THE COMING OF JANE
At sixteen-forty-five the Waring-Gaunt car was standing at the Melville
Station awaiting the arrival of the train which was to bring Jane and
her father, but no train was in sight. Larry, after inquiry at the
wicket, announced that she was an hour late. How much more the agent,
after the exasperating habit of railroad officials, could not say, nor
could he assign any reason for the delay.
“Let me talk to him,” said Nora impatiently. “I know Mr. Field.”
Apparently the official reserve in which Mr. Field had wrapped himself
was not proof against the smile which Nora flung at him through the
wicket.
“We really cannot say how late she will be, Miss Nora. I may tell
you, but we are not saying anything about it, that there has been an
accident.”
“An accident!” exclaimed Nora. “Why, we are expecting--”
“No, there is no one hurt. A freight has been derailed, and torn up the
track a bit. The passenger train is held up just beyond Fairfield. It
will be a couple of hours, perhaps three, before she arrives.” At this
point the telegraph instrument clicked. “Just a minute, Miss Nora, there
may be something on the wire.” With his fingers on the key he executed
some mysterious prestidigitations, wrote down some words, and came to
the wicket again. “Funny,” he said, “it is a wire for you, Miss Nora.”
Nora took the yellow slip and read: “Delayed by derailed freight. Time
of arrival uncertain. Very sorry, Jane.”
“What do you think of this?” cried Nora, carrying the telegram out to
the car. “Isn't it perfectly exasperating? That takes off one of their
nights.”
“Where is the accident?” inquired Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.
“Just above Fairfield.”
“Fairfield! The poor things! Jump in and we will be there in no time. It
is not much further to Wolf Willow from Fairfield than from here. Hurry
up, we must make time.”
“Now, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, I know your driving. Just remember that I am an
only son. I prefer using all four wheels on curves, please.”
“Let her go,” cried Nora.
And Mrs. Waring-Gaunt “let her go” at such speed that Larry declared he
had time for only two perfectly deep breaths, one before they started,
the other after they had pulled up beside the Pullman car at the scene
of the wreck.
“Jane, Jane, Jane,” yelled Larry, waving his hands wildly to a girl who
was seen sitting beside a window reading. The girl looked up, sprang
from her seat, and in a moment or two appeared on the platform. “Come
on,” yelled Larry. He climbed over a wire fence, and up the steep grade
of the railroad embankment. Down sprang the girl, met him half way up
the embankment, and gave him both her hands. “Jane, Jane,” exclaimed
Larry. “You are looking splendidly. Do you know,” he added in a low
voice, “I should love to kiss you right here. May I? Look at all the
people; they would enjoy it so much.”
The girl jerked away her hands, the blood showing dully under her brown
skin. “Stop it, you silly boy. Is that Nora? Yes, it is.” She waved her
hand wildly at Nora, who was struggling frantically with the barbed wire
fence. “Wait, I am coming, Nora,” cried Jane.
Down the embankment she scrambled and, over the wire, the two girls
embraced each other to the delight of the whole body of the passengers
gathered at windows and on platforms, and to the especial delight of
a handsome young giant, resplendent in a new suit of striped flannels,
negligee shirt, blue socks with tie to match, and wearing a straw hat
adorned with a band in college colours. With a wide smile upon his
face he stood gazing down upon the enthusiastic osculation of the young
ladies.
“Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, this is Jane,” cried Nora. “Mrs. Waring-Gaunt has
come to meet you and take you home,” she added to Jane. “You know we
have no car of our own.”
“How do you do,” said Jane, smiling at Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. “I can't get
at you very well just now. It was very kind of you to come for us.”
“And she has left her brother very sick at home,” said Nora in a low
voice.
“We won't keep you waiting,” said Jane, beginning to scramble up the
bank again. “Come, Larry, I shall get father and you shall help with our
things.”
“Right you are,” said Larry.
“Met your friends, I see, Miss Brown,” said the handsome giant. “I know
it is mean of me, but I am really disgusted. It is bad enough to be held
up here for a night, but to lose your company too.”
“Well, I am awfully glad,” said Jane, giving him such a delighted smile
that he shook his head disconsolately.
“No need telling me that. Say,” he added in an undertone, “that's your
friend Nora, ain't it? Stunning girl. Introduce me, won't you?”
“Yes, if you will help me with my things. I am in an awful hurry and
don't want to keep them waiting. Larry, this is Mr. Dean Wakeham.” The
young man shook hands with cordial frankness, Larry with suspicion in
his heart.
“Let me have your check, Jane, and I will go and get your trunk,” said
Larry.
“No, you come with me, Larry,” said Jane decidedly. “The trunk is too
big for you to handle. Mr. Wakeham, you will get it for me, won't you,
please? I will send a porter to help.”
“Gladly, Miss Brown. No, I mean with the deepest pain and regret,” said
Wakeham, going for the trunk while Larry accompanied her in quest of the
minor impedimenta that constituted her own and her father's baggage.
“Jane, have you any idea how glad I am to see you?” demanded Larry as
they passed into the car.
Jane's radiant smile transformed her face. “Yes, I think so,” she said
simply. “But we must hurry. Oh, here is Papa.”
Dr. Brown hailed Larry with acclaim. “This is very kind of you, my dear
boy; you have saved us a tedious wait.”
“We must hurry, Papa,” said Jane, cutting him short. “Mrs. Waring-Gaunt,
who has come for us in her car, has left her brother ill at home.” She
marshalled them promptly into the car and soon had them in line for the
motor, bearing the hand baggage and wraps, the porter following with
Jane's own bag. “Thank you, porter,” said Jane, giving him a smile that
reduced that functionary to the verge of grinning imbecility, and a tip
which he received with an air of absent-minded indifference. “Good-bye,
porter; you have made us very comfortable,” said Jane, shaking hands
with him.
“Thank you, Miss; it shuah is a pleasuah to wait on a young lady like
you, Miss. It shuah is, Miss. Ah wish you a prospec jounay, Miss, Ah
do.”
“I wonder what is keeping Mr. Wakeham,” said Jane. “I am very sorry to
keep you waiting, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. Larry, would you mind?”
“Certainly not,” said Larry, hurrying off toward the baggage car. In a
few minutes Mr. Wakeham appeared with the doleful news that the trunk
was not in the car and must have been left behind.
“I am quite sure it is there,” said Jane, setting off herself for the
car, the crestfallen Mr. Wakeham and the porter following behind her.
At the door of the car the baggage man met her with regretful apologies.
“The trunk must have been left behind.”
He was brusquely informed by Jane that she had seen it put on board.
“Then it must have been put off by mistake at Calgary?” This suggestion
was brushed aside as unworthy of consideration. The trunk was here in
this car, she was sure. This the baggage man and Mr. Wakeham united
in declaring quite impossible. “We have turned the blasted car upside
down,” said the latter.
“Impossible?” exclaimed Jane, who had been exploring the dark recesses
of the car. “Why, here it is, I knew it was here.”
“Hurrah,” cried Larry, “we have got it anyway.”
Mr. Wakeham and the baggage man went to work to extricate the trunk from
the lowest tier of boxes. They were wise enough to attempt no excuse
or explanation, and in Jane's presence they felt cribbed, cabined and
confined in the use of such vocabulary as they were wont to consider
appropriate to the circumstances, and in which they prided themselves as
being adequately expert. A small triumphal procession convoyed the trunk
to the motor, Jane leading as was fitting, Larry and Mr. Wakeham forming
the rear guard. The main body consisted of the porter, together with the
baggage man, who, under a flagellating sense of his incompetence, was so
moved from his wonted attitude of haughty indifference as to the fate of
a piece of baggage committed to his care when once he had contemptuously
hurled it forth from the open door of his car as to personally aid in
conducting by the unusual and humiliating process of actually handling
this particular bit of baggage down a steep and gravelly bank and over a
wire fence and into a motor car.
“Jane's a wonder,” confided Larry to Mr. Wakeham.
“She sure is,” said that young man. “You cannot slip anything past her,
and she's got even that baggage man tamed and tied and ready to catch
peanuts in his mouth. First time I have seen that done.”
“You just wait till she smiles her farewell at him,” said Larry, hugely
enjoying the prospect.
Together they stood awaiting the occurrence of this phenomenon.
“Gosh-a-mighty, look at him,” murmured Mr. Wakeham. “Takes it like pie.
He'd just love to carry that blasted trunk up the grade and back to
the car, if she gave him the wink. Say, she ain't much to look at, but
somehow she's got me handcuffed and chained to her chariot wheels.
Say,” he continued with a shyness not usual with him, “would you mind
introducing me to the party?”
“Come along,” said Larry.
The introduction, however, was performed by Jane, who apparently
considered Mr. Wakeham as being under her protection. “Mrs.
Waring-Gaunt, this is Mr. Wakeham. Mr. Wakeham is from Chicago, but,”
she hastened to add, “he knows some friends of ours in Winnipeg.”
“So you see I am fairly respectable,” said Mr. Wakeham, shaking hand
with Mrs. Waring-Gaunt and Nora.
When the laughter had ceased, Mr. Wakeham said, “If your car were only a
shade larger I should beg hospitality along with Dr. and Miss Brown.”
“Room on the top,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt with a smile, “but it seems
the only place left. You are just passing through, Mr. Wakeham?”
“Yes, I am going on to Manor Mine.”
“Oh, that's only twenty miles down the line.”
“Then may I run up to see you?” eagerly asked Mr. Wakeham.
“Certainly, we shall be delighted to see you,” said the lady.
“Count on me, then,” said the delighted Mr. Wakeham, lifting his hat in
farewell.
Dr. Brown took his place in the front seat beside Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, the
three young people occupying the seat in the rear.
“Who is he?” asked Larry when they had finally got under way.
“A friend of the James Murrays in Winnipeg. You remember them, don't
you? Ethel Murray was in your year. He is very nice indeed, don't you
think so, Papa?” said Jane, appealing to her father.
“Fine young chap,” said Dr. Brown with emphasis. “His father is in mines
in rather a big way, I believe. Lives in Chicago, has large holdings
in Alberta coal mines about here somewhere, I fancy. The young man is a
recent graduate from Cornell and is going into his father's business. He
strikes me as an exceptionally able young fellow.” And for at least five
miles of the way Dr. Brown discussed the antecedents, the character, the
training, the prospects of the young American till Larry felt qualified
to pass a reasonably stiff examination on that young man's history,
character and career.
“Now tell me,” said Larry to Jane at the first real opening that
offered, “what does this talk about a three days' visit to us mean. The
idea of coming a thousand miles on your first visit to your friends,
some of whom you have not seen for eight years and staying three days!”
“You see Papa is on his way to Banff,” explained Jane, “and then he goes
to the coast and he only has a short time. So we could plan only for
three days here.”
“We can plan better than that,” said Larry confidently, “but never mind
just now. We shall settle that to-morrow.”
The journey home was given to the careful recital of news of Winnipeg,
of the 'Varsity, and of mutual friends. It was like listening to the
reading of a diary to hear Jane bring up to date the doings and goings
and happenings in the lives of their mutual friends for the past year.
Gossip it was, but of such kindly nature as left no unpleasant taste in
the mouth and gave no unpleasant picture of any living soul it touched.
“Oh, who do you think came to see me two weeks ago? An old friend of
yours, Hazel Sleighter. Mrs. Phillips she is now. She has two lovely
children. Mr. Phillips is in charge of a department in Eaton's store.”
“You don't tell me,” cried Larry. “How is dear Hazel? How I loved her
once! I wonder where her father is and Tom and the little girl. What was
her name?”
“Ethel May. Oh, she is married too, in your old home, to Ben--somebody.”
“Ben, big Ben Hopper? Why, think of that kid married.”
“She is just my age,” said Jane soberly, glad of the dusk of the falling
night. She would have hated to have Larry see the quick flush that came
to her cheek. Why the reference to Ethel May's marriage should have made
her blush she hardly knew, and that itself was enough to annoy her, for
Jane always knew exactly why she did things.
“And Mr. and Mrs. Sleighter,” said Jane, continuing her narrative, “have
gone to Toronto. They have become quite wealthy, Hazel says, and Tom is
with his father in some sort of financial business. What is it, Papa?”
Dr. Brown suddenly waked up. “What is what, my dear? You will have to
forgive me. This wonderful scenery, these hills here and those mountains
are absorbing my whole attention. So wonderful it all is that I hardly
feel like apologising to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt for ignoring her.”
“Don't think of it,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.
“Do you know, Jane,” continued Dr. Brown, “that at this present moment
you are passing through scenery of its kind unsurpassed possibly in the
world?”
“I was talking to Larry, Papa,” said Jane, and they all laughed at her.
“I was talking to Jane,” said Larry.
“But look at this world about you,” continued her father, “and look, do
look at the moon coming up behind you away at the prairie rim.” They all
turned about except Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, whose eyes were glued to the
two black ruts before her cutting through the grass. “Oh, wonderful,
wonderful,” breathed Dr. Brown. “Would it be possible to pause, Mrs.
Waring-Gaunt, at the top of this rise?”
“No,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, “but at the top of the rise beyond, where
you will get the full sweep of the country in both directions.”
“Is that where we get your lake, Nora,” inquired Jane, “and the valley
beyond up to the mountains?”
“How do you know?” said Nora.
“I remember Larry told me once,” she said.
“That's the spot,” said Nora. “But don't look around now. Wait until you
are told.”
“Papa,” said Jane in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, “what is it that Tom
is doing?” Larry shouted.
“Tom, what Tom? Jane, my dear,” said Dr. Brown in a pained voice, “does
Tom matter much or any one else in the midst of all this glory?”
“I think so, Papa,” said Jane firmly. “You matter, don't you? Everybody
matters. Besides, we were told not to look until we reached the top.”
“Well, Jane, you are an incorrigible Philistine,” said her father, “and
I yield. Tom's father is a broker, and Tom is by way of being a broker
too, though I doubt if he is broking very much. May I dismiss Tom for a
few minutes now?” Again they all laughed.
“I don't see what you are all laughing at,” said Jane, and lapsed into
silence.
“Now then,” cried Nora, “in three minutes.”
At the top of the long, gently rising hill the motor pulled up, purring
softly. They all stood up and gazed around about them. “Look back,”
commanded Nora. “It is fifty miles to that prairie rim there.” From
their feet the prairie spread itself in long softly undulating billows
to the eastern horizon, the hollows in shadow, the crests tipped with
the silver of the rising moon. Here and there wreaths of mist lay just
above the shadow lines, giving a ghostly appearance to the hills. “Now
look this way,” said Nora, and they turned about. Away to the west in
a flood of silvery light the prairie climbed by abrupt steps, mounting
ever higher over broken rocky points and rocky ledges, over bluffs of
poplar and dark masses of pine and spruce, up to the grey, bare sides
of the mighty mountains, up to their snow peaks gleaming elusive,
translucent, faintly discernible against the blue of the sky. In the
valley immediately at their feet the waters of the little lake gleamed
like a polished shield set in a frame of ebony. “That's our lake,” said
Nora, “with our house just behind it in the woods. And nearer in that
little bluff is Mrs. Waring-Gaunts home.”
“Papa,” said Jane softly, “we must not keep Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.”
“Thank you, Jane,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. “I fear I must go on.”
“Don't you love it?” inquired Larry enthusiastically and with a touch of
impatience in his voice.
“Oh, yes, it is lovely,” said Jane.
“But, Jane, you will not get wild over it,” said Larry.
“Get wild? I love it, really I do. But why should I get wild over it.
Oh, I know you think, and Papa thinks, that I am awful. He says I have
no poetry in me, and perhaps he is right.”
In a few minutes the car stopped at the door of Mrs. Waring-Gaunt's
house. “I shall just run in for a moment,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.
“Kathleen will want to see you, and perhaps will go home with you. I
shall send her out.”
Out from the vine-shadowed porch into the white light came Kathleen,
stood a moment searching the faces of the party, then moved toward Dr.
Brown with her hands eagerly stretched out. “Oh, Dr. Brown,” she cried,
“it is so good to see you here.”
“But my dear girl, my dear girl, how wonderful you look! Why, you have
actually grown more beautiful than when we saw you last!”
“Oh, thank you, Dr. Brown. And there is Jane,” cried Kathleen, running
around to the other side of the car. “It is so lovely to see you and so
good of you to come to us,” she continued, putting her arms around Jane
and kissing her.
“I wanted to come, you know,” said Jane.
“Yes, it is Jane's fault entirely,” said Dr. Brown. “I confess I
hesitated to impose two people upon you this way, willy-nilly. But Jane
would have it that you would be glad to have us.”
“And as usual Jane was right,” said Larry with emphasis.
“Yes,” said Kathleen, “Jane was right. Jane is a dear to think that way
about us. Dr. Brown,” continued Kathleen with a note of anxiety in her
voice, “Mrs. Waring-Gaunt wondered if you would mind coming in to see
her brother. He was wounded with a gunshot in the arm about ten days
ago. Dr. Hudson, who was one of your pupils, I believe, said he would
like to have you see him when you came. I wonder if you would mind
coming in now.” Kathleen's face was flushed and her words flowed in a
hurried stream.
“Not at all, not at all,” answered the doctor, rising hastily from the
motor and going in with Kathleen.
“Oh, Larry,” breathed Jane in a rapture of delight, “isn't she lovely,
isn't she lovely? I had no idea she was so perfectly lovely.” Not the
moon, nor the glory of the landscape with all its wonder of plain and
valley and mountain peak had been able to awaken Jane to ecstasy, but
the rare loveliness of this girl, her beauty, her sweet simplicity, had
kindled Jane to enthusiasm.
“Well, Jane, you are funny,” said Larry. “You rave and go wild over
Kathleen, and yet you keep quite cool over that most wonderful view.”
“View!” said Jane contemptuously. “No, wait, Larry, let me explain. I
do think it all very wonderful, but I love people. People after all are
better than mountains, and they are more wonderful too.”
“Are they?” said Larry dubiously. “Not so lovely, sometimes.”
“Some people,” insisted Jane, “are more wonderful than all the Rocky
Mountains together. Look at Kathleen,” she cried triumphantly. “You
could not love that old mountain there, could you? But, Kathleen--”
“Don't know about that,” said Larry. “Dear old thing.”
“Tell me how Mr. Romayne was hurt,” said Jane, changing the subject.
In graphic language Nora gave her the story of the accident with all the
picturesque details, recounting Kathleen's part in it with appropriate
emotional thrills. Jane listened with eyes growing wider with each
horrifying elaboration.
“Do you think his arm will ever be all right?” she inquired anxiously.
“We do not know yet,” said Nora sombrely.
“Nonsense,” interrupted Larry sharply. “His arm will be perfectly
all right. You people make me tired with your passion for horrors and
possible horrors.”
Nora was about to make a hot reply when Jane inquired quietly, “What
does the doctor say? He ought to know.”
“That's just it,” said Nora. “He said yesterday he did not like the look
of it at all. You know he did, Larry. Mrs. Waring-Gaunt told me so. They
are quite anxious about it. But we will hear what Dr. Brown says and
then we will know.”
But Dr. Brown's report did not quite settle the matter, for after the
approved manner of the profession he declined to commit himself to
any definite statement except that it was a nasty wound, that it might
easily have been worse, and he promised to look in with Dr. Hudson
to-morrow. Meantime he expressed the profound hope that Mrs.
Waring-Gaunt might get them as speedily as was consistent with safety to
their destination, and that supper might not be too long delayed.
“We can trust Mrs. Waring-Gaunt for the first,” said Larry with
confidence, “and mother for the second.” In neither the one nor the
other was Larry mistaken, for Mrs. Waring-Gaunt in a very few minutes
discharged both passengers and freight at the Gwynnes' door, and supper
was waiting.
“We greatly appreciate your kindness, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt,” said Dr.
Brown, bowing courteously over her hand. “I shall look in upon your
brother to-morrow morning. I hardly think there is any great cause for
anxiety.”
“Oh, thank you, Dr. Brown, I am glad to hear you say that. It would be
very good of you to look in to-morrow.”
“Good-night,” said Jane, her rare smile illuminating her dark face. “It
was so good of you to come for us. It has been a delightful ride. I hope
your brother will be better to-morrow.”
“Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. “I should be glad to have
you come over to us. I am sure my brother would be glad to know you.”
“Do you think so,” said Jane doubtfully. “You know I am not very clever.
I am not like Kathleen or Nora.” The deep blue eyes looked wistfully at
her out of the plain little face.
“I am perfectly certain he would love to know you, Jane--if I may call
you so,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, impulsively kissing her.
“Oh, you are so kind,” said Jane. “I will come then to-morrow.”
The welcome to the Gwynne home was without fuss or effusiveness but had
the heart quality that needs no noisy demonstration.
“We are glad to have you with us at Lakeside Farm,” said Mr. Gwynne
heartily, as he ushered Dr. Brown and Jane into the big living room,
where his wife stood waiting.
“You are welcome to us, Dr. Brown,” said the little lady. And something
in the voice and manner made Dr. Brown know that the years that had
passed since his first meeting with her had only deepened the feeling of
gratitude and affection in her heart toward him. “We have not forgotten
nor shall we ever forget your kindness to us when we were strangers
passing through Winnipeg, nor your goodness to Larry and Kathleen while
in Winnipeg. They have often told us of your great kindness.”
“And you may be quite sure, Mrs. Gwynne,” said Dr. Brown heartily, “that
Larry brought his welcome with him, and as for Kathleen, we regard her
as one of our family.”
“And this is Jane,” said Mrs. Gwynne. “Dear child, you have grown. But
you have not changed. Come away to your room.”
Once behind the closed door she put her arms around the girl and kissed
her. Then, holding her at arm's length, scrutinised her face with
searching eyes. “No,” she said again with a little sigh of relief, “you
have not changed. You are the same dear, wise girl I learned to love in
Winnipeg.”
“Oh, I am glad you think I am not changed, Mrs. Gwynne,” said Jane, with
a glow of light in her dark blue eyes. “I do not like people to change
and I would hate to have you think me changed. I know,” she added shyly,
“I feel just the same toward you and the others here. But oh, how lovely
they are, both Kathleen and Nora.”
“They are good girls,” said Mrs. Gwynne quietly, “and they have proved
good girls to me.”
“I know, I know,” said Jane, with impulsive fervour, “and through those
winters and all. Oh, they were so splendid.”
“Yes,” said the mother, “they never failed, and Larry too.”
“Yes, indeed,” cried Jane with increasing ardour, her eyes shining,
“with his teaching,--going there through the awful cold,--lighting the
school fires,--and the way he stuck to his college work. Nora's letters
told me all about it. How splendid that was! And you know, Mrs. Gwynne,
in the 'Varsity he did so well. I mean besides his standing in the
class lists, in the Societies and in all the college life. He was really
awfully popular,” added Jane with something of a sigh.
“You must tell me, dear, sometime all about it. But now you must be
weary and hungry. Come away out if you are ready, and I hope you will
feel as if you were just one of ourselves.”
“Do you know, that is just the way I feel, Mrs. Gwynne,” said Jane,
putting the final touch to her toilet. “I seem to know the house,
and everything and everybody about it. Nora is such a splendid
correspondent, you see.”
“Well, dear child, we hope the days you spend here will always be a very
bright spot in your life,” said Mrs. Gwynne as they entered the living
room.
The next few days saw the beginning of the realisation of that hope, for
of all the bright spots in Jane's life none shone with a brighter and
more certain lustre than the days of her visit to Lakeside Farm.