MUSINGS ON AUTUMN AND THE ARRIVAL OF JANE
One of those September days is with us in which the world, like Rip Van
Winkle, is very fast asleep. A great stillness broods o'er our little
garden. No blade of grass or leaf of tree moves or rustles to disturb
the silence. Jumbles lies curled upon the warm front doorstep; Dimbie
lies asleep in a low hammock chair. The birds and insects, and even
the ants, have joined in the general siesta; and I, generally having
more time than the others in which to indulge in flights to the land of
Nod, am keeping awake to take care of all my friends of the garden. I
have to keep removing a fly from Dimbie's nose; to see that Jumbles
doesn't wake up suddenly and pounce upon a drowsy, unwary bird in the
neighbourhood of the broom bush; and to turn an eye upon a butterfly
which appears to have fallen asleep in the heart of a single dahlia.
Over all broods a haze, gossamer and fairy-light, but still a haze
which ever follows in the footsteps of sweet September--September so
quiet, so peaceful, so mellow and rounded. September is to May as
mature and still beautiful womanhood is to the freshness of girlhood,
not so radiant, but so complete, so satisfyingly lovely. Spring
somehow, I know not why, gives me an ache at the heart, creates within
me a yearning for something. Autumn does not affect me thus. There
may be a regret, a glance of retrospection at the months which are
gone--the beautiful, bountiful summer months--but the ache has
vanished, the yearning has departed.
Is it that September, herself the most peaceful of all the months,
bears in her arms a gift for Nature's truly loving and understanding
children--the gift of peace, a peace which passeth all understanding?
Lately it has come to me, this peace, and I smile happily, hugging it
to my heart. All the anguish of the last weeks--the bitter tears, the
pining for movement, the unutterable yearning to be out in the wind, by
the sea, on the mountains--has left me. I am content to lie in my
little garden, to be still, to commune with myself, and to know that
Dimbie is there.
And--I am reading a Book, one that I read as a child, as a girl, and
now as a woman. I am a woman now, for I know the meaning of the word
suffering. In the old days I read this Book as one reads a
lesson--dull, uninteresting, I thought it. I chafed at the chapter
which Miss Fairbrother obliged me to read each day. Some parts struck
me as being duller than others. There was the tiresome description of
the building of the temple, and the bells and
pomegranates--pomygranates I used to call them--and the fourscore cubit
this and the fourscore cubit that. Miss Fairbrother would endeavour to
make it interesting, but I was unmistakably bored. But now---it seems
curious that I should have ever thought it dull. I read it with deep
intensity. I know as I turn the pages what is coming, but yet it is
all new to me, a new meaning falls upon my understanding. And there
are three words from this Book which of late have continually danced
before my eyes. I have seen them written on the sky, on the grass, on
the pages of my book. I have heard the wind whisper them, the flowers
repeat them, the leaves pass on the refrain to the waving corn, and yet
I alone have been unable to say or believe them. The words have stuck
in my throat, my dry lips have refused to form them. And then a night
came when I saw them written on Dimbie's face. He had been depressed,
and had taken his sorrow to the pine woods, and when he returned a
gladness irradiated his countenance, and on his forehead, as it seemed
to me, were the words, written in letters of gold, "God is Love! God
is Love!" I repeated them mechanically to myself over and over again;
and suddenly the mists cleared away, the fog dispersed, and I too
cried, with a great sincerity and gladness, "God is Love!"
* * * * *
Jane came softly down the walk and with finger to lip bade me be silent.
"I want to love and kiss you, little old pupil, without any jealous eye
to mar my happiness. And I also want to have a good look at your
husband."
Dimbie lay with head thrown back, giving to the garden a music that was
not of the sweetest.
"He is not at his best," I whispered; "his mouth isn't always like
that."
Jane made a comical little _moue_ and kissed me again. "The same old
Marguerite," and she framed my face in her hands.
"With a difference," I said quietly.
"With a beautiful difference. I don't wonder at your husband's
falling----"
"Hush!" I said, "I am going to wake him."
Jane sat down and watched with interest.
"Dimbie! Dimbie, dear, would you mind waking up?"
"He doesn't always sleep quite so heavily as this," I explained
apologetically. "It has been such a warm, enervating day."
"_Dimbie_, will you stop snoring."
Still no answer.
Loudly I rang the tortoise, and he was on his feet in an instant,
blinkingly staring at Jane.
"It's not a fire or an accident," I said; "it's Miss Fairbrother."
With the first of Jane's wholesome, heartsome smiles I knew that his
conquest had begun. They shook hands, and he apologised for being
caught in such an attitude.
"It enabled me to have a good look at Marguerite's husband, of whom I
have heard so much," said Jane frankly.
"And what do you think of him?" Dimbie asked with a twinkle.
"I must reserve my judgment till later. It may be a case of cruelty,
desertion, and wife beating. Appearances are so deceitful. And no
faith should be placed in a young wife's estimate of her husband."
He pushed his hammock chair towards her.
"Won't you take this; it is more comfortable. And were Marg's letters
very tiresome?"
"Well, she didn't say much about you." Jane wore an air of "May God
forgive me!" "But what little she did write of you was mostly to the
good."
Dimbie laughed, and began to enjoy himself.
"Before you begin to talk," I said, "would you like a wash or have tea
first?"
"Tea, please."
I rang the bell.
"I'm quite anxious to see the young person with the tea-rose slippers,"
observed Jane, removing her hat and running her fingers through her
soft, luxuriant hair, which was parted on one side.
"She doesn't wear them now. We have had a lot of money left us," I
said, studying the expressive face in front of me, which had changed so
little.
"Does she run about barefoot?"
"Oh, no! What I mean is that we can afford now to give her nice, kid
slippers." I struggled to keep my mind on Amelia, and not on Jane's
pretty, cool, grey linen gown which was inset with beautiful, Irish
crochet lace.
"It isn't mercerised cotton," I thought aloud.
"It's one of my best frocks," said Jane, following my eyes. "Do you
think it suitable for my years, Marguerite?"
"I should wear it to-morrow," I said impulsively, and then stopped
awkwardly.
"Why to-morrow?" she asked in surprise. "Are you having a party?"
"Only Marg's medical m----"
"Dimbie," I shouted, "will you go and see if tea is ready? I can't
think what Amelia can be doing." I looked at him feverishly. He sat
open-mouthed for a moment, and then he remembered, nodded his head, and
set off to the house with a run. I could see from Jane's expression
that she thought we were very odd people.
"What--what do you think of the sunflowers?" I asked jerkily.
"I think they appear to be very handsome, self-respecting sunflowers,"
she replied.
There was an interval of silence.
"What's the matter, Marguerite?" she asked at length. "The atmosphere
is charged with a mysterious something which I cannot understand."
"I will tell you on Thursday."
"On Thursday?"
"Yes. Oh, here is Amelia with tea! This is Amelia."
Jane gave her a smile, showing her even, white teeth. This was
returned by a look of hostility. Amelia was not to be won by any
smile. She was not a weak man, and she prided herself on her even
balance.
"Good afternoon," said Jane.
"Good afternoon," said Amelia in a tone of "Go to perdition with you!"
But Jane had no intention of doing so, at any rate, till she had had
some tea. She handed some money to Amelia.
"Will you be good enough to give this to the man who is bringing my
trunks along?"
"Were there no cabs? Most people takes cabs." Now she was being
distinctly impertinent. I felt very angry with her.
"Please do as you are told," I said wrathfully, "and without comment."
She was, for the first time since she had been in my service, impressed
by my anger, and at once she changed her tactics.
"The day would be hot I was thinkin' for Miss Fairbrother to walk."
"You were thinking nothing of the kind. Stick to the truth." And to
my consternation she immediately did as she was told and stuck to it.
"I don't want no visitors."
"_Amelia!_"
Jane laughed unconcernedly.
"I shouldn't either," she said, looking at Amelia in a most friendly
manner. "I quite sympathise with you. You think I am going to meddle
and interfere?"
"Yes."
"You think I am going to poke into the kitchen and do things for your
mistress that you have been in the habit of doing?"
"Yes," said Amelia, surprised at Jane's intuition.
"Well, you may make your mind quite easy on that score. To begin with,
I am far too lazy to interfere. I like people to work for me if they
will. And I think it would be a mean thing to do when you have served
Mrs. Westover so faithfully and lovingly. I shall not usurp your
place." Jane's voice was most gentle now, full of sympathy and
kindliness. "But if you will allow me, I will help you with my bed and
dust my room. I shall make a little extra work, of course, and I am
sure you must have a great deal to do."
Amelia wavered, rocked about with indecision for a moment, and was won.
"Thank you, miss, it's very good of you," was all she seemed able to
say. And as a relief to her feelings she slapped the tortoise, picked
up Jane's gloves from the ground and returned to her kitchen.
"Tea is going cold," said Dimbie. "First game of the rubber to Miss
Fairbrother."
"You don't say the rubber, I notice," observed Jane.
"I know Amelia."
"I fancy though, without any undue conceit, that I shall win. I like
that girl."
"So do we, but that doesn't give us the power of managing her."
"I don't want to manage her. My simple desire is that she shouldn't
manage me, and will permit me to remain with you for a short time."
"You shall certainly do that," said Dimbie. "Marg has been counting
the days to your coming."
"And you?" she asked slyly.
"I--I have been doing likewise," said my husband brazenly.
She laughed, a merry, incredulous laugh.
"And yet I fancied I had two rubbers to play and hoped to win."
"Really?" said Dimbie. "Only one as far as I know, and the first game
is already yours."
"You are very kind," she said simply. "I understand, and am grateful.
I did so want to see Marguerite again."
"You could not be more grateful than I am for your coming," he returned
earnestly. "The thanks are on our side." And I knew he meant it.
"A rubber and a half for Jane," I whispered to the tortoise. And I
stretched out a hand and held Dimbie's closely in mine.