen part
and there must be no trespassin'.  It would
never do for you to be playin' with the young
gentlemen like you was one of theirselves.  You
must understand that from the very first.  Not
but what they're very kind young gentlemen,
and have ast after you over and over again, an'
Mr. Wycherly likewise.  Master Edmund, he
wants to come and see you before he goes back
to school."

"Oh, Aunt Martha, do let him.  I should love
it so.  I promise I won't go up, I'll stay normal,
I truly will."

"That I don't believe for one minute, Jane-Anne;
why, if I was to take your temperature
now—only I'm not going to—I know it'd be
over a hundred, with you so pink and all.  No,
I don't hold with Master Edmund coming to
see you here.  I've never been really wrop up
in this place—too many threads and snippets
about for my fancy an' a smell like a draper's
shop all day long.  I've no wish as Master
Edmund should see you here—.  Now don't you
go cryin' out before you're hurt.  Wait till I
can tell you——"

"Oh, aunt, what—do be quick."

"The doctor says that seein' the weather's so
good, you can be moved any time now provided
you go straight to bed when you get there——"

"And you're going to move me—oh, Aunt
Martha, how lovelly—to-day?"

"No, not to-day, but to-morrow, nurse'll
bring you in a fly.  And you must promise to
keep calm and not go bouncin' and exclaimin'
and runnin' up to a hundred over nothing at all."

"Aunt Martha, I'll behave like a stucky-image,"
Jane-Anne protested.

"You're more like a Jack-in-the-box than
any image I've ever come across, but I do think
it'll be better for me to have you where I can
see to your food my own self.  I don't seem to
have no faith in that nurse's beef-tea nor
'er arraroot—lumpy stuff what I saw.  An' if
you're to be got strong enough to go back to
the Bainbridge in the next three weeks (I don't
know how they 'll take this fresh worriment) you
must be fed up.  So now you know.  You're to
get up for your tea and go back to bed directly
after, and you're to keep quiet and not get into
a fantique nor go makin' a palladum all about
nothin'.  Do you hear me, Jane-Anne?"

"Yes, Aunt Martha, but I think fantiques and
palladums must be lovelly things; they sound
so, and I long to make them, only I don't know how."

"It strikes me it's little else you'll ever make.
Now lie down in bed for I must run.  Most
considerate the master's been, letting me come off
at all times to see you, and I hope you'll
remember it and try and make yourself useful when
you get about again.  Good-bye, child, and we
shan't be separated much longer for which I
thank the Lord as made us both."

It marked a change in Mrs. Dew's attitude
towards the household in Holywell that she
spoke of Mr. Wycherly as "the master."  It
suggested a permanence in their relations which
would have been very reassuring to him had he
heard it.  Jane-Anne, too, noticed the phrase,
and when her aunt was gone gleefully repeated
to herself:

   |  "See-saw Margery Daw,
   |    Jenny shall have a new master,
   |  She shall have but a penny a day
   |    Because she can work no faster."
   |

"It's not Jenny really, it's Johnny, but Jenny
does as well, and I'll work without the penny,"
thought Jane-Anne, "if only that beautiful old
gentleman will be my master too."

Edmund had elected to take his guardian for
a walk before tea, and led him over Magdalen
bridge, out into the Cowley Road, and finally
into Jeune Street.

"Why are you taking me this way?" Mr. Wycherly
asked.  "It does not appear to me to
be a particularly agreeable neighbourhood."

"It isn't," Edmund frankly agreed, "but now
we're here we may as well look in and see Jane-Anne;
she's to sit up a bit this afternoon, Mrs. Dew
said so, and she said I needn't trouble to go
and see her because she's coming to us
to-morrow, but I think we ought to go, you know,
especially as we're here.  You haven't seen
her, and she'll like coming better if she's seen
you."

"Edmund," said Mr. Wycherly, stopping in
the middle of the road, "acknowledge that you
have brought me here with the deliberate
intention of visiting Mrs. Dew's niece."

"Well, Guardie, I *did* think of it.  Don't you
think it's the proper thing to do?"

By this time they had reached the door,
whereupon Edmund knocked loudly without
waiting for further discussion.

Miss Morecraft was much flustered.

"Yes, they could see the little girl if they
didn't mind coming upstairs.  She had just
been got up and the nurse had gone out for a
breath of fresh air.  Very warm for the time of
year wasn't it."

Miss Morecraft opened the bedroom door, and
without any announcement squeezed herself
against the outer wall that Mr. Wycherly might
enter.

Jane-Anne was seated in an armchair at the
window looking frail as a sigh.  She wore a
bright pink flannelette dressing-gown which
accentuated her pallor.  She loved this
garment dearly, for dressing growns were not
included in the uniform of "The Bainbridge."  Most
of the girls were far too strong and healthy
to need them, and Mrs. Dew had made this for
Jane-Anne during one of her many illnesses.

Mr. Wycherly stood in the narrow doorway
and the afternoon sun shone in on him, on his
silvery hair and gentle, high-bred face.

"May we come in, my dear?" he asked.
"Do you feel well enough to see us?"

Poor Jane-Anne was too weak to stand up and
curtsey.  She flushed and paled, and paled and
flushed as she turned her thin, sensitive little
face towards Mr. Wycherly, but there was no
mistaking the welcome in her great eyes, as she
whispered: "Please do, sir, I'm so sorry I
mayn't get up and put a chair for you."

"I'll get him a chair," said Edmund, pushing
in under his guardian's arm, for the door
was very narrow.  "I thought I'd show him
to you before you came to-morrow, then you
won't feel strange with any of us."

There wasn't much room in that bedroom.
The bed took up most of the floor and there was
only one other chair besides Jane-Anne's, so
Edmund sat on the end of the bed.

"You must make haste and get strong,"
Mr. Wycherly said kindly, "and if this fine weather
goes on you'll be able to sit in the garden and
get plenty of fresh air that way!  And when
you are able we must see about a little drive.
That ought to be good for you."

"Oh!" exclaimed Jane-Anne.  "Oh!  I don't
know how I shall wait till to-morrow, I want to
come so much."

"Let's get a cab and take her now," Edmund
suggested; "it would be a lark, and such a
surprise for Mrs. Dew."

Jane-Anne looked from Edmund to Mr. Wycherly,
but saw that the enchanting proposition
found no favour in his eyes.

"We mustn't do that," he said, "we haven't
got the doctor's permission, and I don't think
Mrs. Dew has got her room ready yet."

"This bed's coming for me to-morrow," Jane-Anne
said shyly.  "The things in this room are
Aunt's."

"You won't be such a squash in the room
you're going to have," Edmund remarked.
"It's not a big room but you'll be able to get
round the furniture better."

"It will be so lovelly to have a little room of
my own," Jane-Anne said softly.

"I hope you will sleep well in it, and get
strong," said Mr. Wycherly.  "And I am sure
Mrs. Dew will make it as pretty for you as
possible.  And now, my child, we must go.  I
don't think you are very fit for visitors as
yet, and we mustn't tire you.  We just looked
in to tell you how welcome you will be to-morrow."

"We've got a bathroom, you know," Edmund
said proudly, anxious to do the honours
of their house.  "Hot and cold and a squirty
thing for washing your head, you can use it for
the rest of you, too, if you like, but it makes
rather a mess.  It's in the basin really, and we
do each other sometimes.  I do like a bathroom,
don't you?"

Jane-Anne murmured her appreciation of that
luxury, and Mr. Wycherly held out his hand to
her, and she gave him hers; such a nervous
little hand, so thin and hectic and fluttering:
yet it grew still as it lay in his, and there seemed
some subtle contact in its gentle clasp.

The child's eyes and the old man's met in a
long gaze that asked and promised much.

The eager, hungry little face grew a thought
dim to Mr. Wycherly, it was so wistful and so
wan.  Instead of good-bye, he said, "God bless
you, my child, God bless you," and went out of
the room rather quickly.

Edmund's farewells were longer, and Mr. Wycherly
waited patiently for him in the sunny
street.  He had gone out so quietly that Miss
Morecraft never heard him.

She heard Edmund, though, and hastened to
the door to speed the parting guest.

Jane-Anne, faint with rapture, lay crumpled
up in her chair.

"He looked at me," she whispered, "he looked
at me just like he looked at him that night when
I peeped through the window—just every bit
as kind.

   |  "See-saw Margery Daw,
   |  Jenny has got a new master."





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.. _`JANE-ANNE ASSISTS PROVIDENCE`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


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   JANE-ANNE ASSISTS PROVIDENCE

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..

   |  "To be sick is to enjoy monarchial
   |  Prerogatives." *Elia*.

.. vspace:: 2

The doctor was Mrs. Methuen's doctor, and
she had told him something of Mrs. Dew
and his little patient; of how that worthy
woman had given up place after place in the last
five years that she might keep "an 'ome" for
her orphaned niece; of how Jane-Anne was born
in Athens and brought to London when she was
a baby; of the modest, beautiful lady's maid,
her mother, and the brilliant irresponsible
young journalist, her father, so that he felt a
kindly interest in his excitable little patient,
and was sympathetically glad that "an 'ome"
had been found for aunt and niece that seemed
to promise rooted comfort and stability for both
of them.

Therefore, when, on the morning fixed for
Jane-Anne's removal to Holywell, he came to
sanction or forbid that removal, he refrained
from taking her temperature and said that the
child could go.

Whereupon Jane-Anne's strength was increased
tenfold, so that when she was dressed
she walked across the room by herself, and sat
in a chair by the window while the nurse packed
her yellow tin trunk.

Then came the great, the tremendous moment
when the fly stood before the door, and the
strong young nurse carried her downstairs and
placed her in it, with a cushion for her back and
a rug sent by Mr. Wycherly over her knees.

The drive passed like a brilliant dream.  The
men were up and the busy streets were full of
bustling life and youthful jollity.  Jane-Anne
sat forward in her seat, the wavering colour
vivid in her cheeks, and even the inverted
pie-dish could not wholly shadow the bright gaiety
of her eyes.  All too soon it was over and they
stopped before the archway in Holywell where
Mrs. Dew was waiting to help her niece in at
the side-door.

It seemed a little hard to be hustled up to her
aunt's room and there and then undressed and
put to bed—a tame ending to so thrilling an
experience; but once between the sheets Jane-Anne
discovered that she was unaccountably
and extraordinarily tired.  She meekly drank
the egg beaten up in warm milk that her aunt
brought her, lay back on the pillow, and at once
fell fast asleep.

Since term began Edmund had been exceedingly
busy.  Never before had he seen so many
young men gathered together.

Hitherto his acquaintance had lain almost
exclusively among elderly persons or boys of his
own age.  To be sure there were two youngish
masters at his preparatory school, but the mere
fact that they were masters set them on a
distant and undesirable plane for Edmund.

But now young men, young men were all
around him: in the houses opposite, on the
pavements, in the hitherto so stately and silent
quadrangles, on the river, in the playing fields.

One night as he lay in bed Edmund had heard
a great many cabs plying up and down Holywell,
and in the morning this transformation
had come to pass.  The tide of youthful life
flooded every corner.  Even the grave grey
buildings seemed to open sleepy eyes and laugh
and wink at one another in enjoyment of this
resistless torrent, and all the inherent
sociability in Edmund's nature gushed forth to join
and mingle in the jocund stream.

Before three days had passed he had friends
in half a dozen colleges.  His method of
procedure was quite simple.  He sallied forth
without Montagu, who was shy and exclusive
and would have died rather than address a
stranger without legitimate cause, and selecting
an apparently amiable and manifestly idle
youth, asked him the way somewhere in broadest
Doric.  On two occasions he happened to
hit upon a fellow-countryman, and directly he
discovered this he spoke in an ordinary way,
and they were friends at once.  He generally
explained exhaustively who he was and whence
he came, where he lived and the resources of
the establishment in Holywell, and his
new-found friends evidently found his conversation
amusing, for they neither snubbed nor checked
his garrulity.

On the day of Jane-Anne's arrival he had been
out all the morning finding his way about
Oxford by the means indicated, and only returned
just as Mrs. Dew was laying luncheon.

"Is Jane-Anne not coming till afternoon?"
he asked.

"Jane-Anne's here, Master Edmund, been
here these two hours."

"Here! and we've never been told nor seen
her.  Where is she?"

"Sound asleep in my bed, she's that weak—but
I don't believe moving her's done her a bit
of harm, she's sleeping like a baby and looks
that contented——"

"Can we go and look at her?" asked Montagu.

"No, sir, please, sir, I'd rather she slep' as
long as she can.  She's not slep' much this last
week an' I shall let her be till she wakes."

"Will you tell us whenever she wakes?"
Edmund persisted.  "You see, we go back to
school in two days now so we shan't see very
much of her, 'specially if we don't begin at
once."

"You young gentlemen had better keep on
with your own doin's and never mind Jane-Anne.
She's got to go to school, too—soon as
she's well enough," said Mrs. Dew primly.
She set the last spoon and fork symmetrically
in their places and went back to the kitchen
to dish up lunch.

Edmund looked across at Montagu.  "I shall
stop in this afternoon, and I'm going to see
Jane-Anne," he whispered obstinately; "she's in our
house."

"So'm I," said Montagu with brief decision.

The bed and "bits of furniture" came from
Jeune Street in the afternoon, and the noise of
the men carrying things up the uncarpeted
stairs woke Jane-Anne, who lay for a minute
staring at the unfamiliar room and wondering
where she was.

It was a fairly large room with a wide latticed
window that overlooked the stone-cutter's yard,
for the cottage was to the side of the house and
its three windows looked that way.  Clean
muslin curtains hung at the window, so that
Jane-Anne couldn't see out except when they moved
with the breeze.  The ceiling was low and an
oak beam crossed it.  Most of the rooms in the
main part of the house were panelled, but here
they were papered, and the paper was of a
cheerful chintzy pattern with garlands of little
pink roses.

The furniture was all of brightly polished
mahogany that had been in Elsa's room at
Remote, and it had that characteristic
individual look only to be found in old furniture
well tended by careful hands through many years.

The Chippendale Talboys had a scroll top
with a pedestal in the centre, and on that
pedestal was a little brass owl.  The handles had
lost their lacquer with time, but the warm red
wood was mirror-like in its brightness, and in
the great "press"—a cupboard in two divisions
with deep sliding shelves—Jane-Anne watched
the reflection of the fluttering curtain with
sleepy satisfaction.

She had no idea why she liked these things so
much better than the painted wood that furnished
the bedroom in Jeune Street, but she did
like them amazingly, and their presence filled
her with such satisfaction as caused her for a
little while to forget how exceedingly hungry
she was.

Presently the door was opened a little way
and a fair curly head was poked through
cautiously.  Jane-Anne was lying with her back to
the door, and all that was visible of her was a
night of black hair streaming over the quilt and
a long slender mound in the bed where her body
lay.  She was so still that Edmund thought she
was asleep, and was going away again when
something, some tiny sound, caused her to turn
round, and she saw him.

Edmund vanished like a flash and she heard
his stentorian voice proclaiming: "She's awake,
Mrs. Dew; you can bring that chicken."

Then he returned, and nodding at her in most
friendly fashion seated himself at the end of the
bed, remarking:

"What an awful lot of hair you've got; isn't
it frightfully hot?"

"I can never keep the ribbons on it in bed.
I don't mind it.  I rather like to be hot."

The two stared at each other, and Edmund
decided that Jane-Anne looked nicer in bed
than when she was up.  The soft, shadowy
masses of her hair were infinitely more becoming
than the pie-dish.  Her forehead was smooth
and placid.  There was no deep wrinkle
between her black eyebrows.

"I'm glad you're here," said Edmund
genially; "but it's a pity you're in bed.  You
might have done some more fielding if you'd
been up."

"I'm very sorry I can't run after balls for
you, sir," Jane-Anne said meekly, "but I can't
be sorry I'm in bed, for if I wasn't I'd be going
back to the Bainbridge almost at once, and now
doctor says I can't go for another fortnight."

"And you're glad not to go?  Why?"

"Because——" said Jane-Anne; but at this
moment Mrs. Dew appeared with a tray.  She
swept Edmund out of the room, plumped up the
invalid's pillows, got her into a bed-jacket, and
then stood over her while, with the best will in
the world, Jane-Anne did full justice to her
dinner.

"What a pretty room this is, Aunt Martha,"
she said when she had eaten the last spoonful
of pudding.  "What is it makes it so pretty?"

"The things in it is all good," Mrs. Dew replied,
"all old and good; not at all what's suited
to a servant's bedroom, if you ask me.  But
they was here when I came, an', of course, it
isn't for me to find fault.  The other things has
come, and I've got them arranged, but the
carpet couldn't be nailed down for fear of waking
you.  They look very different in a good-sized
room to what they did in Jeune Street, I can tell
you.  I'm very pleased to see my own things
what I'm used to.  You shall have this room,
Jane-Anne, while you're here.  I'll move my
clothes to-morrow and put yours in.  If it isn't
Master Edmund again, and Master Montagu with
'im—I never knew such perseverin' young
varmints, an' the times I've sent them away.  One'd
think you was some sort of a exhibition, that
one would.  Yes, sirs, you may come in, but
you mustn't stop long.  One'd think as you'd
never seen a sick person before, an' me not had
time so much as to wash her face before you
was back again.  What!  Mr. Wycherly wants
to come and see her after tea?  Well, it's a
great honour, and very kind on his part after
going yesterday and all."

This time the interview was brief and
unsatisfactory, for Mrs. Dew remained in the room
and Montagu, in consequence, was absolutely
dumb, while Jane-Anne was too nervous to do
more than mumble negatives or affirmatives to
the innumerable questions asked by the quite
unembarrassed Edmund.

After five minutes of it the boys departed of
their own accord.

Jane-Anne slept again from lunch till tea
time, and after tea Mr. Wycherly came to see her.

This time Mrs. Dew did not remain.  She set
a chair for him and left them.  Jane-Anne was
sitting up in bed, arrayed in a white dimity
jacket of Mrs. Dew's.  This garment was voluminous
and much too large for its wearer, so that
Jane-Anne's face and hair seemed to emerge
from amidst a billowy sea of dimity.  Her hair
was still loose and streamed over the bed.
Mrs. Dew had wanted to plait it up, but Jane-Anne
said the thick plaits hurt her head when she lay
down, so her aunt gave way.

"You are looking better, my child," said Mr. Wycherly.

"I am better, sir; I'm nearly well, I'm afraid."

"Afraid! but surely you want to be well?"

"I should if I was going to stay here,"
Jane-Anne said earnestly.  "Sir, do you think you
could stop me going back to the Bainbridge?"

"Stop you," Mr. Wycherly repeated, much
perplexed.  "But I thought——"

"I'm sure," Jane-Anne interrupted eagerly,
"if it's to learn to be a servant that I've got to
go back, Aunt could teach me just as well—better,
I think.  She can do everything they
do there, and do it nicer than the people that
teaches us.  She is a good servant, isn't she, sir?"

"Your aunt is a quite admirable person,"
Mr. Wycherly said gravely, "and most accomplished
in every household art; but from what
she told me I gathered that this school is a very
good one, and that it was a great help to her to
have got you into it."

Jane-Anne's eager face blanched.  "Please,
sir," she whispered, "if I promise to eat very
little and work very hard would you let me stay
with you and aunt?"  She clasped her hands
and leant forward, devouring Mr. Wycherly's
face with her great tragic eyes.  "Aunt would
be very angry if she knew I'd spoken to you;
but you could stop me going if you liked, and if
I go back, I shall die, I know I shall."

"What is it you dislike so much?" Mr. Wycherly asked.

"All of it, except the lessons, they are lovelly.
I can't seem to do it; my back aches so, and
it's so cold."

"But it won't be cold this time.  Summer is
almost here."

"It isn't the weather, it's my heart," cried
Jane-Anne; "it's that that's so cold.  Nobody
cares much about me, they think me odd and
funny.  Do you think me odd and funny, sir?"

Mr. Wycherly certainly did, but he laid one
of his beautiful old hands on Jane-Anne's,
saying gently, "I think that as yet you are not
very strong, and I am quite sure that it is bad
for you to worry about going back.  You can't
possibly go back for another fortnight, your
aunt said so, and—who knows——?"

Mr. Wycherly had not intended to say this
last at all.  It was most unwise and misleading,
but the brown eyes held his and compelled
him to give them comfort.  He tried to patch
up his mistake by saying, in a matter of fact
tone: "Suppose Montagu or Edmund begged
me not to send him back to school, what
should I do?  Because, you see, I know that
school is the best place for them—though for
me the sun sets and never rises till they come
back.  We all have to do things we don't like."

"But they like school—they told me so."

"You probably would like it, too, if you
made up your mind to do so."

"I've tried so hard, sir.  I really have.  Your
young gentlemen don't have to wear horrid
clothes at their school; you don't know how
dismal it is.  I believe if I might live here with
you and aunt I'd never have the creppits any
more; I'd be so warm and happy in my heart."

"Well, you must keep on being warm and
happy, and get strong and merry—and
then—we'll see what can be done."

Oh, weak, soft-hearted Mr. Wycherly!  Against
his will, against his better judgment, the words
slipped out.

Jane-Anne, white but radiant, lay back
exhausted on her pillows.  Mr. Wycherly stood
up to go.  "Promise me," he said, "that you
won't worry, that you will eat and sleep as much
as you can, that you will do everything that
your good aunt and the doctor bid you, and
that you will try to be happy and at home."

Jane-Anne sat forward again.  "Mr. Wycherly,
sir," she said breathlessly, "you won't
forget, you will try and make aunt keep me?
Oh, I have cried and cried, and prayed and
prayed, and I don't think God can expect much
more of a little girl like me, do you?"

"Crying is absolutely forbidden.  You must
promise me that you won't cry any more."

"I promise," she said meekly, and lay back
on her pillows again.  "But you, too; you won't
forget?"

"I certainly shall not forget.  Now I must
really go."

He had reached the door, when an imperative
cry from the bed stopped him.

"You haven't said it."

"Said what?" and Mr. Wycherly trembled
lest she should force him to swear then and there
that she should not go back to the Bainbridge.

"What you said yesterday afternoon.  Please
say it, and then perhaps He will."

"God bless you, my child," Mr. Wycherly
mumbled, much embarrassed.

As he made his way through the housekeeper's
room to his own part of the house he
reflected that Mrs. Dew was certainly right when
she described her niece as "making a stir."  She
had assuredly stirred his heart to a quite
painful extent.  He was moved and perturbed
and puzzled as he had not been for many a
long day, and through all his pondering there
sounded Sterne's words to the imprisoned starling:
"*'God help thee—but I'll let thee out, cost
what it will.'*"





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.. _`THE QUEST`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE QUEST

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  "My voice shall with thy future visions blend,
   |  And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold,
   |  A token and a tone...." *Childe Harold*.

.. vspace:: 2

Next day Jane-Anne was allowed to sit in
the garden under the apple-tree: a queer
little hunched-up figure in the tight stuff-dress
and a shawl.  She also wore the pie-dish, for
Mrs. Dew was one of those people who considered
it almost disreputable to be out of doors
bare-headed.

She sat in a basket-chair and on her knees
lay her most recent prize, "Home Influence,"
a fat handsome volume bound in purple cloth
with gilt edges.  For lessons, Jane-Anne had
won every prize open to her at the asylum.
Although she had only been there a year, and
that year constantly broken by long bouts of
illness, she had gained seven books.  These,
which included a Bible, a prayer-book, and
church hymnal, with one other comprised her
whole library.  The prizes were all of a moral
and edifying character, and Jane-Anne had read
them over and over again hungrily, with the
passionate interest and enthusiasm which she
brought to everything outside her actual daily
duties.  And although she whole-heartedly
admired them she was yet subconsciously critical
and unsatisfied.  She regarded her prizes with
the greatest respect.  Familiarity had, so far,
bred no contempt for them in her mind, but all
the time she felt that there was something
lacking.  Although they were the only books she
possessed, they were not the only ones she had
read.  In the previous autumn, her mother's
mistress, Lady Dursley, had commanded her
aunt to take the child for a change to their
place in Gloucestershire, accompanying the
order with a liberal cheque for travelling expenses.
The family was in Scotland and most of the big
house shut up, and nearly all the servants were
making holiday, except the housekeeper, an old
friend of Mrs. Dew, and one elderly kitchen-maid.
But the great library was open, for a
young man had been sent down to catalogue
the books.  He was an intelligent young man
and took a fancy to Jane-Anne and had her
with him a great deal.  He found her books he
thought good for her, and on departure presented
her with the little green-covered
"Children's Treasury," compiled by Palgrave.

In this Jane-Anne read constantly and carefully,
not because she was particularly attracted
by the poems, though some of them she loved
and learned by heart, but because whenever she
came across any poetry she searched through
it eagerly in the hope of finding a poem her
father used to repeat to her.  She had read and
re-read the little green book unceasingly, but
nowhere could she find her poem.

Her father died before she was five years old,
but Jane-Anne's recollection of him was curiously
vivid, and at this very moment her mind
strove to materialise a memory elusive in some
ways as a puff of smoke, sharp and defined in
others as a tongue of leaping flame against a
midnight sky.

The moment Mrs. Dew had safely disappeared
into the house the child dragged off the pie-dish
and cast it violently on the grass at her feet.
Then she lay back in her chair, her eyes dreamy
and pensive, though ever and again she knit her
black eyebrows in her effort to remember.

Her thin hands lay folded above the unopened
volume on her knees and she sat very still.

It was warm and pleasant in Mr. Wycherly's
garden; a thrush sang in the boughs above her
head, and every now and then pink and white
petals dropped softly upon her hair.  A flutter
of wind blew over a great clump of narcissus
bearing their perfume on its wings, and the
heavy scent was memory-laden for Jane-Anne.

She saw a long, low-ceiled, lamp-lit room with
a window at either end and all the furniture
ranged round the walls that a free path might be
open for the restless pacing up and down of one
who was never too busy or too absorbed to be
at the beck and call of an often fretful little girl.
As in a vision she beheld that man "with all his
keen worn look and Grecian grace" tramping
to and fro and holding in his arms a tired,
fidgetty child who could not sleep.

Backwards and forwards he went, and with
the soothing movement was the sound of words
sorrowful and majestic, musical in their
rhythmic swing and balance: words that poor
Jane-Anne could never remember though she felt that
they were written indelibly on mind and heart
but covered, covered deeply with layer upon
layer of fugitive things of little worth.  Some
day, she was convinced, she would find that
poetry and with it a thousand things about her
father that she had forgotten.  He often wore
a narcissus in his button-hole, and as her head
lay on his shoulder the crushed flower gave forth
a double fragrance.

It was this familiar scent, strong in the warm
old Oxford garden, that seemed to compass her
about in an atmosphere of memories, memories
of a time when she, too, was always warm, cared
about, schemed for, enwheel'd around with love
on every hand.

The lines between the black eyebrows were
smoothed out as by a tender hand.  The
unremembered poem ceased to worry her.  She
would find it some day.  Meanwhile, she was
sure her daddy knew she loved him.  There was
something he had told her to remember and she
had forgotten, but only for a little while.  It
would come back, she was sure it would come
back.  Here, in this house, where there were so
many books, perhaps she would find it.

She saw again her beautiful, gentle mother,
so calm always and patient.  Mrs. Dew was
careful to impress upon Jane-Anne that she in
no way resembled her mother, and the child
never resented this reproach, for had not that
very mother rejoiced in her likeness to her
father?  "My little Maid of Athens," had been
her mother's name for Jane-Anne, and Jane-Anne
treasured it in her mind.  She knew that her
worthy aunt had never either liked or approved
of her father, and this only made her more
passionately loyal to his memory.  She
pondered these things in her heart, puzzled and
pained sometimes, but never daunted in her
pride.  It was from no mean country that her
father had come, she was sure of that.  She
knew little enough of Greece, nothing of its
great history, but chance phrases that she had
heard in infancy remained in her mind.  She
was sure that there was something to know,
something worth knowing, and that she would
know it some day.

She never spoke of her parents to her
companions at the asylum; and although
Mrs. Dew would often talk fondly and proudly of her
mother and Jane-Anne loved her for it, her
aunt's silence with regard to the father she
adored filled the child with a resentment none
the less bitter that it never found expression.
Jane-Anne was perfectly aware of her hostile
attitude, although Mrs. Dew was careful never
to say one word in disparagement of a man she
had been quite unable to understand; whom she
had heartily disliked.

"I wonder why I'm thinking so much of my
daddie since I came here?" Jane-Anne thought
to herself.  "I suppose it's because I'm happier."

Presently, over the grass towards her came
Montagu, very long in the leg and short in the
sleeve.  Edmund was out zestfully finding his
way about Oxford in his recently discovered
fashion.

Montagu sat down on the grass at Jane-Anne's
feet and looked up at her, smiling
broadly, but never a word said he till he
espied the book in her lap.

"What's that?" he asked.

"One of my prizes, sir," Jane-Anne answered primly.

"Is it decent?"

"It's most interesting."

"Can I look at it?"

The book changed hands and Montagu began
to read.  He turned the pages very fast, to
the wonderment of Jane-Anne, who had never
seen people read after this fashion.

He was lying face-downwards on the grass
in front of her, and she watched his eyes as
they swept the page from top to bottom in,
apparently, one glance.  She liked his thin
brown face with the large kind eyes and firm
capable mouth that was always shut when he
wasn't talking, but just at that moment she
thought that his expression was less pleasant
than usual, that there was something scornful
and almost sinister about his mouth, and yet
she was sure that in some queer way he was
amused.  Why?

Jane-Anne had never found anything in the
least amusing in the work in question;
interesting, certainly; "touching" (the lady who
gave them Sunday lessons at the asylum was
fond of the word "touching") frequently; but
humorous never.  The authorities who chose
books for female orphans at the Bainbridge did
not consider the cultivation of a sense of humour
in any way a necessary part of the training.

Presently Montagu began to dip into the
book here and there, still reading with that
lightning-like rapidity that so astonished Jane-Anne.

In five minutes he shut it with a slam and
looked up at her and laughed.

"What awful rot," he remarked genially, as
though certain of sympathy.

Jane-Anne gazed at him in consternation.
"Rot?" she faltered.

"Fearful squish; you don't mean to say you
really like it?"

"I don't know what you mean," she said, so
offended that she quite forgot the respectful
"sir."

"It's so stilted and bombastic and unnatural.
The style"—here Montagu unconsciously gave
a perfect imitation of his house master's
manner—"is so cheap and meretricious."

"I don't understand about style in books,"
said Jane-Anne, still much umbraged.  "D'you
mean the binding?"

"Good gracious, no.  I mean the way it's
written.  Listen to this"—and Montagu
opened the book haphazard and read the
following extract aloud:—"'He had been minister
of a favourite church in one of the southern
towns, and master of an establishment for
youths of high rank, in both which capacities
he had given universal satisfaction.  The
reprehensible conduct of some of his pupils,
carried on at first so secretly as to elude his
knowledge, at length became so notorious as
to demand examination.  He had at first
refused all credence, but when proved by the
confused replies of all, and half-confession of
some, he briefly and emphatically laid before
them the enormity of their conduct, and
declared, that as confidence was entirely broken
between them, he would resign the honour of
their education, refusing to admit them any
longer as members of his establishment.'  There!"
Montagu exclaimed, "could you have
anything worse?"

"I think it's all said very properly and
grandly," Jane-Anne protested.  "I don't see
what's the matter with it at all."

Montagu rolled over on the grass and sat
up.  "It's the grandness that's so detestable."

"It's my best prize," she said indignantly.

"I'm sorry," said Montagu, seeing that she
was really hurt, "but you ask Guardie about
that sort of writing."

"It's printed," snapped Jane-Anne.

Montagu gazed at her in hopeless bewilderment.
He had never before argued with a girl.

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes filled
with angry tears.  She clenched her thin little
hands and bit her lips to keep from bursting
into sobs.

"I say," Montagu exclaimed, with real
contrition, "why do you mind?  What does it
matter what I think?"

"If you," Jane-Anne gasped, "had as few
books as me, and loved them every one dearly,
and then someone came along and abused
them and called them 'rot' and 'merry
something' and 'squish,' *you* wouldn't like it."

This time the big tears escaped, rolled over
and down her cheeks, dropping with a splash
on to the plaid shawl covering her knees.

And at this critical moment Mr. Wycherly
came out of the house and across the grass
towards them.  He had seen the children from
his study window, and remembering that the
boys went back to school next day, decided to
seek their society under the pleasant shade of
the apple-tree.

Montagu stalked over to the tool house to
fetch a chair for his guardian and arrived with
it as Mr. Wycherly reached the apple-tree.
Jane-Anne had lost her handkerchief, the tears
were shining on her cheeks, and she gave a
most unmistakable sniff just as Mr. Wycherly
reached them.  But she stood up and curtsied
with downcast eyes and burning cheeks, and
at the same moment Montagu came back bearing
a chair for his guardian.

"What is the matter?" asked Mr. Wycherly.

Jane-Anne continued to stand, and lifted her
tear-washed eyes to his face.  Had it been
stern or severe she could never have
answered a word; as it was, she said quite
simply: "He didn't like my prize and I minded."

Mr. Wycherly sat down in the chair Montagu
had brought and looked from the pained and
indignant Jane-Anne to the evidently puzzled
and distressed Montagu.

"Suppose we all sit down and try to come
to a better understanding," he said.

Jane-Anne sank heavily into her chair.  She
was still weak, and even the little effort to
greet Mr. Wycherly with due respect caused
her legs to quake and her heart to beat
thunderously in her ears.

She leant her head against the back of the
chair and looked so white that for a moment
Mr. Wycherly thought she was about to faint.
But she did nothing of the kind.

Instead, she said in a voice that wholly
belied her exhausted appearance: "Have you
read 'Home Influence,' sir?"

"I don't think so," said Mr. Wycherly; "is
that the name of the book under discussion?"

Jane-Anne held it out towards him; he took
it from her carefully, placed his eye-glasses on
his nose, opened it haphazard, and began to
read.

Precisely the same thing happened as with
Montagu.  His eyes sought a page and he
turned it.  This extraordinary way of reading
was not peculiar to Montagu, that was evident.
But in Mr. Wycherly's face neither scorn nor
amusement was portrayed, only a polite interest.

In three minutes Montagu said, "Well?"

Mr. Wycherly closed the book.  "I cannot,"
he said, "be expected to express an opinion
after so cursory a glance at the contents.
Montagu, go and ask Mrs. Dew for a glass of
milk; this child looks faint; bring some
biscuits, too."

Montagu sped away, and he turned to Jane-Anne.

"You mustn't mind him," he said kindly.
"Clever Winchester boys are always intolerant—while
they are boys.  Montagu reads a great
deal more than he can digest, and people with
indigestion are proverbially cantankerous."

Jane-Anne didn't understand what he meant
in the very least, but she felt immediately and
immensely comforted.  So much so, that she
was impelled to speak to Mr. Wycherly of her
thoughts when she first came out.

"Please, sir," she said, calmly dismissing the
merits or demerits of "Home Influence" that
seemed so vital a moment ago.  "Do you
know a piece of poetry about mountains?"

"A great deal of poetry has been written
about mountains," Mr. Wycherly replied cautiously.

"It's a piece of poetry I want to find," said
Jane-Anne, "that I heard many times long
ago, and I can't remember anything about it
except that there was mountains.  I thought
perhaps you'd know it."

Here Montagu appeared with a glass of milk
and some biscuits.  The milk had slopped over
on to the biscuits "in some unaccountable way,"
he explained; but their sopped condition did
not spoil them for Jane-Anne, who munched
quite happily and smiled her broad ecstatic
smile at him to show that she had forgiven his
cruel remarks about "Home Influence."

Presently the doctor came to see her, and
Mrs. Dew fetched her in to be sounded.

The moment she had gone Montagu turned
upon his guardian, demanding sternly: "Well,
isn't it hopeless squish?"

"It is her prize," said Mr. Wycherly gently.

"Why, that's just what she said," Montagu
exclaimed in astonishment at his usually logical
guardian taking this line.

"You will find," said Mr. Wycherly, "as you
go through life that it is never safe to abuse
things violently before you have realised your
hearer's point of view.  You may offend
deeply."

"You'd have to be jolly dishonest to always
think of that," Montagu answered indignantly.

"You will be jolly rude and disagreeable if
you never think of it," Mr. Wycherly retorted.
"Besides, did she ask you for your opinion?"

"Well, no—but it seemed such a pity to go
on liking such stuff.  People must begin to
learn what's good and what's bad sometime—and
I shouldn't think she's stupid."

"I am quite sure she is not stupid, and I am
equally sure that she is painfully sensitive and
that you were more than a little stupid not to
see it."

"Me, stupid!" Montagu repeated in surprise.
"No one has ever called me that before."

Mr. Wycherly chuckled.  "I thought," said
he, "that the presence of a young girl among us
would be mentally stimulating.  She has not
been in the house two days and yet, you see,
already she has suggested to you new
possibilities in yourself.  By the way—just make a
note of any poems you can think of bearing on
mountains."

"Why, there are thousands," cried Montagu, aghast.

"Sure to be in Wordsworth," said Mr. Wycherly.
"Anyway, we'll mark the places."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FORTUNE'S WHEEL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   FORTUNE'S WHEEL

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  "But that's all shove be'ind me
   |  Long ago and fur away."
   |                RUDYARD KIPLING.

.. vspace:: 2

The boys had been back at school a
fortnight.  Jane-Anne was quite convalescent
and got up to breakfast, but the date of her
return to the Bainbridge was still undecided.

The doctor came at longer intervals, but every
time he came he still declared that there was
"a roughness" in Jane-Anne's lung, and that
it would be madness to send her North until
that roughness was smoothed away.

Night and morning and many times during
the day, Jane-Anne bombarded heaven with
petitions that "the roughness" might perhaps
increase a very little, since it gave her no
inconvenience whatever; anyway, that it might
remain sufficiently rasping to confirm the
doctor in his view that her return to the Bainbridge
was at present out of the question.

Mrs. Dew, although properly respectful to
the doctor as a friend of Mrs. Methuen, yet felt
that in this case he pushed professional caution
to the verge of the ridiculous.  Here was
Jane-Anne eating and sleeping as well as could be,
with pinker and plumper cheeks than she had
had for many a long day, looking, in fact, as her
aunt said, "the picture of health," though some
people might have thought the picture rather
elusive and misleading; here was Jane-Anne
eating the bread of idleness with almost
aggressive satisfaction in Holywell when she ought
to have been reaping the benefits of her
"nomination" up in Northumberland.

Why all this fuss about a slight roughness?
"Mark my words and anyone can 'ear anything
as he listens for," said Mrs. Dew.

Finally, Mr. Wycherly interviewed the doctor,
who said to him in plain words what he had
feared to say to the child's aunt.

The doctor was an outspoken young man
of sporting tendencies.  He wore a white hat
rather on one side and drove an uncommonly
good horse, and to Mr. Wycherly he said: "It's
like setting a thoroughbred filly to pull a
cart-load of bricks to expect that child to do
housework in her present state.  She ought to do
nothing for three months, and even then I should
say she is singularly unfitted for the kind of life
she has up there.  I know those schools—excellent
for big strong girls; but that child isn't
strong.  She's all nerves and brains and empty,
craving heart.  The lung trouble isn't serious
if it's checked in time, but if she goes back she'll
get overtired and catch cold again directly.
I'm sorry for her aunt, but what can I say?  I
won't be responsible for sending her back."

The doctor spoke angrily.  He hated interfering
in other people's business and he thought
it exceedingly probable that an old gentleman
living by himself might strongly object to having
a girl child foisted upon him for an indefinite
period.

"It seems to me," said Mr. Wycherly mildly,
"that it would be criminal stupidity to allow
her to go back."

The doctor looked rather astonished.

"But what's to become of the child?" he asked.

"Surely there is nothing to prevent her
remaining here with her aunt, and when she is
strong enough are there not good schools in
Oxford?"

The doctor picked up his white hat.  "Of
course," he said, "if you have no objection to
her remaining here the whole thing is perfectly
simple, but I understood from her aunt that
the arrangement was the child was only to be
here in her holidays, and she seemed sadly
afraid of trespassing upon your good-nature in
keeping her here so long as it is.  She's a very
decent, honest woman, but——"

Mr. Wycherly rose and rang the bell to summon
Mrs. Dew.

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And the end of it all was that somebody wrote
to Lord Dursley.  Jane-Anne's "nomination"
at the Bainbridge was presented to a girl whose
physique was more deserving, and his lordship,
instead of being annoyed, as Mrs. Dew had
feared, at Jane-Anne's failure to benefit from his
good intentions on her behalf, declared himself
quite ready to pay for her "schooling" in
Oxford whenever that fidgetty fellow, the doctor,
should consider her able for instruction.

"Not till the autumn," said the doctor, to
Mrs. Dew.  "She can help you till then, you
won't overwork her, I'm sure."

Jane-Anne knew perfectly well that her fate
hung in the balance when the doctor sought his
interview with Mr. Wycherly, and when the
result of that interview was imparted to her
rather grudgingly, and with many injunctions
as to decorous conduct, by her aunt, she felt
such a passionate love and gratitude towards
the gentle-mannered master who had made
this beatific state of things possible that she
could not rest that night without going to
thank him.

Therefore, without consulting her aunt, she
sought his study after dinner and knocked
timidly at the door.

Mr. Wycherly was, as usual, seated at his
desk writing; the shaded light was pulled low
over his papers, making a little pool of
brightness in the grey dusk of the room.  The big
window was wide open and a scent of
wallflowers was wafted in from the garden below.

"Come in, my child, come in," said the kind,
welcoming voice as he saw the timid figure at
the door.

And Jane-Anne came in with a nervous rush,
but she did not forget to shut the door behind her.

She dropped on her knees beside him and
seized his hand, kissing it passionately, much
to his confusion.  He was quite unaccustomed
to violent manifestations of feeling, and his long
residence in Scotland had increased his natural
reserve.

"I know it's you who managed that I shouldn't
go back, and I do want so to thank you.
You don't know what I feel like.  Please, sir,
I will try to be useful.  Anything you would
like me to do——"

Very gently Mr. Wycherly withdrew his hand.
"Suppose you sit on a chair," he suggested,
"and we will have a chat together."

With stately courtesy, he placed a chair for
Jane-Anne, and, seated again in his own
revolving-chair, turned to face her.

As always, when much moved, she was very
white, and to-night her great eyes were soft and
dog-like in their devotion.

"By the way," said Mr. Wycherly, "I haven't
forgotten your inquiry about the poem that you
cannot remember, and I have marked in a
volume of Wordsworth a number of verses dealing
with mountains.  Perhaps you would like to
look through it at your leisure."

"Thank you, sir," Jane-Anne whispered.

"I know nothing," Mr. Wycherly continued,
"more annoying than a half-remembered quotation.
I sincerely hope that you will soon find it."

For a moment there was silence, then:

"Sir," Jane-Anne said earnestly, "are you
very lonely now the young gentlemen have gone
back to school?"

"I do miss them greatly of course."

"Do you remember, sir, when you came to
see me, when I was in bed the first day I was
here, you said when they went back that the
sun set for you——"

"Did I?" said Mr. Wycherly, rather surprised
at himself.

"You really did, sir, and I wondered
whether—though the sun has set—whether
you'd let me try—to be a little tiny star—just
so you wouldn't feel quite so lonely."

Mr. Wycherly's hand still tingled with the
touch of those soft unaccustomed girlish lips,
nevertheless he held it out to her, saying,
"That will be very kind of you."

Jane-Anne placed her own within it and she
did not attempt to kiss Mr. Wycherly's hand
again, but she looked at him as though she
would read his very soul and asked: "Sir,
have you ever heard anything about a place
called Greece?"

Mr. Wycherly laughed.  "For a considerable
portion of my life," he replied, "I have heard
about little else."

"Will you tell me things sometimes, sir?
Will you?"

"I shall be most happy," said Mr. Wycherly.
"You certainly ought to know as much as
possible about your father's country—and there
is so much to know."

"I have another name," she said suddenly
and with apparent irrelevance.  "Shall I tell
it you?  Very few people know."

"Do you mean Stavrides?" Mr. Wycherly asked.

"No, sir, not that; I have another Christian
name.  Allegra; don't you think it's very
pretty?"

"Very," said Mr. Wycherly; "it is a beautiful
name, but it isn't Greek."

"I'm called after somebody's daughter that
died.  I don't know who she was; mother
knew.  My daddie liked the name.  I daresay
I shall find out some day all about her."

"I daresay you will," said Mr. Wycherly,
and looked hard at Jane-Anne.

"Which would you like to call me?" she asked.

"I shall call you Jane-Anne, not Allegra,"
Mr. Wycherly said decidedly.

"It's a pretty name," she said wistfully.

"It has rather sad associations for me," he
added.

The clock upon the mantelpiece struck nine.
Jane-Anne rose.  "I must go, sir, now; good
night, and thank you."

"Good night, my child.  Get strong and rest
you merry.  And here is the Wordsworth; tell
me when you find your poem."

She took from him a large brown volume
that bristled with inserted slips of paper.  He
crossed the room and opened the door for
her, and Jane-Anne went out with her head
held high.  "Just like he did for Mrs. Methuen,"
she reflected ecstatically.

When she had gone Mr. Wycherly went and
stood at the window and looked out into the
night.  The sky was unclouded, of a deep,
soft, soothing blue, and right in a line with
his window shone one star.

"I wonder," he pondered, "what made him
call her after Byron's daughter."

When Jane-Anne reached the kitchen,
proudly bearing her volume of Wordsworth,
she found her aunt sitting at the newly
scrubbed kitchen table darning a stocking.

"What made you stop so long for?" Mrs. Dew
inquired tartly, "hindering and worritin'
the master.  It don't take half an hour to say
'thank you, and my duty to you.'"

"The master set a chair for me and talked
to me," Jane-Anne replied gloriously, "and when
I came away he opened the door for me, just
like he did for Mrs. Methuen when she came
the other day, and he's lent me a great big
poetry book.  Look at it!  Oh, aunt, I do
believe the Almighty must be just like Mr. Wycherly."

Mrs. Dew nearly dropped her stocking.
"Jane-Anne!" she exclaimed in tones of horrified
amazement, "how you can stand there
and say such things passes me.  Go to bed
this minute, you inyuman child.  You ought
to be ashamed of yourself, that you ought."

"But, aunt," Jane-Anne expostulated, "Miss
Stukely, the lady that taught us Sundays, she
said we must love God, be always loving Him,
and always talking about Him; we couldn't
think and talk too much about Him; the more
we did it the fitter we'd be for heaven, and I've
never seen anybody before as I'd like Him to
be like—so where's the harm?"

The child spoke with breathless earnestness.

Mrs. Dew stared at her, intensely disapproving.

"How you can stand there," she repeated;
"how you can have the face to stand there
and talk about the Almighty bein' *like*
anybody, just as if He was your next door
neighbour, turns me cold.  Where's your respect?
Where's your sense of decency?  I'll have none
of your revival ways here, I can tell you;
quiet, respectable church I've always been,
with none of such goin's on.  It's quite enough
for most of us to do our duty in that station
of life without talking familiarly of lovin' and
such.  *Go* to bed, I tell you, and let me hear
no more of such fandanglements, and I'll come
in ten minutes to fetch your candle and bring
you that hot milk as is all over skin you've
been so long.  Now bustle about smartish."

Jane-Anne bustled.

Mrs. Dew leant back in her chair as one
quite unable to cope with the force of
circumstances.

"My stars!  Good fathers!" exclaimed Mrs. Dew.
"If that's the sort of thing they teaches
at the Bainbridge it's more than time my
niece was took away."

Very early next morning Jane-Anne crept
out of bed, pulled up her blind, and seized the
volume of poetry Mr. Wycherly had lent her.
She read till her eyes ached and her head
swam; she read without the smallest
understanding or enjoyment, but with the greatest
care and application, and though there was
much about mountains there was nothing that
struck the faintest chord of memory in
Jane-Anne.  Whatever it was that her father had
repeated when he used to carry her about, it
wasn't there.  And yet she was certain about
"the mountains."  Yes, it was "the mountains."

"I'm afraid he'll have to look again," she
said to herself.  She had not the smallest
doubt that Mr. Wycherly would help her.

It was a very hot May, and as the doctor
had said she could not be too much in the
fresh air, her aunt, that afternoon, put a little
table and chair for her under the apple-tree,
gave her some needle-work, and bidding her
listen for any bell that might happen to ring,
announced her intention of going out to do
some household shopping.  "Unless anyone
calls to see the master it's unlikely that
anyone'll come at all," said Mrs. Dew, "and the
front door bell's that loud you'll hear it right
enough if so be as you don't get moonin'.  I
shan't be more than a hour."

Shortly after Mrs. Dew's departure Mr. Wycherly
came to his window and looked out.

There sat Jane-Anne at the little table
covered by a heap of white sewing, and he thought
what a pleasant picture she made in her stiff
buff frock, so maidenly and sweet, so suitably
and sensibly employed on this sunny afternoon
in the midst of the green old garden, gay with
tulips and fragrant wallflowers.

Suddenly Jane-Anne stooped down and took
off her heavy shoes and there and then flung
them one after another to the other side of the
lawn.  Then she removed her stockings.
Mr. Wycherly gazed fascinated.  What was the
child about?

This was soon deplorably evident.

Jane-Anne was taking off her dress.

Mr. Wycherly felt that he ought to go away
from that window, but he didn't.  He stayed
where he was and, what's more, he placed his
eyeglasses upon his nose.

She gave herself a complicated kind of shake
and the buff abomination fell about her feet
in stiff expostulating folds.

Daintily and deliberately, she stepped out of
it as though withdrawing her feet from something
dirty and distasteful.  She wore a skimpy
little blue-and-white striped petticoat of
cotton; body and skirt in one piece it reached
just to her knees, but was sleeveless, and her
long, slender arms were bare.

A thrush was singing in the apple-tree and
a blackbird warbled loudly in a lilac bush
trying to drown the thrush.  They sang as though
there were no such thing as winter in the world,
and neither of them cared a whit for Jane-Anne
and her disrobings.

Flinging her white arms above her head, she
danced into the middle of the lawn on slim,
twinkling white feet and continued to dance all
over it with the greatest abandon and
enjoyment, while her long black plaits bumped
joyously.  So light of foot, so variously graceful
in her gracious suppleness, with such divine
gravity and dainty decorum that Mr. Wycherly
watching was fain to take his glasses off and
wipe them, for suddenly he could not see as
clearly as he wished.  Her radiant face was
pale, but her wide eyes were full of a gladness
that seemed to mirror back the brightness of
that May afternoon, and the little petticoat
was like the sheath of a flower enfolding and
displaying all this happy grace.

Loudly carolled the blackbird, lustily
chirruped the thrush, and Jane-Anne danced to
their orchestra, and while she danced her mind
kept saying: "I've done with it; I've done with
it.  I shall never go back.  Life is before me,
a new life; a life full of wonders, and a bedroom
to myself, with furniture like looking-glasses;
a life with a kind, sensible, if worldly minded
aunt, who gives to little girls delicious
puddings that they like.  A life with books in it,
big books; not interesting, perhaps, but very
grand and splendid to have lent one.  A life
that is to be lived under the same roof with a
beautiful, kind old gentleman who will perhaps,
by-and-bye, let me wait upon him.  Oh,
wonderful and delicious prospect, to wait
upon Mr. Wycherly!  To hand him his plate
and to pour out—what should she pour out?
Wine, she expected, though Miss Stukely said
wine was wrong.  Not, perhaps, for the
gentry, for the *real* gentry, as her aunt would
say.  How soft and warm the grass to the
bare tripping feet!  How kind of those birds
to sing like that!  How lovely it was to be
young and light and to have got rid of heavy
shoes and hot, uncomfortable frock.  How——"

It was the front door bell.

Jane-Anne heard it and Mr. Wycherly did not.

There certainly was the making of a
quick-change artist in Jane-Anne.  In a twinkling
she had found her shoes and stockings and put
them on, and she ran to the house struggling
into her dress as she ran.

   |  "You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
   |  Where has the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?"

said Mr. Wycherly, wondering why she had
stopped so suddenly.





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.. _`THE CULT OF BRUEY`:

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   CHAPTER XI


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   THE CULT OF BRUEY

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"The instinct of imitation is implanted in man from
childhood, one difference between him and other animals being
that he is the most imitative of living
creatures." *Poetics*, ARISTOTLE.

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Jane-Anne was a true Athenian in that
she was ever ready to run after any new
thing, and during her last two terms at the
Bainbridge the strongest influence in her life
was that of her Sunday-school teacher, Miss
Stukely.

Jane-Anne whole-heartedly admired Miss
Stukely, and where she admired she invariably
imitated.  Miss Stukely was delicate, and
Jane-Anne delighted in her own "crepitations"
as being the sincerest sort of flattery of that lady.

Miss Stukely was slender, always elaborately
dressed, gentle in manner, with white,
heavily ringed hands.  She was not, perhaps,
beautiful in face, being somewhat sallow with
a receding chin; but her expression was kindly,
and Jane-Anne read into her face the spiritual
excellencies the lady was most fond of extolling.
She had a way of closing her eyes when
she was most earnest in exhortation that
Jane-Anne found very impressive.  Moreover,
she frequently used a gold-topped smelling
bottle, and the possession of a similar restorative
was just then Jane-Anne's most cherished
aspiration.

To lean back in a chair while inhaling the
vinegary fragrance of a cut-glass bottle, to
lean back with closed eyes, in an aura of the
faintness and exhaustion induced by strong
emotion, was to Jane-Anne as the ecstatic vision
of a mystic: a state of mind and body only to
be attained by profound spiritual exaltation.

She learned by heart with ease.  She could
reel off any number of appropriate, or quite
as often, inappropriate texts; and did so on
the smallest provocation, greatly to the
indignation of Mrs. Dew, who felt that she
required no religious instruction at her niece's hands.

This facility greatly impressed Miss Stukely,
who felt that in Jane-Anne she indeed found
fertile soil for the good seed, and there was
no question whatever that Jane-Anne fully
deserved the prize she gained for "Bible-searching."

This prize was the history of one "Bruey,"
"a little worker for Christ," whose winning
personality (Miss Stukely was fond of the word
"winning," generally using it in the sense of
a successful gainer of souls) seized upon
Jane-Anne's imagination till she lived and walked
and had her being in that character.

Bruey was just her own age, had "great
dark eyes" (Jane-Anne was pleasantly conscious
of possessing similar orbs), had palpitations.
Jane-Anne couldn't quite achieve these,
but felt that crepitations were nearly as good
and that she was, at all events, near the rose,
if not the royal flower herself.

Bruey had no father (another resemblance)
and a mother, who, though an industrious
church-worker, was perhaps not quite as
understanding and sympathetic as she might have
been.  Put Mrs. Dew in place of the mother
and there you are!

Bruey always read her Bible seated upon a
box in her bedroom window; "a folded rug
upon this box made it soft and comfortable for
a seat."  Here she studied the scriptures and
said her prayers, watching the sunset the while.
She always kept a pencil by her and marked
the texts she found most helpful, and
Jane-Anne's Bible already was scored heavily in
hundreds of places.  Its newness (being a
prize) was rather afflicting, so she wetted her
thumb and doubled down the corners to hasten
its look of age and constant use.

The box and the window were denied to
Jane-Anne at the Bainbridge, for twelve girls
slept in a dormitory where the ledges of the
windows were five feet from the ground, and
no box of any sort was permitted in an
apartment of almost superhuman neatness.

At Jeune Street, too, the room was so small
that the window was blocked up by a chest of
drawers far too heavy for Jane-Anne to move.

But the moment she came to Holywell she
perceived glorious possibilities of Bruey-ness in
the fine big bedroom her aunt had given up
to her.  It is true that the dressing-table stood
in the window, but it was an old-fashioned,
spindle-legged affair with swing looking-glass
attached, quite light and easy to move, and the
moment that Jane-Anne could get about without
assistance she pulled it back into the room,
dragged her empty tin box under the window,
and having no shawl, folded her dressing-gown
on the top to make it "soft and comfortable
for a seat."

As a matter of fact it did nothing of the kind,
the box was dinted and lumpy and very hard,
but what cared Jane-Anne?  Bruey's box was
covered with chintz, but that, she felt, was a
very minor detail.  The main properties were
all there—box, window, Bible, little girl.

That the window did not face towards the
west was disappointing; that very little sky
was to be seen owing to the presence of a tall
house just across the yard was rather annoying.
Still, there was the box and there was the
window, and there was Jane-Anne, ready to throw
herself into the part of Bruey with the utmost
abandon.

She even improved upon Bruey, grafting
on to the character certain attributes of Miss
Stukely.

That morning, Mrs. Dew had turned out the
kitchen cupboard, and among discarded bottles
and boxes Jane-Anne had found a tiny phial
that had contained vanilla essence.  This she
secretly pocketed.  She tore a piece off her
sponge, thrust it into the little bottle and then
hied her to the bath-room where there was some
Scrubbs' Ammonia.  In a trice the bits of
sponge in the bottle were saturated with that
pungent fluid.  Behold Jane-Anne equipped
with a smelling bottle, quite as efficacious if
not so handsome as Miss Stukely's.

She sought her bower at seven o'clock, while
her aunt was safely engaged in the final
preparations for Mr. Wycherly's dinner.  She had no
time for reading and meditation at bed-time,
for Mrs. Dew always came to take away the
candle.  Her aunt mistrusted Jane-Anne ever
since she had set her hair on fire one evening
in Jeune Street.  When she reached her room
she found that her box had been put back in the
corner and her dressing-gown was hanging
behind the door.  This constantly happened.

Jane-Anne muttered something that sounded
like "interfering old thing" and hastened to
arrange it all again.  This didn't take long, and
once the stage was set she mounted the box,
and gazed out into the uninspiring stone-cutter's
yard with a suitable expression of
"winning tenderness."  Next she closed her
eyes wearily and distantly inhaled the Scrubbs'
Ammonia in the vanilla bottle.  It restored her
and she opened her Bible haphazard with a
sanctimonious Jack-Horner sort of expression
on her thin, eager little face.

She opened at the book of Job.

Now this was unexplored country.  Genesis
she knew; Kings and Chronicles, and the greater
part of the New Testament she had read.  But
somehow the book of Job hadn't entered into
Miss Stukely's scheme of salvation, and
Jane-Anne's only acquaintance with Job so far had
been in her aunt's phrase, "you'd try the
patience of Job," and she had vaguely pictured
him as a meek old gentleman tormented by a
large family of unruly children.

Montagu and Mr. Wycherly had dipped into
"Home Influence" anywhere.  This was a new
way of reading to her, and she felt she must at
once do likewise.  So into the end of the book
of Job she thrust and started at the words,
"Canst thou bind the sweet influences of the
Pleiades or loose the bonds of Orion," and read
on aloud.

Now, there was in Jane-Anne a fine feeling
for the beautiful and she liked the sound of it
greatly, her voice growing stronger and more
impressive as she read.  Especially was she
carried away by the description of the horse:
"*He paweth in the valley and rejoiceth in his
strength; he goeth on to meet the armed men....
He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage:
neither believeth he that it is the sound of the
trumpet.  He saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha; and
he smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of the
captains and the shouting.*"

By this time, quite unconsciously, she had
raised her voice very considerably, and she
stopped in great confusion as her aunt bounced
into the room demanding anxiously: "What
ever is the matter?  Who're you a-calling out to?"

"I'm only reading to myself," Jane-Anne mumbled.

"Well, I wish you'd read a bit quieter," said
Mrs. Dew, "frightening a body to death with
'ha-ha-in's' and sech.  An' what are you doin'
sitting on that there box as I put away this
very afternoon?  Why can't you leave it be in
the corner?"

Jane-Anne made no reply.  It is
disconcerting to be snatched suddenly from all the
exciting panoply of a battle-field to a mere
discussion as to the position of boxes.  She felt
bewildered and unreal.

"Why don't you answer me?" Mrs. Dew
asked impatiently.

"I was reading," Jane-Anne repeated stupidly.

"An' a very bad light to read in," said
Mrs. Dew.  "You come down into the kitchen an'
give me a hand with the master's dinner instead
of sittin' hollerin' there, and you put back that
box in its proper place."

While Jane-Anne was washing up she remembered
with contrition that she had not marked
a single text.

In two particulars only did she feel that she
could never hope to emulate Bruey.  Firstly,
because Bruey died in the last chapter of her
palpitations.  Now nothing was more opposed
to Jane-Anne's aims than that she should
succumb to her crepitations.  Secondly, she felt
that she could not hope even to approach
Bruey's noble self-abnegation in the matter of hats.

Bruey at first taught her Sunday class wearing
a beautiful best hat adorned with roses;
but on a senior teacher pointing out that this
embellishment might have a bad effect upon the
morals of her infant scholars, she begged her
mother to remove the offending garniture and
replace it by a simple ribbon.

Never, Jane-Anne was assured, could she
attain to such heights of self-denial.  She never
had possessed a hat with roses, but if she ever
did—not all the Sunday-school teachers in
creation should wrest them from her.  On that point
her determination was rooted.  She would
follow Bruey in all else but death-beds and hats.
At present she felt that her hat would not
excite any emotion save loathing in no matter
how frivolous a breast.  But if ever the day
came—after all, Miss Stukely had hydrangeas
in her hat—and there was no need to model
herself slavishly on Bruey.

Much as she loved Mr. Wycherly, he caused
her some heart-searching.  She adored him.
To her, he seemed to combine in his own
person every kind and gracious and beautiful
quality; but so far he had not said any "good
words" to her except that twice he had
murmured, "God bless you."  Not one text had he
quoted when they spake together, nor had he
asked her any of those searching intimate questions
as to her spiritual condition, that she found
so exciting and so wonderfully easy to answer
satisfactorily.

She had the true mystic's sense of nearness to
the unseen; and in giving to the lonely child
this feeling of fellowship with the saints, this
serene confidence in Heaven's interference in her
affairs, Miss Stukely and Bruey, between them,
had bestowed on her a real and precious gift.

But they had also created a mental pose.
They had imbued her with a sense of pious
security that armed her against endeavour.  What
she did easily she did well.  What she disliked
and found difficult she did not try to do at all,
and any unpleasantness resulting from such
inactivity she looked upon as a "cross."  So long
as she was meek and patient under rebuke; so
long as she turned the other cheek to the
smiter and bore no malice, she felt that she had
done all that could be expected of her.

For instance, in the matter of the box, it
seemed absolutely vital to her that she should
read her Bible and meditate in Bruey's fashion
no matter how the constant disturbance of
the said box annoyed her aunt.

As she wiped plates in a smeary and perfunctory
fashion, she was rejoicing in the existence
of Montagu and Edmund, because Bruey had a
cousin Percy whom she influenced for good.
There was a Percy, too, in "Home Influence,"
and like all the Percies in that class of fiction,
these two were dashing, full of generous
impulses, but easily led astray.  Bruey's Percy
even read yellow-backed novels in bed at night,
and Jane wondered whether Montagu was given
to similar nocturnal orgies.  She had no more
idea of what a yellow-back was than she had of
a Roman Catholic, but she was sure that both
were equally pernicious.

Edmund fitted more easily into the Percy
part, he was so merry and good-looking; but
fond as she was of the centre of the stage,
Jane-Anne could not yet quite see herself
enlightening Edmund in the approved Bruey fashion.

He was so unexpected, he would be certain to
say the wrong thing.

At this moment Mrs. Dew came back from the
dining-room.  "You're to go and see the
master in his study," she said; "it's a quarter to
nine now, and the minute the clock strikes
you're to come."

Jane-Anne flew to the sink to wash her hands
and hastened upstairs, buttoning her sleeves as
she went.

"Well, have you found the poem?" asked
Mr. Wycherly.

"No, sir.  I've read every one you marked,
but it isn't one of them."

"Curious," Mr. Wycherly said thoughtfully;
"we must try again.  Sit down, my child, and
think if you can remember in what sort of metre
it was written, that would be a help."

But Jane-Anne knew nothing about metre, so
the question of the poem lapsed for the time
being.

The precious moments were fleeting, and
Bruey being still in the ascendant, she asked
*apropos* of nothing:

"Please, sir, do you think Master Montagu
and Edmund are little workers?"

"Edmund certainly isn't," Mr. Wycherly
replied decidedly; "he's an idle young dog"—here
he chuckled—"but all the same he can do
whatever he sets himself to do.  Montagu, on the
contrary, is naturally industrious.  He loves
knowledge for its own sake.  Why do you ask?" and
Mr. Wycherly looked inquiringly at Jane-Anne.

She was mystified.  That anybody should
call anybody else "an idle young dog" in that
tone of affectionate amusement was in itself
most puzzling.

"I suppose," she said, deliberately
paraphrasing a favourite remark of Miss Stukely's,
"we can all be workers, 'you in your small
corner; I in mine.'"

"Quite so," Mr. Wycherly assented politely,
though he in his turn was somewhat staggered
by Jane-Anne's gently patronising tone.  Had
the Greek nymph of the afternoon turned into
an amazing little prig in the evening?  It was
evident that this child was a quick-change
artist in more than the matter of make-up.

As for Jane-Anne, she felt curiously flattened
out.  This courteous, kindly old gentleman
made her feel incredibly small.  Bruey, she was
certain, or even the apostolic Miss Stukely
herself, would find it exceedingly difficult to
approach Mr. Wycherly on the subject of his
soul.  And then and there was lighted in the
youthful mind of Jane-Anne one little candle of
common-sense which illuminated this dark and
difficult situation with the bright suggestion
that possibly Mr. Wycherly's soul was
Mr. Wycherly's business and not hers; and just at
that very crucial moment she heard him saying:

"By the way, child, isn't that dress rather
hot and heavy for this summer weather?  Don't
you think we'd better see about something else
if you've not got anything thinner?"

She jumped to her feet, clasping and
unclasping her hands in an agony of earnestness.
Where frocks were concerned souls had a poor
chance with Jane-Anne.

"Oh, sir," she cried, "it's a hateful old dress,
but my two cotton frocks were left at the
Bainbridge and aunt said we couldn't ask for
them as I'd left, and they said I could keep
this and my best, as I'd got them with me,
but I wish they hadn't.  Mightn't some poorer
child than me have this?  It is so hideous and
uncomfortable."

She had come close up to Mr. Wycherly and
was pleading as though her very life depended
on it.

Mr. Wycherly drew her between his knees,
and there was a look of considerable amusement
on his handsome old face as he asked:
"If it is so ugly and so uncomfortable, why
should you want to bestow it upon anybody else?"

"But it's quite good," Jane-Anne expostulated;
"we couldn't throw it away.  Some
child might be glad of it.  I'm not.  Let's
talk about what I shall have," she added
coaxingly, and somehow she found herself sitting
on Mr. Wycherly's knee.

It was years since she had sat on anybody's
knee, and that she should do so again and in
such circumstances seemed to her inconceivably
delightful.

Jane-Anne expanded like a flower.

It did not seem such an extraordinary thing
to Mr. Wycherly that a child should sit on his
knee.  He had served a long and somewhat
severe apprenticeship to Montagu and Edmund,
who both had generally elected to sit upon him
at the same time.  What most impressed him
about Jane-Anne was that she was distressingly
light.

They had a long and intimate confabulation
on the subject of frocks, finally deciding that,
with Mrs. Dew's permission, Mrs. Methuen
should be taken into their counsels.

The clock struck nine.

Jane-Anne flung her arms round his neck
and kissed him, and yet again he opened the
door for her as she went out.

The following afternoon Mrs. Dew sent her
out to do some messages, and while she was
outside a shop—there were hats in that shop,
and Jane-Anne flattened her nose against the
window in her enthusiastic interest—two ladies
came out to a carriage that was waiting at the
kerb.

The ladies were gorgeously arrayed,
evidently on their way to some party, and she
turned to stare after them admiringly.  The
footman slammed the door, leapt upon the box,
and the carriage started, when she observed
that one of the ladies had dropped her purse
in the gutter.  It was a pretty trifle made of
links of gold in the shape of a little bag.  She
picked it up at once and darted after the
carriage, calling out to them to stop, but the
ladies shook their heads at her and the
coachman was far too exalted a personage to take
any notice at all.  The footman did just look
round, but he regained his proud immobility
in the next second of time.

There was a good deal of traffic that afternoon
and the carriage could not get along very
fast.  Jane-Anne ran after it, never letting it
get out of sight, though she was breathless and
tired, and her heart thumped in her ears in a
fashion that was rather too realistically
reminiscent of Bruey to be altogether agreeable.
She was almost giving up in despair when the
carriage turned in through big gates.  Faint,
but pursuing, Jane-Anne followed and ran up
the broad path after it.  There were many
gaily dressed people standing about, who stared
at her, and numbers of other carriages so that
the one she followed had to go very slowly.
She came up with it just as it stopped at an
entrance.

The ladies saw her.  "Go away, little girl,"
said the younger crossly; "we have nothing for
you, and you have no business to follow us."

Too breathless and exhausted to speak,
Jane-Anne held out the purse towards her.

"Good gracious!  I must have dropped it, and
you followed us; how very kind.  I suppose
I'd better give her something," in an aside to
her companion.  "I hope I've got some small
change.  Here you are, and thank you very much."

She selected sixpence and held it out towards
Jane-Anne.

Now Jane-Anne wanted that sixpence dreadfully,
for she hadn't a farthing in the world;
but she had conceived a dislike for the lady;
she was indignant at being taken for a beggar,
and having somewhat recovered her breath,
she said very distinctly:

"No, thank you; but I think you might have
told the coachman to stop, then I shouldn't
have had to run so far," and with her head in
the air, she set off down the drive again.

A good many people had arrived at the door,
and they were all listening.

She hadn't gone far when she heard quick
footsteps behind her and a short, good-tempered
looking gentleman pulled her by the arm.
He wore a festal white waistcoat and looked
the personification of jollity.  "You were quite
right to refuse her beggarly sixpence, my dear,"
he remarked confidentially; "but it's a shame
you shouldn't have something for your trouble;
very good-natured of you, I call it, to run all
that way.  Here, you go and buy some lollipops
with this!" and he held out two bright
new half-crowns towards Jane-Anne.

Never had she seen so much wealth, and it
was hers just for the taking; and yet she was
certain she ought not to take it; that Mr. Wycherly
would not like it; and already she had
begun to identify herself with him.

She shook her head a little sadly.  "No,
thank you," she said very gently, for this time
she felt the donor meant to be kind.  "I
mustn't, thank you," and she went on her way.

The stout gentleman looked after her and
scratched his chin.  "That was a nasty one,"
he said to the nearest passer-by.  "The lass is
a lady and I offered her five bob."

Jane-Anne made her way blindly into the
road.  She was nearly run over three several
times by carriages coming up the drive.  As
she turned into the open she charged into
someone walking in the opposite direction, and
recovering from the impact, discovered that she
had run into Mr. Wycherly.

Mutual explanations followed.  Mr. Wycherly
was taking the daily walk he had promised
Montagu to take.  Jane-Anne explained her
presence at the garden-party, but said nothing
about the rewards offered.

Presently she found herself walking home
hand in hand with Mr. Wycherly, and when
they reached the house he said: "We must
have more walks together, you and I, and if
I forget to go out you must come and stir me up."

At tea she told her aunt about the purse,
and about the money offered.

"You were quite right to refuse it," said
Mrs. Dew, "an' I'm glad you had that much
sense; but what made you?"

"I thought the master wouldn't have liked it."

"The master needn't never have known
nothing about it."

"But I should have known," said Jane-Anne.





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.. _`FOUND!`:

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   CHAPTER XII


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   FOUND!

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"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*.

.. vspace:: 2

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 to *me*, to ask
me to see that Mr. Wycherly eats his meals—oh
aunt you *will* let me wait on him now,
won't you?"

"What's he say?" asked Mrs. Dew.

.. vspace:: 2

"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.

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   "Yours truly,
       "MONTAGU BETHUNE WYCHERLY."

.. vspace:: 2

"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?

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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:

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"DEAR MASTER MONTAGU,

.. vspace:: 1

"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.

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   "Yours respectfully,
       "JANE-ANNE."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`A FAR CRY`:

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   CHAPTER XIII


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   A FAR CRY

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..

   |  "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.*

.. vspace:: 2

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, *apropos* of 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.  A *most* unkind 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.  *I*
should 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:

.. vspace:: 2

"DEAR TEACHER,

.. vspace:: 1

"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,

.. vspace:: 1

"JANE-ANNE."

.. vspace:: 2

By return of post came a letter from Miss
Stukely.

.. vspace:: 2

"MY DEAR JANE-ANNE,

.. vspace:: 1

"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,

.. vspace:: 1

"BLANCHE STUKELY."

.. vspace:: 2

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 mental *déshabillé* appealed
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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN EXPERIMENT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   AN EXPERIMENT

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small white-space-pre-line

   "Canst play the fiddle?" asked the stranger.
   "I don't know," quoth the Irishman, "but I'll try if you'll
   lend me the instrument."  *Old Legend*.

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Methuen was having tea with
Mr. Wycherly under the apple-tree at the
side of the lawn.  She came very often to see
him for the simple reason that she found it so
exceedingly difficult to persuade him to come
and see her.  He always protested that he had
lived out of the world too long to go a-visiting
now, that he did not know how to behave in
society, that he was a fusty old anchorite whom
no one could really want.

Now, Mrs. Methuen really did want him, so
she came to see him instead, to their great
mutual satisfaction, and as it was a fine summer
and she generally came at teatime, Mrs. Dew
would set it for them under the apple-tree on
the lawn, and Jane-Anne was allowed to carry
out the cakes and bread-and-butter.

On this particular afternoon they had
discussed Jane-Anne's future, for Mrs. Methuen
was full of a new plan, and when she had a new
plan she was wont to be most enthusiastic.

"You see," she was saying, "it would be so
much more original than being a governess;
they don't do any heavy work, and the uniform
is so charming, she'd look sweet in it."

"But do you think," Mr. Wycherly asked
dubiously, "that Jane-Anne has any special
gift for looking after little children?  She has
had no experience; why should she be particularly
fitted for that?"

"She would be trained," cried Mrs. Methuen
eagerly; "it is a splendid training, and the
girls are so sought after—Norland Nurses are
never out of a place——"

"Is your nurse a Norland Nurse?" asked
Mr. Wycherly, trying to remember if he had
seen Mrs. Methuen's nurse in any very enchanting
uniform, but only succeeding in a faint
remembrance of a stout, comfortable person who
certainly did look "used to babies."

"Well, no," Mrs. Methuen answered, a trifle
shamefaced.  "You see, mother thought I was
young and inexperienced and we had all known
Nannie such years, and—she's Nannie you see,
and no one else was possible."

"Of course, of course," Mr. Wycherly agreed
hastily.  "I'm sure it is most good of you to
interest yourself so warmly in Jane-Anne, and
such a career might prove most suitable—but
would it not be well to see—could we not bring
her into contact with some little child and see
how they get on?"

"I have it," cried Mrs. Methuen; "she shall
go and mind Mrs. Cox's baby on the days the
nursery is turned out; it would be a great help
to her.  They're not well off, you know, and
she has only one servant besides the nurse,
and it will give Jane-Anne a taste for babies:
her baby's a perfect darling.  It's a beautiful
idea—so helpful to poor Mrs. Cox and so good
for Jane-Anne, and she lives so close, too, only
a few doors down the street.  I'll go and
propose it to her now and come back and tell you
what she says."

No sooner said than done.  Mrs. Methuen
found Mrs. Cox at home, unfolded her scheme
to her, laying stress on the benefit it would be
to Jane-Anne and on Jane-Anne's exceptional
fitness for the task.  She also pointed out the
unusual advantages the baby would enjoy in
having so refined and charming an unpaid
under-nurse (Mrs. Methuen was fond of
Jane-Anne) and hinted at all sorts of possibilities
when she should be older and more experienced.

Mrs. Cox, wife of a young doctor as yet not
very abundantly blessed with patients, embraced
the idea with effusion, and Mrs. Methuen flew
back to Mr. Wycherly to tell him she had
arranged it and that Jane-Anne might make her
debut as an embryo Norland Nurse on Tuesday,
that day being Friday.

"She mustn't attempt to carry a heavy
baby," Mr. Wycherly exclaimed anxiously,
knitting his brows distressedly.

"Of course not," Mrs. Methuen said decidedly.
"She'd wheel the darling up and down
Holywell in her pram, or perhaps in South
Parks Road, it's so nice and quiet."

"I hope it's not a heavy perambulator,"
Mr. Wycherly murmured.

"Now don't you worry.  No one would
dream of setting Jane-Anne to do anything
hard or heavy.  You wouldn't, I suppose, object
to her sitting with the baby on her knee, would
you?  She's quite a little baby, only six months
old and very small."

"No," Mr. Wycherly said doubtfully, "if you
think it's quite safe for the baby."

"My dear Mr. Wycherly, Jane-Anne is nearly
thirteen."

"I know," he answered humbly, "that I must
appear foolishly nervous to you—but a tiny
baby always seems to me so brittle, and Jane-Anne
herself is—so fragile—she might drop it."

"Don't you worry," Mrs. Methuen repeated
consolingly.  "Mrs. Cox will take every care of
Jane-Anne, and Jane-Anne will take every care
of the baby.  Besides, it's only once a week, on
nursery cleaning day."

Then Mrs. Methuen went to see Mrs. Dew in
the kitchen and unfolded the scheme to her.

Mrs. Dew, of cautious Cotswold habit, viewed
the plan with marked distrust, but she was too
well-trained a servant to do other than seem to
acquiesce gratefully in Mrs. Methuen's kind
efforts to benefit her niece.  So it was settled
that Jane Anne should go to Mrs. Cox on Tuesday
morning at ten for a couple of hours, as
Mrs. Methuen had arranged.  The one person
who was not consulted was Jane-Anne herself.

Term was over.  The men had all gone down,
and next day the Methuen household was off to
the seaside.

Mrs. Methuen's visit to Mr. Wycherly had
been to bid him farewell for a space; and in
arranging this for Jane-Anne she felt she had
been really helpful.

Mr. Wycherly had consulted Mrs. Methuen
on many matters connected with the child.
For one thing he had begged her to assist him
in developing her sense of humour.  Whereupon
she sent Jane-Anne both the "Alices,"
and suggested she should be allowed to see
*Punch* every week.  She also gave her
"German Popular Stories" and "A Flat Iron for
a Farthing."  These works were all of absorbing
interest and somewhat interrupted Jane-Anne's
study of Lord Byron, as had been
intended.

*Punch* she took to her heart at once; not on
account of the Immortal Jester's humour, but
because of the beautiful ladies depicted by
Mr. Du Maurier.  These she whole-heartedly
admired and set herself to imitate.

All the same, Jane-Anne was getting on.
She laughed very often now, sometimes from
sheer joy at being in a world where there were
people so kind and delightful as Mrs. Methuen
and Mr. Wycherly; sometimes because things
really did seem funny.  She began to realise,
too, that it was possible to jest; that
Mr. Wycherly often said things that he did not
mean; and that it was conceivable that you
might love a person with all your heart and
soul and yet be perfectly cognisant of their
little weaknesses and oddities.  Mr. and
Mrs. Methuen taught her this, quite unconsciously,
while she waited upon them when they lunched
with Mr. Wycherly.

Jane-Anne was a quick study.

That night as she waited upon "the master"
at dinner, he unfolded to her Mrs. Methuen's
plan, and Jane-Anne at once burst into floods
of tears, declaring hotly that she'd rather be
his parlour-maid than anybody's nurse, "not
if it was a prince."  That she didn't want to
wait upon a horrid little baby when there was
her own dear master to wait upon, and she'd
promised Master Montagu!

Very gently, Mr. Wycherly explained the
arrangement, and when she heard of the
uniform the training lost some of its horror.

"I shan't have to go for years and years,
shall I?" she asked.

"Certainly not for many years; never at all
if you don't like it."

"And I'm to practise on Mrs. Cox's baby?"

"You are to take care—the greatest care—of
Mrs. Cox's baby for a short time once a week."

"Do you want me to?"

Candidly, Mr. Wycherly wanted nothing less.
He detested schemes for the ultimate
employment of Jane-Anne.  To him, everything
suggested seemed incongruous and infeasible, but
he mistrusted his own judgment in practical
matters and bowed before the youthful wisdom
and general competence of Mrs. Methuen.

"I think," he said guardedly, "that every
woman ought to know how to manage a baby."

"I wonder," she said dreamily, "if Lord
Byron would approve of it?"

"As we have no means of finding out, let's
take it that he will," he answered drily.

"I don't like the name Norland," she objected.

"It will be years before you are even ready
to apply for admission to the Norland
Institute," said Mr. Wycherly.

"If it's an institution, I'm not going," she
said firmly.

"What you have got to do is to see how well
you can look after Mrs. Cox's baby."

"I'll do my best, I really will," said Jane-Anne,
"and it'll be rather fun to wheel it about,
and I shall look very proud and stand-off like
Mrs. Methuen's Nannie.  I expect people will
admire me very much and wonder whose nurse
I am."

"That is possible," Mr. Wycherly politely
acquiesced.

"Shall I have to make the beds that morning, sir?"

"That, my dear child, is your good aunt's
province, not mine."

"Master, dear—whenever you speak of aunt
to me, you say she's good, or worthy, or
excellent, or sensible—do you say those nice
things about me when I'm not there?  Do
you say 'my excellent Jane-Anne' when you
talk about me to Mrs. Methuen?  I hope you
do—or 'that most sensible girl'—do you?"

"How do you know I ever talk about you
at all to Mrs. Methuen?"

Jane-Anne looked rather foolish for a
moment, then brightened as she remarked: "But
you must to know all about Mrs. Cox's baby
and Norland Nurses, and that.  I'm sorry,
though, that the young gentlemen have all
gone down; I'd like them to have seen me
wheeling the pram."

"My dear child," exclaimed Mr. Wycherly
with real consternation in his voice.  "You
surely don't suppose that a well-bred
undergraduate would be aware of the existence of a
little girl wheeling a perambulator."

"They're aware of *my* existence, anyway,
master, dear.  I heard one say one day: 'Look
what hair that flapper's got.'"

"A most impertinent and ill-bred young
man.  I hope you felt very angry."

"Angry?" she repeated in a surprised voice.
"Oh, no; I was pleased he should admire my
hair.  It is very long, you know."

Mr. Wycherly groaned, but he said nothing
more, only registering a mental vow to the effect
that nothing would induce him to allow
Jane-Anne to wheel anybody's perambulator once
the men came up again.  "But she'll be safely
at school then," he reflected, "and there will
be an end of these ridiculous schemes."

Mrs. Dew discussed the question with her
niece during their supper in the housekeeper's
room.

"I don't fancy the notion much, myself,"
she said.  "A nurse as is worth having for a
nurse is born so, and I don't see as any
institution will either make or mar her.  Bein' a
fine lady with someone else to do your
nurseries'd suit you well enough, I've no doubt,
but whether you'd ever learn to do *your* part
is more than mortal can say."

"Aunt, what do you do with a baby if it cries?"

"Turn it face downwards on your knee an'
pat it gentle—ten to one it's got wind, poor
little soul, and that'll break it up.  Many's
the time I've held you that way an' you starin'
at the carpet with those great eyes of yours
as good as gold.  But you won't have much
nursing to do—it's wheelin' that you'll be doin',
an' mind as you don't let the wheel go over
the kerb.  Whatever it is you're doin',
Jane-Anne, for mercy's sake think about that thing,
and don't go dreamin' of poetry books and
such foolhardy nonsense."

Tuesday came and it poured with rain.

Jane-Anne duly made her timid appearance
at Mrs. Cox's and was shown into Mrs. Cox's
study, where the baby sat propped up in her
pram while her mother pushed her back and
forth to amuse her.  Mrs. Cox stayed for a little,
then the baby showed signs of wanting to go
to sleep, so she was laid down and Jane-Anne
was instructed to continue the gentle to and
fro movement till she "went off," and Mrs. Cox
departed to see to some household matters
elsewhere, leaving the door open.

The Cox baby was fair and plump and pretty,
and appeared an entirely exemplary infant, for
in five minutes she was fast asleep.

Jane-Anne stopped pushing the perambulator
to and fro, and sat down to look round.  There
was a book-case at one side of the fireplace and
its two lowest shelves were full of bound
volumes of *Mr. Punch*.  In a moment, her quick
eyes had taken in this pleasing fact and she
had one of the big flat books open on her knee.
She looked at the pictures and read the legends
beneath them with great content for a little
while, always, however, with one eye on the
perambulator and ears alert to catch the
faintest movement from its occupant.


Presently there was a little stir and the
indescribable soft sound a baby makes when it is
just waking up.  From the room above came
sundry bumps and scrapings that proclaimed
the cleaning to be in full swing.  She darted
to the perambulator and looked in; the baby,
rosy and warm and adorable looked up at her
and smiled.  It was too much for Jane-Anne.
She forgot Mrs. Cox's instructions that she
was on no account to lift the baby out when it
woke, but to call her.  She seized the small
delicious bundle that stretched and cuddled
against her and sat down on the low seat close
by the book-case.

Baby began to whimper.

Jane-Anne repeated "See-Saw, Margery
Daw," but the baby evidently was impervious
to the charms of poetry, and the whimper grew
a little more decided.

Then there flashed into Jane-Anne's
perturbed mind her aunt's instructions: "Turn
it face downwards on your knee and pat it
gentle."  No sooner thought of than done, and
it was, apparently, quite successful.

Jane-Anne had just got to a very interesting
part of *Punch*, and she longed to return to it.
As the baby was evidently quiet and happy, she
felt she might go back to her study of the Great
Jester—nurses always were reading—even while
they wheeled their prams—so it was all right.
She kept one hand on the baby's back to steady
it and tried to hold up the volume of *Punch*
with the other, but *Punch* was heavy and she
was not very successful.

Presently a brilliant thought struck her: If
*Punch* was open on the top of the baby, it
would fulfil a double purpose, keep the baby
from rolling off her knee, and amuse her, Jane-Anne.

It really was a very fascinating *Punch*.

For a moment Miss Cox was perfectly quiet.
The heavy weight across her back petrified
her with astonishment.  She tried to lift her
head to see what it all meant, but some hard
substance caught her just in the nape of the
neck and prevented her doing anything of the
kind.

Such an indignity was not to be borne for an
instant.

Miss Cox filled her lungs as well as she could,
considering how compressed she was, and gave
vent to a good hearty roar of rage and grief that
such impertinent persons should be left loose in
a naughty world.

Jane-Anne absently patted the pages of *Mr. Punch*
and read on absorbedly.

There was a pause in the cleansing operations
overhead.  A door was opened hastily and quick
steps descended from above.  At the same
instant, another door was opened just across
the hall, and Mrs. Cox and the nurse met
at the open study door to behold the cause of
the uproar.

Jane-Anne was never very clear as to what
happened during the next three minutes.  All
she knew was that *Mr. Punch* fell violently
on the floor to the ultimate detriment of his
back—the baby was seized from her and
two people hurled indignant reproaches at
her while the baby, once more in a position
to inflate properly, filled the air with angry
wails.

Of course Jane-Anne wept too.  She made
no excuses, for there were none to be made, and
this rather disarmed Mrs. Cox, who was kindly
and gentle, and finding that only the baby's
feelings were hurt, recovered her sense of
humour, laughed, and bade Jane-Anne go back to
her aunt as she was evidently not fitted yet for
an under-nurse.

Nurse, with the baby clasped safely in her
arms, had already stalked upstairs in high
dudgeon.

Soon after eleven o'clock, a meek, draggled,
tear-stained Jane-Anne crept in at the side-door
in Holywell.  Mrs. Dew was in the front
of the house "turning out" the dining-room,
as her niece had observed as she passed the
windows.

Upstairs she flew and reached Mr. Wycherly's
study door undetected.  She looked particularly
forlorn and miserable, for she wore her
aunt's macintosh, a voluminous purple garment
much too large for her.  She had left her
umbrella at the Cox's in the shame of her hasty
exit, and the heavy rain had beaten upon her
face, mingling with her tears.  Very timidly
she knocked.

Mr. Wycherly had quick ears, and he knew
that knock.

"Come in, my child; they didn't need you
long," he said, always with the same kind
welcome in his voice.

Jane-Anne shut the door softly and rushed
across the room to throw herself on her knees
at his side.

"I'm sent away," she cried tragically;
"dismissed, disgraced; I don't know what aunt will
say."

"What in the world has occurred?" Mr. Wycherly
said quietly.  "Take off that wet
macintosh; look what a pool it's making.  Get
up, you poor, silly child; there, that's
better—now come and sit on my knee and tell me
exactly what happened."

Jane-Anne flung herself upon Mr. Wycherly,
buried her wet face in his neck and sobbed out:

"I read *Punch* on the top of the baby."

At this most unexpected revelation Mr. Wycherly
fairly jumped.

"You mean you sat on the baby?" he cried,
aghast.

"No, it was *Punch* sat on the baby and it
didn't like it.  It yelled."

"Do explain—your statements are so
confused—what *do* you mean?"

"I mean," she continued, "I opened *Punch*
on the baby and read it—it was only a minute,
but I was so interested, and I've heard them
say that it doesn't hurt to let a healthy baby
cry for a minute—and all the nurses read, I've
seen them hundreds of times; but they heard
and came flying all in a hurry and were so cross,
and Mrs. Cox said I needn't ever come back."

It was well that Jane-Anne couldn't see
Mr. Wycherly's face, which was lighted up by a
smile of immense satisfaction; but what he *said*
sounded very grave.

"I fear you have not been very honest, little
Jane-Anne."

She sat up and looked at him.

"Honest!  I've told you exactly what happened."

"Certainly, you've been honest to me, but
what about Mrs. Cox?"

Jane-Anne hung her head.

"The baby slept at first," she said, "and it
was so dull and all the *Punches* were there—and
I got so interested——"

"You've not done what you undertook to
do, that was to look after the baby.  Mrs. Cox
didn't ask you there to read her *Punches* did she?"

"She'll never have me again, she said so."

"I'm not surprised."

"What will Mrs. Methuen say?"

"I can't think."

"And aunt?"

"I don't think your—aunt" (Mr. Wycherly
was just going to say "excellent," but restrained
himself) "will be much surprised."

Jane-Anne sighed deeply.  "I shall never be
a Norland Nurse now," she said sadly.  "I've
lost my character."

"I'm afraid you have."

"Do *you* mind very much?"

"Upon my soul," said Mr. Wycherly, "I don't
care a brass farthing."





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.. _`THE PHILOSOPHY OF BEAUTY`:

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   CHAPTER XV


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   THE PHILOSOPHY OF BEAUTY

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"The foundation of beauty is a reasonable order addressed
to the imagination through the senses."  PHILEBUS.

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The last time Mrs. Methuen called in
Holywell, just before she went away, she left
a ladies' paper, *The Peeress*.

Jane-Anne fell upon it instantly and carried
it off to her room.  She had never seen such a
paper before and her mind was in a curiously
receptive state.  Lord Byron's Hebrew melodies
rang in her ears, and she immensely enjoyed
herself when she went to bed at night by
standing in front of the looking-glass in her night
gown, with her thick black hair streaming round
her like a cloud, while she repeated solemnly:—

   |  "She walks in beauty, like the night
   |    Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
   |  And all that's best of dark and bright
   |    Meet in her aspect and her eyes.
   |  Thus mellowed to that tender light
   |    Which heaven to gaudy day denies."
   |

She quite agreed with the poet that "gaudy
day" was a little unkind to her appearance.
She was too brown; moreover, she was no
longer pale, and this rather vexed her.  She had
an idea that Lord Byron would have preferred
her pale.  Still she felt that her hair was quite
satisfactory and shook it round her, only grieving
that the glass was far too small to show it
all.  There was not a cheval-glass in Mr. Wycherly's
house.  But from time to time she
caught sight of her big plait (Mrs. Methuen had
persuaded Mrs. Dew to have Jane-Anne's hair
done in one thick plait instead of two) in shop
windows, with the profoundest satisfaction.

   |  "One shade the more, one ray the less."
   |

She hoped she had rays in her hair, but was
not quite sure.

   |  "Had half impaired the nameless grace
   |    Which waves in every raven tress,
   |  Or softly lightens o'er her face;
   |    Where thoughts serenely sweet express
   |  How pure, how dear their dwelling-place."
   |

To obtain the "thoughts serenely sweet" it
was but necessary to adopt the Bruey pose,
and, behold, the thing was done.

Mere words cannot express the comfort that
poem was to Jane-Anne.  Up and down her
room she sailed, "clothed on in majesty," an
unbleached calico night gown, and her long
black hair.

   |  "The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
   |    But tell of days in goodness spent,
   |  A mind at peace with all below,
   |    A heart whose love is innocent."
   |

At such moments she adored Lord Byron
for writing such beautiful things about her,
and was perfectly happy.

Mrs. Methuen's magazine opened up new
possibilities.  From its pages she learned that
no one need despair of their personal appearance.
Had nature been niggardly in the matter
of hair, a hundred artists in coiffure
advertised their aid.  Was one's complexion not
quite to one's liking, there were skin specialists
galore who undertook to remedy any facial
defects.  In fact the journal was a regular
*vade mecum* as to the cult of beauty, and such
pleasing visions were not conjured up by words
alone.  There were pictures in plenty of lovely
ladies in every stage of lack of attire and with
every variety of "transformation."  Radiant
beings with enormous eyes, preternaturally minute
mouths, and figures so slender that one
wondered if they ever had anything to eat.

And every one of them had wavy hair.

Now Jane-Anne's hair waved just after it
was unplaited, but it was naturally quite
straight, soft, fine, abundant hair, growing
very prettily round her face with an upward
sweep from her forehead.

It was all very well to walk in beauty like
the night.  It was comparatively easy to
imagine one realised Lord Byron's conception
of the Hebrew beauty.  But here much more
was expected.

Jane-Anne was certainly slim, the unkindly
accurate might have described her as decidedly
thin; but, even so, she was not shaped at all
like the ladies depicted in *The Peeress*.  Her
legs were long and her hips were small,
but—"I seem too thick through," she said to
herself.

There was a whole page of replies to anxious
students of the Art of Beauty.  "Pietista"
sought to improve a throat "discoloured and
too thin."  "Butterfly" complained of "sagging
lines beneath chin and around mouth."

Jane-Anne flew to the glass but could
discover nothing of the kind, and was comforted.

"Troubled" wanted to know how to "colour
dark hair a bright auburn," but Jane-Anne
passed this by.  She was perfectly satisfied
with the colour of her hair.  What she did long
for was a box of "Magnolia Bloom powder,"
which *The Peeress* assured "Amabelle" would
lend to the countenance "the soft sheen of a
butterfly's wing."

But this desirable appearance could only
be arrived at by the expenditure of eighteen-pence,
and Jane-Anne possessed but three-halfpence
in the world.  The other beautifiers
cost such vast sums as excluded them
altogether from her scheme of possibilities.

Eighteenpence: one shilling and sixpence.
Once Lord Dursley had given her a new
two-shilling bit and her aunt allowed her to keep it.
But, alas! it was spent long ago, and Lord
Dursley was not very likely to come to Oxford that
summer.

She would consult Mr. Wycherly.  She had
infinite faith in his sympathy, his wisdom, and
his resource.  She would show him this
enchanting journal and see what he thought of
it.  Perhaps he, who read so many books, was
already familiar with its pages.

She carried it with her when she went to bid
him good-night.  It had become an established
custom for Jane-Anne to bid him good-night at
considerable length.

"Have you ever read *The Peeress*, sir?" she
asked, laying it on his table on the top of an
open book.

"Never," said Mr. Wycherly.  "Is this the
lady?"  He opened it, turned the pages
somewhat hastily, and actually blushed.

"My dear child!" he exclaimed, "where did
you get hold of this extremely shameless
production?"

"Mrs. Methuen always takes it, sir; it's a
ladies' paper.  She left this number here."

"Mrs. Methuen, that refined and charming
young lady!  Surely, my dear, you are mistaken."

"No, sir, really.  Lots of ladies always read
it, aunt said so.  I wanted to take it back to
her lest she should want it, but aunt says she
gets it every week, and she didn't think it
mattered."

"That being the case," Mr. Wycherly remarked,
hastily shutting the magazine, "it is
evidently not intended for me, and you had
better take it away."

"Oh, sir," Jane-Anne pleaded, "do look at
the pictures.  They're such beautiful ladies."

But Mr. Wycherly steadfastly averted his
gaze from the offending magazine, exclaiming:

"Beautiful!  My dear child, how can you
apply that dignified and really expressive
adjective to anything so dreadful?  Have you ever
seen any human being who in the least
resembled the extremely indelicate creatures
depicted in this paper?"

"No, sir, but I'd like to.  They've all got
such curly hair."

"Most of them," Mr. Wycherly said severely,
"appear to wear very little else.  We must
show you some really beautiful pictures,
Jane-Anne, and then perhaps you will realise the
worthlessness of these."

She felt that it was an unpropitious
moment for the introduction of "Magnolia Bloom
toilet powder."  Mr. Wycherly's attitude was
strangely unsympathetic.  Nevertheless she was
full of tenacity of purpose, so she said, in what
she was assured Bruey would have considered
a "winning" voice:

"Please, sir, is there anything I could do to
earn one-and-six?"

Mr. Wycherly laughed.  "I think you have
earned it many times over by all the things
you do for me.  Would you like it now?"

He took a handful of silver from his pocket
and pushed the coins toward her, saying:

"I wish they were new ones.  I always think
all the new silver ought to be kept for boys and
girls—but if you're in a hurry—perhaps you'd
rather have it now."

"Thank you very much, sir," said Jane-Anne;
but her voice was not joyful, as one
might have expected.

She felt rather uncomfortable.

He had never questioned her as to why she
wanted it.

"Are you sure it's enough?" he asked kindly.

"Quite sure, sir, and I'm very much obliged."

Mr. Wycherly looked at her curiously.  Why
was her voice so listless and flat?

She dropped the coins into the pocket of her
dress and stood before him, rubbing one slender
foot over the other, her eyes downcast, quite
unlike the eager, chattering child he loved.

"Good-night, sir," said Jane-Anne.

When she reached her bedroom she felt very
miserable indeed.  She possessed the coveted
eighteenpence and was thoroughly ashamed of
having it.  It had been obtained too easily and
she felt that she was deceiving Mr. Wycherly.
Without knowing why, she was certain he
would not wholly approve of the purchase of
the "Magnolia Bloom powder," and he had
never asked her why she wanted the
eighteen-pence.  He trusted her.

Jane-Anne felt mean.

Against her will, the verses she loved returned
to her mind:

   |  "The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
   |  But tell of days in goodness spent."
   |

Hitherto she had happily considered those
lines quite applicable to her general conduct.
Even the disastrous morning at Mrs. Cox's had
not left behind it the uncomfortable sensations
she was now enduring.

She had not been six years in Mrs. Dew's
charge without acquiring something of that
good woman's sturdy independence.

She had asked for money.

She had taken it; and for a purpose she was
certain the donor would disapprove.

He would call it "meretricious," that
curious word Master Montagu had used.  She had
heard Mr. Wycherly use it too.

   |  "A mind at peace with all below,
   |  A heart where love is innocent!"
   |

Should she go back and tell Mr. Wycherly
why she wanted the money and let him
decide?  Then once more might she "walk in
beauty like the night" with her hair all round
her and a light heart.

But he would be certain to advise her not to
buy the "Magnolia Bloom."  He wouldn't
forbid it.  That was not his way.  But he would
make it impossible for her to go and buy
it—and she wanted it so dreadfully.

Perhaps when he saw how lovely she looked
with a face that was no longer brown but purest
white "with the soft sheen of a butterfly's
wing" he would be glad she was so much improved.

Jane-Anne knelt down and said her prayers
and added at the end the following petition:

"And please, dear Lord, let him admire
me very much when I'm all over 'Magnolia Bloom.'"

Mrs. Dew came to take away the candle, but
the room was quite light, for a big yellow
moon was shining straight in.

Now was the moment when Jane-Anne usually
arose and walked in beauty, repeating the
poem the while.

Instead, she lay quite still.  She felt she
had no right to that poem; Lord Byron had
not written it for her.

Why did she feel so certain that he, too,
would have disapproved of the "Magnolia Bloom"?

Jane-Anne cried herself to sleep.

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Next day she went to the largest hairdresser's
in Oxford, and presented herself timidly at a
counter laden with all sorts of pots and boxes
and bottles.

She asked for the "Magnolia Bloom" in a
weak and trembling voice, and was relieved to
find they had it.

"Which shade will you have?" asked the
young lady behind the counter.

"Oh, the very whitest, please!" exclaimed
Jane-Anne.

"D'you want a puff, miss?" asked the attendant.

Jane-Anne had never thought of a puff.
She shook her head sadly.  Judging by the
price of the other things, no puff could be
obtained for three-halfpence, which was all the
money she had.

She hurried from the shop.

How expensive it was to be beautiful!

She knew what a puff was, for she had been
permitted to assist at and to admire the
bathing of Mrs. Methuen's baby, and she had seen
the nurse powder him.  She was nothing if not
resourceful.  She went to the nearest jeweller
and bought a pennyworth of cotton wool, and
armed with what *The Peeress* called these
"aids to beauty," she returned to Holywell in
a flutter of excitement.

Anxious as she was to try the beautifying
effect of the "Magnolia Bloom," she felt some
diffidence in presenting herself before her aunt
thus embellished, so she waited until she had
taken in Mr. Wycherly's tea and had her own.

It was Mr. Wycherly's pleasant custom to
keep her for half an hour or so when she went
in to take away his tea.  They talked about
Greece, and she had learned to read some of
the simple words.  She learned the alphabet in
two evenings, and astonished Mr. Wycherly by
her quickness and receptivity.

She stood in front of her looking-glass that
evening and, with hands that trembled with
excitement, applied the "Magnolia Bloom" to
her little brown face.

It never occurred to Jane-Anne that the way
to use powder was to put it on and take it off
again.  That would have appeared to her a
wasteful work of supererogation.  She
liberally bedaubed her face with the "snow-white"
powder and anxiously regarded the result.

Her eyes looked very dark and large, and
her eyebrows, what she had left of them, very
black.  It had rather an ageing effect on the
whole, for so liberal had she been with the
powder that her hair all round the temples
was iron grey.

She was not quite sure whether she liked the
effect or not.  Even to her own prejudiced eyes
it was a trifle *bizarre* and pronounced.

Where was the soft sheen of the butterfly's
wing promised to "Amabelle"?

"Perhaps it looks different to other people,"
she reflected.

She crept to the foot of the stairs and listened.

Yes, her aunt was safely in the kitchen.
She darted through the housekeeper's room
and upstairs to Mr. Wycherly's door, and went in.

He looked up from the letter he was writing
with his usual kindly smile of welcome, then
suddenly he laughed.

"My dear Jane-Anne," he exclaimed, "have
you been baking?"

Jane-Anne stood still in the middle of the
room and hung her head.

"It's Magnolia Bloom," she mumbled.

"It's what?" Mr. Wycherly demanded.

"Magnolia Bloom," she repeated, her cheeks
very hot indeed beneath the powder.

"Is that some new kind of flour?" asked
Mr. Wycherly, "and if so why in the world do
you not wash your face?"

"It's not flour, sir, it's powder—face powder—to
make one white and pretty?  Don't you like it?"

Mr. Wycherly sat back in his chair gazing in
speechless wonder at Jane-Anne.  That a girl
who admired Lord Byron's poetry, who could
learn the Greek alphabet in two evenings, who
showed a real appreciation of what was noble
and uplifting in the history of her country,
could make such an absolute guy of herself in
all good faith was to him quite incomprehensible.
Boys did not do these things.  He was
fairly nonplussed.

"Where did you get this—ahem—bloom?"
he asked quietly.

"I bought it, sir, with that eighteenpence."

"Have you much more of it?"

"Oh, yes, sir, a whole box."

"Please bring it, and you shall similarly
adorn me and see how I look."

Jane-Anne was puzzled.  He certainly had
not admired her, but then, again, he had not
condemned, and he wanted some himself.
Swiftly and softly as a panther (lest she should
meet her aunt) she fetched the powder and
the screw of cotton wool from her room.

"Now," said Mr. Wycherly, "do me."

Jane-Anne made a dreadful mess.  All over
his coat, his chair (even the writing-table did
not escape), fell the "Magnolia Bloom."

"What a very disagreeable smell the stuff
has got," said Mr. Wycherly, and sneezed.
He hated common scents.

At this psychological moment, when they
were both smothered in powder and clouds of
it were in the air, Mrs. Dew opened the study
door, announcing:

"Mr. Gloag, sir."

Jane-Anne started violently and upset the
box, and the visitor announced came into the
room.

He was tall and young, with a keen, clean-shaven
face, merry dark eyes, and dark curly
hair worn a thought longer than is usual with
young men.

He stopped short on the threshold, for really
the pair before him presented a most
extraordinary appearance.

Mr. Wycherly leapt to his feet, exclaiming:

"Curly, my dear fellow, I am delighted to
see you."  He had quite forgotten the "Magnolia
Bloom" in his pleasure at beholding an
old friend.

"Am I interrupting a rehearsal, or what?"
the young man asked, as he shook hands warmly.

Mr. Wycherly sneezed again.  "Oh, this
abominable powder; I had forgotten it for the
moment.  Now, Curly, you are an actor; you
are familiar with make-up in every shape and
form.  Will you kindly tell this young lady
whether you consider us improved by this
whitewash?"

The situation jumped to the eye.  The
young man laughed.

"You are both of you rather new to the use
of powder, I should say; no one ever leaves
it on, you know."

"Then what on earth is the use of it?"
demanded Mr. Wycherly.

"It has, perhaps, a softening effect, but it is
never used in such quantities."

"Go and wash, Jane-Anne," said Mr. Wycherly,
"and I must do the same, then ask
Mrs. Dew—no, come yourself with a dustpan
and brush and clear up as well as you can.
Curly will go downstairs."

In absolute silence Jane-Anne did as she
was bid.  It took a long time to clean Mr. Wycherly's
study.  There seemed a great deal of
"Magnolia Bloom" for eighteenpence when she
had finished.  She emptied the dustpan into
the dustbin, then she went and fetched *The
Peeress*.  Mrs. Dew had gone out to get
something extra for dinner, as the gentleman
was going to stay, so Jane-Anne had the kitchen
to herself.  She tore *The Peeress* across and
across and thrust it down into the hottest part
of the fire, putting more coal on the top of it
lest her aunt should see it and wonder.

"There," said Jane-Anne, poking viciously.
"You're a horrid, meretricious, lying old thing,
that you are."





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.. _`THE PURSUIT CONTINUED`:

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   CHAPTER XVI


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   THE PURSUIT CONTINUED

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"For beauty draws us by a single hair."  POPE.

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Jane-Anne waited at dinner that night,
and the stranger with the dark, vivacious
eyes looked at her curiously more than once.
When she had set the port in front of
Mr. Wycherly and left the room finally, this guest,
whom he called "Curly," leant forward, saying:

"So that is the new ward?"

"If you like to call her so."

"She is not an ordinary girl."

"I fear not."

"Why fear?"

"Because she will be very hard to place safely."

"My own impression is," Curly said slowly,
"that she will need no placing at all, she will
arrange matters for herself."

"You mean she will marry while quite young."

"Not at all.  I should say she is quite
unlikely to marry very young, but she will find
a niche for herself, and she won't follow any
beaten track either."

"When she came first of all," said
Mr. Wycherly, "it was understood that she was
to be trained for a servant; the doctor vetoed
that—said she would never be strong enough.
Then a charming lady here suggested having
her trained as some very superior sort of
nurse—children's nurse, but I question whether her
genius lies in that direction.  Personally, I can
think of nothing very suitable for Jane-Anne
except to delight me and get strong; but of
course one must be practical.  She is extraordinarily
receptive.  She takes pleasure in every
kind of beauty, and she is quite singularly
susceptible to beautiful verse.  You should
hear her recite Byron's 'Isles of Greece.'"

"Why shouldn't I hear her?  Get her in and
ask her to do it, then, perhaps, I can throw
some light on this dark question."

"I can't say that I think she would be shy,"
Mr. Wycherly said dubiously, "for shyness and
Jane-Anne seem quite foreign to one another;
but—whether it would be good for her——"

"I'd like to hear her awfully," said Curly
persuasively.  "A housekeeper's niece, not
thirteen, and steeped in Byron sounds such a
delightful anachronism.  Moreover, a little girl
brought up by you.  Please let me."

There was something very wheedling about
Curly as he rose and went to the bell.

Mr. Wycherly nodded, and he rang.

Mrs. Dew thought it was for coffee, and that
they were in a great hurry.  However, she
made it quickly and sent Jane-Anne in with it.

"This gentleman," said Mr. Wycherly, as
she set down the coffee in front of him, "is
fond of poetry, and I wonder if you would
repeat to him your favourite verses about
Marathon?"

Jane-Anne looked quickly from one to the
other.  She stepped back a little from the table
and held up one slender brown hand as if
adjuring them to listen.

Curly leant his elbow on the table and his
head on his hand, and sat still as a statue, his
brilliant eyes fixed on Jane-Anne.

She had a musical voice and a singularly clear
enunciation.  She no longer mispronounced any
words, for Mr. Wycherly had heard her say the
poem many times and took care of that.  There
was, withal, a curious little foreign distinctness
in the way she separated one word from another
that was undoubtedly a reminiscence of her
father.  She was never monotonous and she
never ranted; best of all, she was utterly
unconscious of herself and absolutely wholehearted
in her lament for her country, and there was
real passion in her young voice as she declaimed:

   |  "A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine—
   |  Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!"
   |

No one spoke for a minute, then very gravely
and courteously Curly said, "Thank you."

Jane-Anne turned to go, and Mr. Wycherly
rose and opened the door for her.  She looked
up at him as she went out, with timid
questioning eyes.

"It was beautiful, my child, quite beautiful,"
he said.

Jane-Anne went back to the kitchen to wash
dishes, perfectly happy.

Curly waited till Mr. Wycherly sat down again.

"And so you wonder what that child will
be?" he asked.

"I do, indeed," sighed Mr. Wycherly.

"And she, with those great eyes set so wide apart?"

"That," said Mr. Wycherly, "is the Greek type."

"Every great actress," Curly said sententiously,
"has her eyes set wide apart.  There
has never been a ferrety-faced actress worth
anything."

"But what has that got to do with Jane-Anne,"
Mr. Wycherly said in a puzzled voice.

Curly laughed.  "I shan't tell you," he said.
"Only I know what she will be, and you needn't
worry or try to stop it, for you can't."

"I hope she will be nothing of the kind,"
Mr. Wycherly said hotly.  "Poor little nymph,
so sensitive, so loving-hearted, so wise, and at
times, so amazingly silly."

"They are like that," said Curly.

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Next morning, Mr. Wycherly told Jane-Anne
that the friend who had dined with him the
night before was an actor, and that the
company he was in was performing "As you Like
It" that afternoon in a ducal garden not very
far from Oxford; and finally that he was going
to take her to see it.

That day was one long *festa* for Jane-Anne.
First of all came the drive, sitting side by side
with Mr. Wycherly in a hired victoria.  She
wore her best summer frock and hat, beautiful
white garments chosen by Mrs. Methuen, that
filled her soul with rapture every time she put
them on; white cotton gloves that Mrs. Dew
had washed that morning, thin black stockings,
and the light shoes Mr. Wycherly had insisted
upon after he had seen her dance under the
apple-tree.

Mrs. Dew watched them drive away with great pride.

"I will say this," she said to her friend, Miss
Morecraft, that afternoon, "that when Jane-Anne's
dressed you couldn't tell her from one
of the gentry.  She's got something about her,
my sister had it, and her father—not as I ever
cared for him—had it, too.  I think if my sister
could have seen her this afternoon she'd be set
up, that I do.  He's a fine-looking old
gentleman, too; handsome he is, and no mistake."

A good many people regarded the quaint
pair with pleasure.  They were so manifestly
proud and fond of each other, and the child
was so radiantly happy.  The crowds of
well-dressed people delighted her.  The garden was
beautiful, the weather perfect, and with thrills
of the wildest excitement she recognised Curly
as Orlando.

When it was over, her first criticism was
characteristic.  "I'd have made a better boy
than that if I'd been Rosalind; she wasn't a
bit like a boy really, was she?  If ever I
pretended to be a boy I'd try to behave like Master
Edmund, then I don't believe anyone would
rekkernise me."

"I don't think Shakespeare meant Rosalind
to be a finished actress.  She is a supremely
lovable girl.  I don't think we would care so
much for her if we didn't realise the girl all the
way through," Mr. Wycherly said thoughtfully.

"Perhaps that pretty lady was right then,"
said Jane-Anne; "but somehow I *think* Rosalind
would have tried to behave more like a boy."

"When you play Rosalind you shall give us
a new reading of the part," Mr. Wycherly
remarked carelessly.

Jane-Anne cuddled closely against him.
"When I'm grown up," she said, "I shall ask
that Mr. Curly to take me about acting, too.
How did he begin?"

"That," Mr. Wycherly answered dreamily,
"is a long story, and rather sad.  No one wanted
him to be anything of the kind——"

"But he *had* to!" exclaimed Jane-Anne.
"He just had to, something drove him——"

"I suppose so; even yet I think it a pity."

"I don't," Jane-Anne said decidedly.  "I'd
rather go about being people than anything—one
could never be dull."

"I'm not so sure of that," said Mr. Wycherly.

For several nights now, both Bruey and
"She walks in beauty like the night" were
forgotten.  Jane-Anne arose, after her aunt had
taken away the candle, to impersonate Rosalind.
She rolled her thick plait round her head
and pinned it up with hairpins stolen from her
aunt's store.  She achieved doublet and hose
by means of two towels, several safety pins,
and her long stockings.  And the moon looked
in at the window and was doubtless well amused.

The moon waxed and waned and the end of
July was at hand.

Mr. Wycherly was plainly stirred out of his
usual scholarly calm.  His boys were coming
home.  Jane-Anne shared his excitement, and
even Mrs. Dew felt it necessary to make a large
cake and "to get in" quantities of stores of
every description.

Jane-Anne was strung up to the highest pitch
of expectation.  Although she had seen
comparatively little of the "young gentlemen"
when she first came to Holywell, she had heard
about them so much and so constantly from
the master, that she felt she, too, owned them.
There was, moreover, the delightful sense of
an "understanding" with Montagu.  He had
asked her to look after his guardian and she
had done her best.  Moreover, quick and
sympathetic always, she early realised that not even
the Greek Myths were so entrancing a subject
to Mr. Wycherly as these two boys of his, and
during their walks together she invariably led
the conversation in their direction, and found
it an easy and fascinating path.

At last the great day came.  The boys were
to meet in London and come down together to
Oxford by a train getting in just before tea.

At the last moment Mr. Wycherly bade
Jane-Anne come with him to the station.

She was pale with excitement and could
hardly speak.

When at last the train came in and the boys,
brown and jolly and full of rejoicing at getting
home, jumped on to the platform, and the first
exciting greetings had passed, Jane-Anne
suddenly flung her arms round Edmund's neck
and burst into tears upon his shoulder.

Edmund looked across the weeping damsel
at his guardian in comical dismay.  "I say,"
he exclaimed.  "If she does this when she
meets me, whatever will she do when we go away?"

"I beg your pardon, Master Edmund,"
sobbed Jane-Anne, hastily withdrawing her
arms, "but we have wanted it so, and now it's
come."

"Well, that's nothing to cry for," Montagu
said, patting her back consolingly.  "Cheer up."

Jane-Anne dried her eyes, and the four went
home in a cab laden with luggage.

The next few days drove Mrs. Dew almost to
desperation.  It was impossible to make
Jane-Anne "keep herself to herself," as that good
woman considered decorous and desirable.

Wherever the young gentlemen were, there
was Jane-Anne, and it wasn't altogether her
own fault.  They sought her out.  She fielded
at impromptu cricket matches, and discussed
high subjects with Montagu.  She proudly
displayed her knowledge of the Greek alphabet,
and assisted to stick in stamps in a long-neglected
album.  She even confided to the boys
her misfortune with the "Magnolia Bloom,"
nor was she wholly crushed by their scorn for
her silliness.  *Apropos* of this, one day, she
said:

"I wouldn't mind so much being brown if
only I had curly hair."

"The Greeks always had curly hair," Montagu
announced authoritatively.  "I can't think
why you've been left out, 'ribbed and rippled
like the wet sea-sand,'" he quoted.

"I wonder," Edmund remarked, with a
gravity that would have warned a wiser
person, "that you never wash it in beer, then it
would curl like anything."

"*Would* it?" exclaimed Jane-Anne, in great
excitement.  "Is that why yours is so curly?"

Edmund winked at Montagu, who grinned
appreciatively.  "Of course it is," he cried;
"all our chaps wash their heads in beer every
Saturday, that's why we've all got such ripping
hair.  Look at it."  And Edmund thrust his
head under Jane-Anne's nose.

She ran her hand gently over the short, fair
hair that was indeed "ribbed and rippled like
the wet sea-sand," then she sniffed delicately,
remarking: "I wonder it doesn't smell of it."

"Oh, the smell soon goes off," Edmund
answered airily.

"Why don't you do it?" she asked Montagu.
"Your hair's as straight as mine."

"He's too slack," Edmund remarked.

"Oh, I can't be bothered," Montagu said
carelessly; "I don't want curly hair.  If I did I
should wash it in beer."

At that moment Mr. Wycherly called the
boys to go out with him, and they rushed off
leaving Jane-Anne to digest this seemingly
simple specific for curly hair.

Reflection unfollowed by action was impossible
to Jane-Anne.

The beds were made.  Her share of the
dusting was done.  The boys and Mr. Wycherly
would be out until luncheon, and her aunt was
busy in the kitchen where she strongly objected
to have Jane-Anne, as she described it,
"clutterin' round."

There was a large cask of beer in the cellar,
and the key was in the door.  The cellar was to
the front of the house under the dining-room,
and was consequently some distance from the
kitchen.

Jane-Anne rushed upstairs, seized her large
bedroom jug, emptied it, and descended with it
to the cellar.

The cask was near the steps, and, with the
door at the top left open, she could see quite
well.  She turned the tap and the good brown
ale foamed gaily into the jug.

Just as, by its weight, she judged it to be
about half full, she heard a sound as though
her aunt were coming.

She seized her jug and rushed up the steps,
forgetting to shut the door at the top, and hid
in the parlour.  No, she was wrong, Mrs. Dew
was still busy in the kitchen.

As quietly as she could, she crept back to her
room, and, once there, bolted the door.

Her heart was thumping in her ears, and she
panted with excitement.

She had a good large basin in her room and a
foot-bath.  She chose the foot-bath and what
was in the jug filled it half full of the strong
brown ale of Oxford.

What a smell it had!

Jane-Anne knelt down, unplaited her hair and
shook it forward over her face.  She held her
nose tightly with one hand and with the other
plunged her heavy mane into the foaming beer.
The smell was overpowering.  She was obliged
to let go of her nose for she was choking, and as
she did so the beer, forced higher in the foot-bath
by the mass of hair, splashed her in the face.

Gasping and choking, she persevered; she
laved her head with beer, she rubbed it in with
both hands, rejoicing that it made a beautiful
lather, and she spat out vigorously what had
been forced into her open mouth while she held
her nose.

It was a horrible experience, but the blood of
the Spartans ran in Jane-Anne's veins, and she
endured till every hair and a large proportion
of her upper garments was thoroughly saturated
with beer.

At last she felt the treatment had had full
justice, and she drew out what appeared to be
yards of sticky, sodden pulp that had once been
human hair.

"Of course it won't curl till it's dry," she
said to herself, and proceeded to sprinkle more
beer about her bedroom in her efforts to free
her hair from that nourishing beverage.

But it wouldn't dry.

Her bedroom already smelt like ten public-houses
rolled into one, and brown stains were
everywhere.

Not a ripple nor a rib appeared on her matted
and bedraggled head.

Her towels were already saturated with beer,
and only seemed to make matters worse.

Her eyes smarted and her nose was scarlet.
The strong smell made her feel quite faint.

She began to cry bitterly; her hair was
stickier than ever and showed no signs of even
waving.

In her ardent pursuit of beauty she had
forgotten that explanation would be necessary,
and what explanation would be possible in the
face of all these stains and this terrific smell?
She hung her head out of the window and it
dripped into the stone-cutter's yard.

A man passed underneath, sniffed, and looked
up; all he saw was a wet mass of something
that dripped beer.  "Waste o' good liquor," he
muttered, and passed on.

Jane-Anne was getting desperate when there
came a rattling of the handle of her door, a
hasty push against it, then a tremendous
knocking and Edmund's voice:

"Are you there, Jane-Anne?"

"Yes," in a muffled sniff.

"What are you doing?  Come out."

"I can't."

"Well, let me in, then.  I want to speak to you."

"I daren't."

"Oh, nonsense, let me in quick, I say, I've
something important to tell you."

Curiosity was too strong in her to resist this.
She opened the door, hiding herself behind it
as she did so.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Edmund.  "It's here, too."

Then, as he saw the foot-bath on the floor,
the beery stains everywhere, and lastly, the
distracted figure behind the door shrouded in
sticky locks that still dripped beer, he subsided
upon the bed in fits of laughter.

Jane-Anne banged the door, bolted it, and
faced him indignantly.

"Why are you laughing?" she demanded.

"You've never gone and done it really—well,
you *are* the simplest juggins."

"D'you mean," Jane-Anne demanded sternly,
"that it *doesn't* make hair curl?"

"Not that I know of," gurgled the perjured
boy; "it may," and relapsing into howls of mirth
he buried his face in her pillow to stifle them.

Jane-Anne clasped her beery hands and wrung
them.  "And I've endured all this for nothing,"
she cried indignantly.

"And wasted a whole cask of beer," Edmund
continued.  "You left it running, and the
cellar's flooded and you can smell us half-way
down the street; there's quite a little crowd
outside," he announced gleefully.

"I wish I was dead," she moaned.

"I'd have a bath if I were you, quick," said
Edmund.  "If you're safe in there, locked in,
no one can get at you.  Mrs. Dew and Montagu
and Guardie are all at the cellar.  Montagu's
wading about in it, scooping it up, and I want
to go too, only I thought it would be mean not
to fetch you——"

"You can't be meaner than you've been already,"
she cried angrily.  "Why did you tell
me such a lie?"

"Nonsense like that isn't lies," Edmund
answered, angry in his turn.  "It's chaff.  I
never dreamt you'd be such a fool as to go
and do it."

"Is it really no use?" she pleaded, still
clinging fondly even yet to the hope that all might
not have been in vain.

Edmund looked at her and began to laugh again.





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.. _`THE PHILOSOPHY OF EFFORT`:

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   CHAPTER XVII


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   THE PHILOSOPHY OF EFFORT

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"A man's fortunes are the fruits of his
character."  RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

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When one has passed fifty, four
years—provided no one of them brings severe
illness or great sorrow—make little if any
difference in outward appearance.  Time is
usually kind to the middle-aged, and it is only
when we reach middle-age ourselves, and the
dear old landmarks are removed one by one,
that we realise how much we unconsciously
depended on this stability of appearance, this
changelessness in those who helped to shape
our destiny.

Thus if there was little change in Mrs. Dew
and Mr. Wycherly four years after Jane-Anne
had flooded the Holywell cellar with beer,
Jane-Anne herself and the boys looked back
upon the children of that time with a kind of
affectionate scorn.

Montagu was now taller than Mr. Wycherly,
thin-faced and analytic as ever, only waiting
for the following October to take up his
scholarship at New College.

Edmund was on the *Britannia*, all uniform
and gold buttons, naval phrases, and
nonsense.  When he appeared for his "leaves"
(he scorned to call it holidays) he imported so
much liveliness and laughter, to say nothing of
visitors from the outer world, into the quiet
household that during these hilarious weeks
Jane-Anne forgot to be earnest.

For Jane-Anne was very earnest.

Four years of school-life had wrought great
changes in Jane-Anne.

For one thing, no one any longer had to
worry about her lungs.  Crepitations were
things of the past.  She was strong as a
Shetland pony with fully as much endurance.

There was nothing in her physique to
prevent her becoming a most efficient housemaid.
Moreover, she was tall enough for even the
most exacting situation.  But even Mrs. Dew
had ceased to include that idea among
practical politics.

For Jane-Anne had turned out "clever at
her books" beyond all expectation.  She went
first of all to a nice school over Magdalen
Bridge, but she got on so fast and was so
unusually receptive a pupil that the head mistress
herself called upon Mr. Wycherly and
suggested that Jane-Anne should go on to the
High School.  Mr. Wycherly consulted Lord
Dursley, who still continued to take a vicarious
sort of interest in the child, and the matter
was arranged without much difficulty.

Here Jane-Anne fell under the influence of
Miss Willows and became strenuous and earnest
to the last degree.

Miss Willows taught the top form, and she
did more than teach it, she moulded it.

She was twenty-eight years old and was
fully determined to be a head mistress herself
before many years had passed.  She was of
the stuff head mistresses are made and she
was modern of the moderns.  She was tall and
strong and handsome, good at games and a
first in classics, and hers was indeed the
doctrine of perfection.

"Don't only try to do things as well as other
people," she would say; "try to do them a
little better.  Never be content with mediocrity."

Courage and strength were her watchwords
and her ambition was that her girls should go
forth into the world not to be shielded from
temptation but armed to withstand it.  Silliness
she abhorred, and, satisfactory pupil as
Jane-Anne was, she was thankful that Miss
Willows could not, as she put it, "see inside
her," for Jane-Anne was conscious that she
frequently lapsed from grace, was often frankly
and unashamedly silly and enjoyed it.

Miss Willows was always beautifully dressed,
and taught her girls to care a good deal about
their clothes.  She was sarcastic, and the
clumsy and untidy trembled before her.

Jane-Anne never trembled.  She admired
and adored and perhaps "inside" she was a
little afraid of her, but outwardly she was
quite fearless, and Miss Willows respected her
in consequence.  Even more did she respect
the girl's quite extraordinary command of
English and her familiarity with schools of
philosophy that were to most of the class mere
names.

Miss Willows had settled Jane-Anne's career.
She was to go on to one of the women's
colleges and then she was to teach.  It was her
plain duty.  Jane-Anne said nothing, seemed
to acquiesce in all these wise and benevolent
plans on her behalf, and all the time dreamed
dreams and saw visions of something very
different indeed.

She had not wavered in her allegiance to
Lord Byron.  He was still her hero, and she
stoutly refused to displace him by Mr. Robert
Browning, who was the chosen prophet of Miss
Willows.

"Lord Byron is so obvious," that lady said
one day, when she had found fault with a
quotation from "Childe Harold" that Jane-Anne
had dragged into an essay.

"It is impossible to misunderstand what he
means," Jane-Anne said quickly, ever ready to
take up arms on behalf of "her oldest friend,"
as she called him.

"He is not subtle," Miss Willows continued.

"He is never obscure, never unmusical,"
quoth Jane-Anne.

"I am sorry," Miss Willows said gravely,
"that you make such a hero of Lord Byron,
the more so, that, from what I can make out,
you do not do so in ignorance of his character.
You say you have read his life?"

"Years ago."

Miss Willows made a point of never being
shocked at anything her girls might say—to
be shocked showed weakness.  Nevertheless,
she rather wondered what Mr. Wycherly could
have been about to allow such a thing.  And
there was a black mark against him in her mind.

Curiously enough, it was Mr. Wycherly himself
who first aroused Jane-Anne to any enthusiasm
for the works of Robert Browning, and
it came about in this way.

She still passionately desired curly hair.  It
was the desire of the moth for the star, for her
hair remained obstinately straight.  That it
was beautiful in colour, texture and abundance,
did not comfort her; it was straight,
uncompromisingly straight, though it maintained its
upward, outward sweep round her broad, low
forehead.

Mr. Wycherly thought it was hard for Jane-Anne
to have no money, and insisted on paying
her five shillings a month for waiting upon
him.  Out of this, her aunt insisted that she
must keep herself in stockings and gloves, which
the child faithfully did.

But a girl at school enlightened her as to the
uses of curling tongs, and Jane-Anne succumbed
to temptation.  She borrowed the goffering
irons, heated them in the kitchen fire and burnt
both her hair and her forehead rather badly.

Mr. Wycherly was infinitely more distressed
about this than over the beer episode and took
her gently to task for trying to improve upon
what Nature had already made so harmonious
and pleasing to the eye.

That was the way to get at Jane-Anne.  As
always, she was perfectly frank with him.

"Miss Willows says it is the duty of everyone
to look as pretty as possible.  'Do your best
and then think nothing more about it,' she
says.  But I seem obliged to think about it.
You see, I *know* I'd be so much nicer if my
hair was frizzy."

"But I don't think you would," Mr. Wycherly
argued.  "Your type is severe and classical;
'frizziness' would be quite dreadful and
incongruous."

"But could *anyone* be beautiful with straight hair?"

"Why not?"

"Lord Byron had wavy hair, *you* have wavy
hair, all the goddesses and people and Helen of
Troy had wavy hair."

"I assure you," Mr. Wycherly declared,
absently passing a long, slender hand over his
thick white locks, "I never think about my
hair at all, except when I have to go and get
it cut."

"You never think about it, my dear, because
you are so sure it is all right.  You *know* you
are a most beautiful old person and that people
must admire you if they looked at you at all,
*therefore* you can afford not to think about it."

"My dear Jane-Anne, you are talking nonsense."

"I'm not; really, truly, not.  I often see
people look at you in the street and I often hear
them say nice things——"

"Good heavens," cried Mr. Wycherly, "how dreadful!"

"I shouldn't think it a bit dreadful if they
said such things about me," Jane-Anne said,
"but they don't yet—not often."

"Do they ever?" Mr. Wycherly asked anxiously.

"If I told you, you would say it was
impertinent, so I won't tell you, dear master."

"Will you promise me to let your hair alone?"

"If I promise, I should have to," Jane-Anne
said doubtfully.

"That's why I want you to promise."

"Will a year do?" pleaded Jane-Anne.

"Three years," Mr. Wycherly maintained.

Jane-Anne sighed deeply.  "Well, I
promise—but if at the end of that time I find
something that will really truly make it curl,
without smelling horrible or burning or
spoiling it——"

"Three years will do," said Mr. Wycherly.

That evening when she went to say good-night
to him he read her "A Face," by Robert
Browning.

   |  "If one could have that little head of hers
   |  Painted upon a background of pure gold...."
   |

Jane-Anne listened, breathless, charmed.
When he had finished he turned to her:

"That always makes me think of you, and
I wish I could have you painted so.  But you
wouldn't be a bit like it if you had different
hair."

Jane-Anne was silent for nearly two minutes;
then she said thoughtfully:

"I rather like Browning's poetry after all.
I'll quote a bit in my next scripture just to
please Miss Willows."

At first her position in the school was
something of an anomaly.  Her exceptional ability
and her fleetness of foot gave her an assured
place in the school work and games at once.
Her personal appearance and her eager charm
brought her friends.  Then one of the girls, who
had asked her to tea, a girl living in a large
house in the Woodstock Road, whose people
had nothing whatever to do with any of the
colleges, discovered that she was no relation to
the old gentleman in whose house she lived and
that her aunt was his servant.

The girl was horrified, told every girl she
could get to listen, and always concluded the
harangue with the remark: "We all know the
school's mixed enough, but it's getting a bit too
much when they take the daughters of domestic
servants.  Someone ought to write and complain."

She forthwith cut Jane-Anne, as did several
others.  Jane-Anne was puzzled, then angry,
and finally forced the girl to explain her
conduct in the playground.

"Your aunt's his servant," the girl
concluded, "and we don't like it."

"I'm his servant, too," Jane-Anne said
haughtily, "and I'd rather be his servant than
your friend any day."

"You won't have much chance of being
that," the girl said angrily.  "I wouldn't be
seen with you for the world."

"The whole of Oxford," cried Jane-Anne,
"can see me with him, and he's a great gentleman
and a scholar; and you—you're a carroty-haired,
ill-bred little nobody who can't write a
French exercise without getting somebody else
to do half of it."

The school took sides, and the best and
cleverest half finally sided with Jane-Anne.  She
never told anybody but Montagu what she had
gone through, but whenever any new girl made
friendly advances Jane-Anne took care to
inform her that Mrs. Dew, Mr. Wycherly's
housekeeper, was her aunt, that she loved her and
wasn't in the least ashamed of it.  "And now,"
she always concluded, "you can go on being
friends with me or not, just as you choose."

The girls were friendly enough in school, but
she knew very few of them at home.  Those she
did know were nearly all friends of Mrs. Methuen
and girls whose position was assured.  Thus it
happened that Jane-Anne's few friends were the
nicest girls in the school.  But she had very
little time for friendship.  She still helped her
aunt in the house as much as ever she could.
She had really hard and heavy homework to
prepare—only her extraordinary quickness got
her through it in the time she allowed for it,
and she was, moreover, always to the fore if
any play or recitation or fancy dancing was
toward.  She was so easily and far beyond any
other girl in things of that sort that she could
never be spared.  The dancing-class was her
greatest joy.  Mr. Wycherly had insisted on
her learning to dance whenever she went to
school.  He paid the fees himself, and
sometimes even braved the phalanx of girls at the
class in order to go himself and see her dance.

And once a year Curly came with his company
and acted in the Oxford Theatre.  Mr. Wycherly
always took Jane-Anne and Curly always
came to see them in Holywell, and every time
he came he asked Mr. Wycherly the same
question: "Well, and have you settled yet what
she is to be?"

"She talks," said Mr. Wycherly, "of being a
teacher of dancing—but it seems to me that in
that case her education is rather thrown away."

"A teacher of dancing!" Curly repeated
ironically.  "I think I see her teaching
dancing for long."

"She came to me last night," Mr. Wycherly
continued, as though he had not heard, "and
asked abruptly, 'Do you think one can serve
God and dance for a living?'"

"Ah," said Curly, "that's a different thing;
and what did you say, sir?"

"I fear," said Mr. Wycherly humbly, "that
I made no very definite answer."

"I should like to know what you think,"
Curly persisted.  "You consider dancing to be
one of the beautiful and delightful arts?"

"I do."

"And in Jane-Anne that art finds the subtlest
and most delicate expression?"

Mr. Wycherly groaned.

"Why should she not serve God as well in
that way as in any other?"

"Because," said Mr. Wycherly haughtily, "I
should dislike it extremely."

Curly laughed.

"I have an idea," he said, "that Miss Allegra
Stavrides will find another mode of expressing
the artist that is in her."

Mr. Wycherly groaned again.  "She is so
young," he said; "why should she be anything
at all for years and years?"

"Because," said Curly, "the race is to the
swift, and the child is very fleet of foot."

"You will not, promise me you will not, say
or do anything to put such an idea into her
head," Mr. Wycherly pleaded.

"My dear old friend, the idea has been there
for years—and it is quite possible it may come
to nothing."

But though Curly spake comfortable words
there was no conviction in his voice.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`GANTRY BILL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   GANTRY BILL

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  "Oh, why are eyes of hazel? noses Grecian!
   |    I've lost my rest at night, my peace by day,
   |  For want of some brown holland or Venetian,
   |    Over the way."
   |                                      TOM HOOD

.. vspace:: 2

Old Holywell in Oxford town is an
interesting street.  Not only does every house
there differ from its neighbour, but the
inhabitants are just as varied.

Opposite Mr. Wycherly's was a tall, straight,
grey house, which had been let as rooms to
generations of undergraduates when the time
came for them to "live out."  Some two years
before, Jane-Anne had watched these young
gentlemen, as she then still called them, with
the greatest interest; in fact, undergraduates
as a class held for her one supreme possibility—one
of them might fulfil in the flesh all she had
dreamed in the spirit of Lord Byron.

She had never met one that in the least
resembled her dream.  They were, for the most
part, broad-shouldered, brown-faced, exceedingly
untidy young men, who slouched about
Oxford in ancient Norfolk jackets, baggy grey
flannel trousers, and slippers down at the heel.
Most of them looked in the best of health and
spirits.  The few who might, perhaps, be
suspected of soulfulness were so plain-looking,
that she dismissed them at once; they were
out of the running altogether.

Montagu was good-looking in a straight-featured,
quiet sort of way.  Edmund was radiantly
and riotously handsome.  Mr. Wycherly,
in Jane-Anne's opinion and that of several other
people, was the most beautiful person in Oxford.
Therefore she was hard to please.

After she came under the influence of Miss
Willows, young men interested her no more.
True to her theory that every eventuality should
be met fearlessly, Miss Willows never omitted
the possibility of marriage from talks with her
girls.  With her, they regarded it as a rather
commonplace fate, that might perhaps fall to
the lot of some of them.  But there were many
more interesting things in life than that.

Miss Willows never, by word or look, hinted
to her girls that young men were dangerous, and
therefore to be avoided.  They were there in
Oxford in large numbers, let the girls meet
them in society if possible, let them judge of
them dispassionately.  Let there be no
glamour of the forbidden about them.  They might
talk to them; listen to them; weigh their
conversation in the balance of reason, and—she
always added inwardly—"find it wanting."  But
she never said this; she implied it, and the
girls, with youthful earnestness and scorn,
finished the sentence for themselves.

Jane-Anne met no young men.  Every
undergraduate at New College knew Mr. Wycherly
by sight, but not one knew any more of him.
At the time when Jane-Anne took an interest
in them they took no sort of interest in her.
Now that she was tall and straight, with frocks
down to her ankles, and bright eyes that rained
influence, a good many undergraduates wished
they knew Mr. Wycherly.  As for Jane-Anne,
she desired no notice from foolish young men.
The notice she craved was larger and more
impersonal, and although she was an impatient
young person, she was content to wait for it.
She knew that she was not wasting her time.
She studied Greek dramatists with Mr. Wycherly,
and read eagerly every word of his translation
of Aristotle's "Poetics," laying to heart
many of its maxims.  She walked to and from
school by herself, she went on occasional
errands for Mrs. Dew, but beyond that she was
rarely seen in Oxford except accompanied by
Mr. Wycherly.  With him she wandered in
college gardens, and by the banks of the
Cherwell.  When the boys came back, she spent
long days on the river with them, and every
new dance she learned at school she danced
again for "the master," and in summer always
danced barefooted on the lawn.

Mr. Wycherly allowed her to do her evening
work in the parlour, which was quieter than the
housekeeper's room in such close proximity
to Mrs. Dew.  The May nights were hot, and
Jane-Anne opened the window and drew back
the short white curtains to let in as much air
as possible.  People might look in if they liked.
It mattered nothing to Jane-Anne, loftily
absorbed in work for Miss Willows.

There she sat at the round, rosewood table
in the middle of the room, the electric light
shaded and drawn low over her papers
(Mr. Wycherly never allowed her to work in a bad
light), her delicate Greek profile presented to
every chance observer, severe, detached, an
example of studious girlhood most edifying to
behold.

So evidently thought the undergraduate
who lived opposite.  For no sooner had she
turned on her light than he extinguished his
and took a seat in the window, which, a little
above the level of hers, commanded an excellent
view of Mr. Wycherly's parlour.  His watch
was shared by a white bull terrier, who spent
long hours sitting on the sill.

That undergraduate was a rowing man, the
Eights came on in another fortnight, and in the
evenings he "did a slack."

He was musical, this undergraduate, possessed
a piano and a pleasing tenor voice, and
sometimes after dinner, although Jane-Anne would
not have dreamed of interrupting her work for
one instant to listen, she was vaguely conscious
that the music was agreeable, and was sorry
when it ceased.

One evening, however, she did listen, for there
came from the house opposite strains that were,
to her, curiously familiar; a queer, old-fashioned
song, and then with a little leap of the heart she
recognised a poem she knew and loved.  The
young man opposite had evidently been well
taught, it was quite possible to hear his words.
She stopped short in the middle of a complicated
sentence to the effect that the aim of
discipline is to produce a self-governing unit,
laid down her pen, and, forgetful that the
light was behind her, went to the window and
leaned out.

The young man seated at the piano in the
darkness of the room opposite smiled gleefully,
and sang more loudly and with increased fervour:

   |  "By those tresses unconfined
   |  Woo'd by each Ægean wind;
   |  By those lids whose jetty fringe
   |  Kiss thy soft cheek's blooming tinge;
   |  By those soft eyes like the roe ..."
   |

Then followed the passionate Greek invocation
with which each line of Byron's "Maid of
Athens" concludes.

Miss Willows would doubtless have dismissed
words and music as hackneyed and obvious.
But her pupil had read the verses till she knew
them by heart, feeling, as in the case of "She
walks in beauty like the night," that Lord Byron
had written them for her and about her; she
had not heard them sung since her mother
sang them to her when she was a very little
child.  Now in the soft spring night the once
familiar strains came floating across the quiet
street charged full of innocent and tender
memories.

In the semi-darkness, Jane-Anne beheld a
ghostly white dog, seated solemn and sedate
on the window-ledge.  The dog also noticed
Jane-Anne, and while his master still passionately
proclaimed the fact that his heart had
passed into the possession of "The Maid of
Athens," the dog pricked forward his long
ears, after the fashion of a bull-terrier when
interested, and wagged his tail.  At that instant
the music ceased with a crash of chords.

"Oh, you dear!" exclaimed Jane-Anne, and
went back to her work.

The singer came and sat in the window again.

"Gantry Bill," he said softly, "which of us
did she call a dear?"

Gantry Bill wagged his tail again.

*He* hadn't the smallest doubt.

"That seemed to fetch her rather," the singer
continued.

Gantry Bill evidently thought this a foolish
remark, for he made no response.

"It's a shame to make such a pretty girl work
so hard, ain't it, Bill?"

Here Gantry Bill was more sympathetic, and
tried to lick his master's face.

"We'll try another," said that gentleman,
"we'll fetch her again, won't us, Bill?"

But he sang the most passionate love songs
in his repertoire, apparently to deaf ears.  The
little head, with its cameo-like profile and dark
wealth of hair, remained studiously bent under
the shaded light.  The self-governing unit had
triumphed.

Her opposite neighbour might shout himself
hoarse for all she cared.  She wanted full marks
and a "plus" for her essay.

Night after night that week from the house
opposite a tenor voice apostrophised some
peerless she.  But never again did Jane-Anne go
to the window, and Gantry Bill laid his head
sideways on his paws, his ears flopped forwards,
and snored gently, while his master, at the
top of his voice, proclaimed "the thousand
beauties that he knew so well."

He was a patient dog, Gantry Bill.  More
patient than his master who, by-and-bye, gave
it up as a bad job—and went out.  He
occasionally attended lectures, too, whither the
dog could not accompany him.  Then would
Bill sit on the window-ledge watching the
passers-by with a wise reflective air, or sleep
in that pathetic abandonment of attitude
habitual to the bull-terrier.

Jane-Anne sometimes crossed the street,
spoke to him, caressed him, and peeped
into the empty room behind—a most untidy room.

"Poor doggie," she said, one Saturday
afternoon, "alone so much; would you like to come
and play in our garden, Gantry Bill?  It's
much cooler than over here.  The master's out,
and you'll not bother anybody."

Gantry Bill looked at her, and evidently was
tempted.  In fact, a pretty girl in a white
frock on a hot July afternoon is always a
pleasing apparition.

Very slowly, like a stiff old gentleman,
Gantry Bill arose and stood on the window-ledge.
He smiled at Jane-Anne, and playfully took
her hand into his mouth and mumbled it, in
token of his approval.

"He's gone to the boats, he'll be hours and
hours," she said.  "I saw him rushing up the
street in those awful little short knickerbockers,
and you left all alone to mope, poor dear!
Why shouldn't you have a little amusement, too?"

This appeared a sound argument.  Gantry
Bill dropped from the window-ledge into the
street, and followed Jane-Anne across the road.
Into the garden she took him by devious ways
that did not challenge the observation of
Mrs. Dew.  She fetched him water in a pie-dish and
presented him with a chocolate biscuit, then
she sat down under the apple-tree to mend her
stockings.  But Gantry Bill hadn't come out
for the afternoon to watch people mend stockings.

He spied a hockey ball lying on the path,
seized it in his mouth, and galumphed heavily
towards Jane-Anne, laid it at her feet, barked
and made a series of short rushes at her in token
that he desired to play.

"Hush," said Jane-Anne, holding up a
needle in her finger and thumb, "you mustn't
bark, else aunt'll hear you and come out.
What do you want?"

Another short rush, another "wouf," and an
eager head, ears cocked forward, eyes
beseeching Jane-Anne.

"You want me to throw it, do you?"

This was exactly what Gantry Bill did want,
and for twenty minutes he kept Jane-Anne
very busy indeed.  Then, hot and exhausted,
they both sat down under the apple-tree, and
she was permitted to mend her stocking.  This
was the first of many meetings.

Gantry Bill's master had no idea his dog
made assignations with the young lady of the
Greek profile and the long, thick pig-tail.
Otherwise he would have insisted upon an
introduction.  She showed no signs of playing
Eurydice to his Orpheus, sang he never so.
None of his pals knew Mr. Wycherly, and
Mr. Wycherly's friends in Oxford he did not know;
and just because the thing seemed so impossible
he ardently desired to meet Jane-Anne,
and he had never wanted much to know any
girl before.  He was not a ladies' man.

After all, it was Gantry Bill who brought the
thing about.

Mrs. Dew was very particular about eggs.
Shop eggs she declined to use even for the "egg
and bread crumb" of fish, and all eggs in
Holywell came from an old woman who lived on the
Iffley Road, kept large numbers of fowls, and
sold her eggs to a chosen few who would fetch
them.

It was one of Jane-Anne's duties to fetch
eggs twice a week.  It happened, however,
that Mrs. Dew "ran short" one day when she
particularly wanted to make an omelette for
Mr. Wycherly's dinner.  So after tea she sent
Jane-Anne, with a shilling tucked into her glove,
to bring the required eggs.  Jane-Anne walked
quickly and procured the eggs without
adventure of any kind, carrying them in a little
round basket shaped like the hilt of a single-stick.

It was hot, and on her return she walked
more slowly, dreaming as she went.  She held
the basket rather loosely in one hand, and was
quite unprepared when a heavy body bounced
at her from behind and knocked her over.
The basket flew from her hand, the eggs were
scattered and smashed; and much startled and
confused she felt two strong hands under her
armpits that raised her to her feet, while a
penitent voice exclaimed:

"I say, I am most awfully sorry; it's that
brute of a dog.  I can't think what possessed
him to bounce at you like that.  He's never
done it before to anybody.  I do *hope* you're
not hurt or very frightened.  Down, sir!
Down, you brute!  You shall have a good
thrashing for this."

Jane-Anne recovered her senses to perceive
that a tall young man, in a blazer and white
flannel trousers, had picked her up, that two
other young men stood by, looking rather
amused, and that Gantry Bill was cringing at
her feet in evident expectation of the beating
his master had promised him, while round
about them the broken eggs were drawing
maps upon the dusty road.

"Please don't beat him," she said, hastily
settling her hat, which had been knocked over
her nose.  "He didn't mean to knock me down;
he was only saying how-do-you-do.  He's a
great friend of mine, really."

"Lucky beggar," said the young man; "but
I don't see why he should show his friendship
in such an inconvenient fashion.  He must be
a tremendous weight to knock you down like that."

The two other young men had discreetly
strolled on.  Jane-Anne, Gantry Bill and his
master stood in the road encircled by broken
eggs, and looked at one another.  Jane-Anne
saw a tall, broad-shouldered young man with
a brown face, a very clean brown face that had
once been fair.  He was not handsome—his nose
was too broad and his mouth too big; but he
had splendid strong white teeth and merry blue
eyes, which, at that moment, looked into her
own full of contrition and commiseration.

"I think," he added hastily, "that we are
neighbours; don't you live opposite?"

"That's how I knew your dog," Jane-Anne
explained.  "You leave him alone a great deal."

"I can't take him to lectures."

"I'm sure he'd behave very well.  But, as
I was saying, you leave him alone and I was
sorry for him, and so he sometimes comes and
visits me, and we're great friends, aren't we,
Gantry Bill?"

"You know his name?" the young man exclaimed.

"Of course.  I'm not deaf, and the street
is not wide.  Oh, dear! whatever shall I do
about the eggs?"

"Where did you get them, and we'll go and
get some more?"

"But I haven't any more money, and we
always pay for them."

"Of course, you must allow me to pay for
them.  My dog broke them."

"If you wouldn't mind—just for to-day.
You see, if I don't take them back aunt couldn't
make an omelette for Mr. Wycherly's dinner."

"Let's go and get them at once.  We can
get them at the nearest grocer's."

"Oh, you needn't trouble to come with me.  I
must go back, for aunt won't get eggs anywhere
else.  If you could lend me the shilling——"

"I'm going to carry those eggs, and see you
safe home.  You might feel faint or something
after such a shock."

Jane-Anne laughed, but she did not forbid
him to accompany her.  Gantry Bill
gambolled on ahead, and together they bought
another shilling's worth of eggs from Mrs. Dew's
old woman.

As they walked down the Iffley Road
together, he said rather diffidently: "Gantry
Bill is more fortunate than his master, since
he seems to know you, Miss Wycherly."

"My name's not Wycherly," Jane-Anne
answered.  "It's Stavrides.  I'm no relation to
Mr. Wycherly; my aunt is his housekeeper,
and he lets me live there.  I love him dearly."

"My name's George Gordon."

"Oh!" she exclaimed.  "Are you any relation
to Lord Byron?"

"Certainly not, I'm glad to say," he remarked
decidedly.  "We're quite another lot of
Gordons.  It's a big clan, you know.  We're the
Dumfrieshire Gordons.  The poet was a gloomy
sort of chap, wasn't he?"

Jane-Anne stood still, and gazed at the
Gordon at her side with great indignation.

"Gloomy," she repeated; "sad, if you like,
sometimes, but very witty and amusing; have
you read his letters?"

George Gordon hung his head; the brown
eyes looking up into his were so grave and
accusing.

"I'm afraid I know very little about him,"
he said humbly; "perhaps he was an ancestor
of yours—I'm awfully sorry——"

Again Jane-Anne laughed, and he thought
she had the prettiest laugh.  "Do you only
defend people when they are your relations?"
she asked.  "I admire Lord Byron's poetry,
and I am grateful to him because he gave
his life for my country—but he's not the least
little bit of an ancestor.  I don't think I've
got any."

"That must be rather jolly, because then
you can play off your own bat, and people
aren't always expecting things of you because
your great-great-uncle did something or other
last century."

"Oh, I'd like them if I'd got them," she said;
"but as I haven't—it's no use fretting.  Have
you a great many?"

"Nothing to speak of," he said, blushing.
"I can't think how we've got on to such a
footling subject.  You like Gantry Bill, don't
you?"

"He's a perfect dear, but why is he called
Gantry Bill?  What's gantry mean—I looked
it up in the dictionary, and it says——"

"Oh, it's nothing to do with that—it's some
soldiers' lingo—he belonged to my elder brother;
he's a gunner and he had to go to Nigeria and
couldn't take him, so he gave him to me.  He's
a faithful beast, and understands every word
you say to him."

By this time they had reached Long Wall,
and as they strolled along in intimate converse
they met Miss Willows, who looked hard at
Jane-Anne and her escort carrying the basket
of eggs.

When they reached the archway leading
into the builder's yard, Jane-Anne stopped
and bade him farewell.

"I can't pay you the shilling now," she said,
"for I haven't got one, but the minute I have
one I'll bring it over.  I've spent my
allowance for this month already."

"Oh, please," he said, looking most unhappy;
"please don't speak of it.  I broke the eggs,
at least Bill did—so, of course——"

"Good-bye," said Jane-Anne, and vanished
in at the side-door.

George Gordon crossed the road very slowly,
with Gantry Bill following sedately at his heels;
when they reached his sitting-room he sank
heavily into the chair by the window, and the
bull-terrier leapt up on to his seat on the
window-sill.

"I say, Bill," his master asked, "how have
you contrived to see so much of her?"

The shilling weighed heavily on Jane-Anne's
mind.  She could not repay it herself, for she
had spent four-and-elevenpence-halfpenny on
the first of May, the day she got her allowance,
on a pair of black silk stockings declared to be
"half-price," which she had greatly coveted to
dance in.

Mrs. Dew would undoubtedly repay the shilling,
but she would, at the same time, ask so
many questions and comment so severely on
Jane-Anne's carelessness, and (this was what
Jane-Anne particularly dreaded) express such
horror at her "forwardness" in walking home
with George Gordon, that Jane-Anne simply
could not summon up enough moral courage to
confess herself to her aunt.

Therefore, as had happened hundreds of
times in the past, there was nothing for it but
to go to "the master" who would, she knew,
get her out of the difficulty, and ask no
questions.  Yet—she felt shy even of the master.

Suppose he forbade her ever to speak to
George Gordon or Gantry Bill again?

Still, the shilling must be got back to George
Gordon that night, and it was already seven
o'clock, time for her to lay dinner.  She ran
up to Mr. Wycherly's study, and found him
sitting in his arm-chair by the window reading
Horace.

She went and stood before his chair, clasped
her hands behind her, and announced:

"I broke a whole basketful of eggs, sir, this
afternoon.  They cost a shilling."

"Do you think," said Mr. Wycherly, smiling,
"that the domestic exchequer will stand such a
heavy drain upon it?"

"But that's not all," she continued breathlessly.
"He picked me up, and as I hadn't
another shilling he paid for the eggs, and I've
spent all my money, and can't pay him back
till June.  Will you lend me the money to pay him?"

Mr. Wycherly no longer lounged in his chair.
He sat up very straight, but he spoke gently as
usual, saying:

"Do you mind explaining to me who 'he'
is, and why you should need to be picked up?"

"Gantry Bill, that's his dog, bounced at me
from behind; we're great friends and he was
glad to see me, and I was thinking deeply, and
he knocked me over and the eggs flew all about
and made a great mess, so he helped me up
and we went together to buy more eggs, and
he carried them home for me."

"Gantry Bill, as you call him," Mr. Wycherly
said, his eyes twinkling, "seems a very
remarkable dog.  First, he knocks you down, then he
picks you up and gives you a shilling to buy
eggs, which he politely carries home for you.
Is it this intelligent animal that you propose to
repay?"

"No," said Jane-Anne, blushing hotly; "it's
the intelligent animal's master.  He lives just
opposite.  He's at New College."

"And is it he who is such a great friend of
yours?" Mr. Wycherly asked, as though it were
the most natural conclusion possible.

"No," said Jane-Anne, rosier than ever; "I
never spoke to him before, though I knew him
by sight.  He's rather nice," she added; "his
name is George Gordon, but he's no relation to
dear Lord Byron—and he doesn't seem a bit
sorry.  May I take the shilling over?"

"I think," said Mr. Wycherly, "that perhaps
it would be better if I took him the shilling
myself.  After all, you know, the eggs were for
the house, and therefore my affair."

"Oh, would you?" cried Jane-Anne.  "That
is perfectly lovely of you, and then you'll see
him, and see if you like him."

"Exactly," said Mr. Wycherly, "that's why
I want to go."

"You will give it back to-night, won't you?"
she begged.

"Directly after dinner; I hope he will be at home."

"Oh, he's sure to be at home," she said
simply.  "He generally sings then; I hear him
while I'm working.  He sings 'Maid of Athens'
most beautifully."

"Does he indeed?" said Mr. Wycherly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE STARLING FLIES AWAY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE STARLING FLIES AWAY

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  "What is to come we know not.  But we know
   |  That what has been was good....
   |  Let the great winds their worst and wildest blow,
   |  Or the gold weather round us mellow slow:
   |  We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare
   |  And we can conquer, though we may not share
   |  In the rich quiet of the afterglow
   |  What is to come."
   |                          W. E. HENLEY.

.. vspace:: 2

While Mr. Wycherly was still sitting
over his port, Mrs. Dew brought him
a note that had come by hand.  He opened it,
and found that it was from Miss Willows.
Now, Mr. Wycherly knew very little of Miss
Willows.  She had, it is true, been to tea with
Jane-Anne on two occasions, when the child
had implored him to be present.  Of course,
Jane-Anne was dying to "show him" to Miss
Willows.  That lady felt his charm, but she
doubted whether he was a very safe or suitable
guardian for so unusual a girl.  What she had
seen that afternoon convinced her that her
doubts were justified, and she felt that not a
moment must be lost.  It was necessary to
awake in him a sense of his responsibilities,
therefore she wrote:

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"DEAR MR. WYCHERLY,

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"I feel sure you will acquit me of any desire
to be fussily interfering if I venture to ask
whether it is with your knowledge and
approval that Jane-Anne walks with undergraduates
in the evening after tea.  I hope you know
me too well to imagine that any foolish prudery
or even an exaggerated sense of the importance
of Mrs. Grundy's opinion causes me to bring the
subject before you.  It is only that while
Jane-Anne is so young, while she is working so hard,
it would be wiser, I think, to discourage
intimate association with the other sex except
under proper auspices.  Pray do not mistake
me.  I should like Jane-Anne to have plenty
of young male society but not to saunter about
the roads *tête-à-tête* with any one youth during
term time.  If you can see your way to oblige
me in this I shall be grateful.

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   |  "Very faithfully yours,
   |       "DOROTHY WILLOWS."

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Wycherly read the note twice very carefully,
folded it, put it back in the envelope and,
without waiting to finish his port, went for his
hat.  He crossed the road.  Mr. Gordon, seated
as usual at his open window with Gantry Bill in
attendance, saw him coming, turned extremely
red and went himself to open the door, without
waiting for his visitor to knock.

Jane-Anne, seated at her studies in the parlour,
also saw Mr. Wycherly's pilgrimage across
the road, and was filled with satisfaction that
her debt was to be so speedily discharged.

"Are you Mr. Gordon?" Mr. Wycherly asked
as the door was opened before he could knock.

"I am; will you come in, sir?"

Mr. Wycherly accepted the invitation and
came in.  The experience caused his heart to
beat a little faster.  It was so many years since
he had been in an undergraduate's room.  The
past came back with a rush.  What a lot of
water had flowed under Magdalen Bridge since
those dear, far off, happy, and, afterwards, most
miserable days.

"Won't you sit down, sir?" young Gordon
said hospitably.

Mr. Wycherly sat down.  "I come," he said,
"to discharge a debt," and laid a shilling on the
table beside him, "and I must thank you for
carrying home the eggs for my ward."

"It's very good of you," the young man
mumbled, looking much confused; "it was
nothing really; you see, my dog was the cause
of the accident.  I was bound to replace the eggs."

"My ward begged me to pay her debt at
once.  That is my reason for invading you at
such an unseasonable hour, but since you have
received me so hospitably, I wonder if you would
further allow me to ask you a question,
Mr. Gordon?"

There was no light in the room save the grey
gloaming of a May evening.  Across the road
Mr. Wycherly could see a brilliant, luminous
square defining his own parlour window; he
was too short-sighted to see the studious figure
seated at the table, but he perceived that she
must be plainly visible to those possessing
normal sight.

"Certainly, sir," young Gordon said politely.

"You probably"—here Mr. Wycherly turned
a kind, inquiring gaze upon his young host—"have
sisters?"  Mr. Gordon bowed.  "I have
been out of the way of these things for so long
that it is possible I may make mistakes—I shall
be extremely obliged if you will tell me—quite
frankly, do you think we do wrong in allowing
Miss Stavrides to walk about Oxford by herself?"

George Gordon looked very hot indeed.  The
last thing he had dreamt of was that this
dignified, white-haired old gentleman should
consult him about anything.  Honest himself, he
was touched at the evident earnestness and
simplicity that craved his opinion.  Acting
almost automatically, he lit the gas and stood
well in the centre of the light, looking fairly
and squarely at his guest.

"Since you do me the honour to ask me, sir,
I should say that there is not the smallest harm
in allowing Miss Stavrides to walk alone
anywhere.  If she were my sister, I shouldn't be
a bit afraid because, you see, she's not that
sort——"

"Yes," said Mr. Wycherly; "please tell me why."

"It's a little difficult," the young man
continued, "without sounding a bit of a cad—but
it's like this.  She walks along thinking her own
thoughts, and if she looks at you—she seems to
look through you.  Now, there are girls, nice
girls, pretty girls—ladies—quite ladies, you
know—and yet you know they've seen you.
Well, all I can say is, you're jolly well sure Miss
Stavrides hasn't—and so it's no good."

"And yet," Mr. Wycherly said smoothly,
"she seemed to be aware of your existence."

George Gordon thrust his hands deep into
his pockets, but he still looked Mr. Wycherly
straight in the eyes.

"She couldn't help that.  My dog—somehow—upon
my honour, I don't know how or
why, seems awfully fond of her.  He knocked
her down jumping on her playfully, when she
didn't expect it—and what could I do?  But—I
think it's only fair to tell you, I've been dying
to know her ever since I came to these rooms,
and I hope I shall see her again.  She is, I
suppose you know it, sir, an extremely attractive
girl, because she's so unusual."

Mr. Wycherly rose and held out his hand:

"I am greatly obliged to you," he said.
"You have been very frank and helpful.  It
will give me great pleasure if you will come and
see us—and as a personal favour, I would ask
you not to walk in the streets with her again,
for her sake."

"I should like awfully to come, sir.  It's
very kind of you.  It's my last term, so you
won't be troubled with me for long."

Gantry Bill rose slowly and majestically from
his place in the window, dropped to the floor,
and came and sniffed at Mr. Wycherly.  George
Gordon pulled himself together with a mighty
effort, and said somewhat huskily: "You know,
sir, I think she ought to have a blind or
something.  Anyone can see her."

Mr. Wycherly stooped to pat Gantry Bill.

"I am still very much in your debt," he said.

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That summer Montagu went in the vacation
with a reading party to Brittany.  Mr. Wycherly
took Edmund and Jane-Anne to Burnhead,
in Midlothian, where he had spent so
many years, and Mrs. Dew went to stay with
Lord Dursley's housekeeper.

The minister lived in the house that had
belonged to Miss Esperance; Mr. Wycherly and
the two young people lodged with her old
servant, Robina.  While they were there Curly
came to see the minister, who was his father,
and during the week he spent in Burnhead, he
made Jane-Anne, through Mr. Wycherly, the
offer of a definite engagement in a company
he was going on tour with after Christmas.
She would, of course, at first only walk on.
After that she would be entrusted with small
parts and then—her chance might come.  The
company was good in more senses than one.
The actresses were ladies, two of them married
to members of the company, and Jane-Anne
would be well looked after.

The project flung Mr. Wycherly into a
perfect tempest of worry.  Had Curly so much as
hinted the possibility of such a thing to
Jane-Anne herself, he would have felt that he had
just cause for grievance.  But he knew that
Curly had done nothing of the kind, and that it
lay with him, and with him only, to suppress or
put before her this, to him, detestable plan.

There could be but one outcome.  Mr. Wycherly's
sense of honour would not allow
him to conceal from Jane-Anne an opportunity
he feared she would be only too ready to grasp.
And that same sense precluded his laying the
matter before her himself.  He knew that he
was so biassed that he must place the whole
scheme in a most unattractive light; and his
very faculty for seeing all round a question
prevented his expressing the actively hostile
views he most certainly held.  Therefore, he
left Curly to lay the question before her.

This Curly did, and actuated, perhaps, by a
somewhat similar spirit to Mr. Wycherly's, he
hid from the girl nothing of the disagreeables
she was likely to encounter.  He painted the
life of little more than a super with a travelling
company as the reverse of pleasant.  He spared
her no sordid detail, he exaggerated rather
than minimised all she would have to endure.

With downcast eyes and lips that trembled a
little, she heard him in silence to the end.  Then
she turned her large gaze upon him, and asked:

"But shall I learn things?"

"It is the only way to learn things."

"Then, if the master will let me, I will come."

"He doesn't like it.  He hates the idea.  It
will make him very unhappy.  He will miss you
dreadfully."

"Montagu will be at New College then.  He
will be always in and out.  I wouldn't go if the
master would be all alone.  But with Montagu
there—it makes all the difference——"

"I don't know even now that he will consent."

"I think," said Jane-Anne, "that he will
allow me to go, because he is so just."

But Mr. Wycherly refused to give a definite
opinion.

"We will wait till December," he said.

So Jane-Anne went back to school, and
Mr. Wycherly sent for Miss Willows and explained
the situation to her.  To his surprise and
dismay she sided with Jane-Anne.  This was fine
of Miss Willows, for she had set her heart on
Jane-Anne's doing brilliantly at Lady Margaret
Hall.  But she understood the girl.  She
realised her powers and her limitations, and she
was one who, in looking into the future for her
girls, would fain have them hitch their horses
to the stars.  She believed that Jane-Anne
might become a fairly successful teacher, but
she was certain that she had it in her to become
a great actress.  Miss Willows detested mediocrity.

An unexpected ally for Mr. Wycherly
appeared in the person of George Gordon, who,
having got a moderate degree, came back to
Oxford to see everybody before he settled in
London to read for the bar.  With him he
brought Gantry Bill as an offering for Jane-Anne,
who embraced the dog fondly, exclaiming:

"I shall love him, if the master will keep him
for me, but I don't expect I shall be here after
Christmas, you know, except when I can get
away for a little holiday."

"Not here?" he exclaimed.  "Where are you
going—abroad to study?"

"No, I'm probably going on the stage—at
least, to study for the stage."

"The stage.  *You?*"

"Why not?"

"Because it's unthinkable, because I hate it,
because—I want you so myself."

Jane-Anne looked very serious, but she didn't
blush or show any signs of confusion.

"I shouldn't make a nice wife," she remarked.

"I think you would make an adorable wife—but,
of course, we couldn't marry just yet," he
added honestly; "I've not got enough to make
you comfortable; but we could wait—and I'll
work like the dickens and—you're very young."

"For the matter of that, so are you, but it
isn't a question of youth or age.  There's
something I've got to do, and I must do it.
Marrying and things like that must come after.  I
fancy"—here she raised her solemn, candid
eyes—"everything will come after—always."

George Gordon looked so miserable that
Gantry Bill went to him, stretched up and
licked one of the hands that hung so limp and
melancholy at his sides.

"Mr. Wycherly would have liked it," he said
sadly.  "I spoke to him last night, and he gave
me leave to come to-day.  He would have
allowed us to be engaged."

Jane-Anne gave a little laugh.  "I am engaged,"
she said, "to Mr. Wendover's touring
company."

"Damn Mr. Wendover!" exclaimed her angry
suitor.  "I'm awfully sorry, but you can't
think how I hate it.  Will you keep Bill?
Mr. Wycherly said he might stay here.  I can't
have him in London, he'd be so miserable."

"We shall love Bill," she said gently.

.. vspace:: 2

Towards Christmas a bazaar was held in
which Mrs. Methuen was much interested, and
among the side-shows was a little duologue
which she and Jane-Anne played together.
It happened that Curly's company was in
Oxford at the time, and one afternoon he dragged
Mr. Wycherly to the bazaar to see Jane-Anne act.

Now, although Mr. Wycherly had seen her
dance hundreds of times, he had never seen her
act.  He could not screw his courage to the
point of facing the crowd of parents assembled
at the school theatricals, and Mrs. Methuen
had never yet induced him to come and see the
little plays she was so fond of getting up in aid
of various charities.

This time, however, wearied by Curly's
importunities and fortified by his company,
he was persuaded, and found himself seated
in front of a red curtain, in the second row of
chairs, while, pince-nez on nose, he studied a
programme which bore the legend "A Joint
Household."

Jane-Anne had gone to lunch with Mrs. Methuen
so as to be ready for the play which
came fairly early in the afternoon.

The noisy piano ceased, the curtain was
rung up, and the two ladies, who, with their
husbands, had agreed to share a house for the
summer holidays, one after the other appeared
upon the scene.

Mrs. Methuen was unmistakable; pretty,
eager, much concerned for the future comfort
of her absent lord.

But the other——

Mr. Wycherly was both disappointed and
bewildered.

Something must have happened to Jane-Anne.
Could she be ill?  This tall, angular
person in spectacles, with what he secretly
stigmatized as a "bombazine manner," must
be some elderly lady imported at the last
moment to play the part.  That she played it
uncommonly well did not concern Mr. Wycherly;
he was anxious about Jane-Anne.

What could have happened to the child?

The play was quite amusing.  The lady with
the bombazine manner raised a laugh
whenever she opened her lips, but Mr. Wycherly
couldn't feel interested.  He was worried.

It must be some sudden and prostrating
headache that had prevented her appearance.
Yet when did he ever remember Jane-Anne
to have a headache when theatricals were to
the fore?

The little play soon came to an end amidst
enthusiastic applause.  Mr. Wycherly thought
it rather unfeeling of Curly to clap so
vigorously.  He didn't seem a bit anxious about
Jane-Anne.

The plaudits were so prolonged that the
curtain was raised again and the two ladies took
their call.  She of the spectacles and wispy
grey hair dragged into a tight knob at the back,
bowed stiffly and ungraciously as befitted her
character, but just as she reached the wings she
snatched off her spectacles with one hand and
with the other deliberately blew a kiss to
Mr. Wycherly.

There was no mistaking it.  The kiss was
for him and for no one else, and the eyes
hitherto discreetly hidden behind the spectacles
were exceeding dark and young and merry.

Then it was that Mr. Wycherly realised that
she had not failed at the last moment, this
extraordinary Jane-Anne of his.  She was the
lady of the bombazine manner.

When they reached the street he murmured
to Curly in almost awe-struck tones, "And I
never recognised her at all till the curtain went
up the second time."

"So I saw," said Curly.

"She looked so old, so severe, so hard
somehow and unlovely."

"For the time being, she was Mrs. Tallet, you
see," Curly explained.

"It wasn't her appearance only, her whole
atmosphere seemed so grasping and grim."

"That," Curly remarked sententiously, "is acting."

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It was gala day at the dancing-class, and
Mr. Wycherly sat on the raised daïs reserved for
parents and onlookers.  He had come to watch
Jane-Anne as a pupil for the last time.

There were many "fancy dances" performed
by fresh-faced girls who manipulated their
accordion-pleated skirts with a certain pretty
pride in their achievement—all but Jane-Anne.

She, slender and dark, with little oval face
and shadowy heavy hair, drawn back from her
forehead, with the upward sweep of Botticelli's
angels—she danced!

She wore a plain little frock of black chiffon,
caught in round her slender waist by a narrow
black cord.

Mrs. Methuen had chosen the dress, and it
was full of distinction in its dainty severity;
such a plain little dress among its rainbow-hued,
fresh-millinered companions.

And how she danced!

Floating to and fro on the waves of sound
like an autumn leaf blown by the wind.

Suddenly, by one of those flashes of telepathy
that on occasion lighten across the path of all
of us, Mr. Wycherly became acutely conscious
that his was not the only soul stirred by this
perfect dancing.  And the knowledge that his
enthusiastic appreciation was shared stirred
in him no feeling save that of uncomfortable
foreboding.

He put on his eye-glasses and looked across
the room.  There, near the door, he saw Curly
accompanied by a small, fair man in a fur coat,
a clean-shaven man whose full blue eyes
expressed both interest and pleasure, pleasure
keen as his own had been.  And there was
subtly communicated to Mr. Wycherly a sense
of impending change, and a sensation of excited
interrogation, so strong that he found himself
mentally demanding: "What will he do?"

And the ecstasy with which he had at first
watched Jane-Anne was interrupted and invaded
by a host of alien doubts and speculations.

For he knew that the fates were busy weaving,
and that the central figure in their fabric
was that of the slender girl in black who danced.

And nothing happened.

Curly and the man in the fur coat went
away in a few minutes, and neither of them
had attempted to speak to Jane-Anne when her
dance ended.

But, all the same, the end was the end
Mr. Wycherly had refused to face.  When it
actually came to the point of granting or withholding
his permission, he bade her God speed and
sent her forth.  The flame in her shone
luminous and clear; there was no questioning it;
and it seemed to him the better part to feed
the fire that burned so steadily on the altar of
her high endeavour.

Mrs. Dew neither approved nor opposed.
For some years now she had felt Jane-Anne
was growing beyond her; always incomprehensible,
she was now on a plane that her good
aunt could only touch by means of the steady
affection she had always felt.  That way she
could always reach Jane-Anne.  Since her
niece was not to be a respectable servant in a
good family, it seemed to Mrs. Dew that all
other careers were equally chimerical and
dangerous.  The girl might try this play-acting.
If it failed—why, the master would have her
back.  Mrs. Dew was sure of that, and was
therefore less anxious than might have been
expected.

With a diffidence she had never shown before,
she followed Jane-Anne into her bedroom
the afternoon before she left Holywell, and
stood at the end of the bed watching the tall
girl on her knees beside the new trunk she
herself had given her.

"Look here, Jane-Anne," she said suddenly,
and because she was very much in earnest she
lapsed into the broad Gloucestershire of her
youth.  "I'm not one as can talk religious—a
good sharp scoldin's more in my line—but I'd
be glad that you should remember as you come
of a most respectable family.  There's bin
Burfords in Great Stanley for two 'undred year,
and so far as we do know, never a light woman
amongst 'em."

"Two hundred years," Jane-Anne echoed.
"Why, then I must have ancestors, after all."

"You can call 'em ancestors, if you do
please," Mrs. Dew continued; "we do call 'em
forbears where I comes from.  Well, as I was
sayin', I'd have you remember, an' if you feels
carried away and giddy-like, just think as
there's a hold aunt down in Oxford as sets
great store by you——"

Mrs. Dew's voice broke; Jane-Anne rose
hastily from her knees and ran to her aunt, and
took her in her arms.

"Aunt, dear," she said, "I will remember."

"I never 'eard," Mrs. Dew went on in a
muffled tone, "anything to speak of about your
father's people.  For all I know, he might 'ave
come from some of them 'eathen gods and
goddesses, bad lots they were, and it's that as
makes we so worrited.  Burford blood you can
depend on—but I'm sure as it's the Grecian
comin' out as drives you to play-acting."

Very gently Jane-Anne withdrew her arms
from about her aunt.

"I know I'm often silly," she said humbly,
"but you mustn't blame my father for that."

"You're as the Lard made you," Mrs. Dew
remarked drily, "and you can but try and make
the best of a bad job.  But remember
this—if you feels ill, or if you wants me any time for
any reason, a telegram'll bring me just every
bit as quick as I can put foot to the ground
and find somebody to do for the master while
I be away.  You bear that in mind."

"You're very good to me, aunt," said
Jane-Anne, and flung her arms round Mrs. Dew's
neck once more.

She and Mr. Wycherly went to evensong in
the cathedral.  It was the fourth of January,
and the "proper psalms" were the twenty-second
and the twenty-third.  Jane-Anne
shivered with a chilly sense of foreboding as
the wailing chant rang out, echoing eerily in
the great arched roof.

"*I am poured out like water, and all my bones
are out of joint: my heart also in the midst of
my body is even like melting wax.*"

Presently the minor changed to something
infinitely serene and sweet and comforting;
and to Jane-Anne standing timidly on the
threshold of her new life, there was promise
of help that could not fail her in the assurance:

"*The Lord is my shepherd therefore can I lack
nothing.*"  And at the final verse: "*But Thy
loving kindness and mercy shall follow me all
the days of my life...*" she thrust her little
hand into that of her old friend, and his closed
over it with a firm and understanding clasp.

When the day, so charged with various emotions,
came to an end, and she went to bid him
good-night, she found him standing on the
hearth-rug in the firelight.  Montagu had gone
for a few days to a school-friend before he came
up to New, and they were all alone.

Mr. Wycherly's lamp was turned out, but
the room was full of warm, rosy light, and
Jane-Anne remembered how she had looked in and
longed wistfully to share in his kind glance, all
those long years ago.  They had had many talks
together, those two, over the coming change,
and each knew the other's hopes and fears.
The old must realise that farewells are their
portion.  Only a month or two before
Mr. Wycherly had seen Edmund set out on his first
voyage, and now this other child was sailing
forth on the great sea of life, leaving him
behind to dream and pray that fortune and fair
winds might enwheel them both.

She came and stood beside him, laying light,
gentle hands upon his shoulders, looking at
him the while with the kind, faithful eyes he
loved so well.

"Dear," she said, "do you know at all how I feel?"

"My child," he answered, "you feel, I know,
everything that is best and most beautiful,
but there is just one thing that I would like
you to write upon the tablets of your heart,
and that is, the remembrance that here, in
Oxford, there is an old man who would give his
life's blood to serve you; to whom all that
concerns you is absolutely vital.  Will you
remember always that, whether you are glad or
sorry, successful or unfortunate, most of all if
ever—which God forbid—you should be
unfortunate—your home is here."

"I will remember," said Jane-Anne, and
kissed him.

No one went with her next day to London.
She preferred to go alone.  Curly was to meet
her, and she was to start that night with the
rest of the company for the town in the north
where their first engagement was.

Gantry Bill wandered disconsolately about
the house in Holywell all that day.  He could
settle nowhere.  His beautiful tranquillity was
quite broken up.  He pattered to and fro, and
whined faintly at intervals.  Mrs. Dew tempted
him in vain with the choicest morsels in his
special bowl.

At last, after dinner, he sought Mr. Wycherly
in his study, scratching vigorously at the door
until he was admitted.  Once in, he walked
about sniffing dubiously; finally, going to
Mr. Wycherly, and with his paws across his knees,
leant heavily upon him, and looked up in his
face, plainly asking, "Where is she?"

This was Gantry Bill's favourite attitude
with Jane-Anne.  He was too big and heavy
for her to nurse, but he loved to stand on his
hind legs and lean his body across her knees,
while she, generally immersed in a book,
absently stroked his head.

"She's gone, Gantry Bill," Mr. Wycherly
said, in answer to his look.  "She has gone
away and left us, and we must just make the
best of it."

Gantry Bill gave a sudden lurch and arranged
his whole heavy person across Mr. Wycherly's
knees.  He weighed forty-four pounds, but
somehow Mr. Wycherly had not the heart to
drive him away.

Instead, he stroked him absently, and murmured:

   |  "Say I'm weary, say I'm sad;
   |  Say that health and wealth have missed me;
   |  Say I'm growing old, but add—
   |  Jenny kissed me."

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   THE END

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