It was a glorious May day. Jane, whose sound digestion and general
superlatively good health enabled her always to front life genially,
even when she was most convinced that it was nothing but a heartless
farce, was in rollicking spirits. She let Johnson, Billie’s chauffeur,
take full charge of the car, while she lay back luxuriously, humming
snatches of gay song or planning fresh audacities that would humble the
proud spirit of the Willoughbys. But silence for any length of time
when there was somebody to talk to was always irksome to Jane.
“You have heard of Elijah, of course?” she observed, presently, to the
smug-faced driver.
“Mrs. Carruth’s man, mum?” he asked, stolidly.
“Goodness, no, Johnson!” exclaimed Jane, in a horrified voice.
“Though, really”--judiciously--“if Polly insists on his keeping up
that awful pace with her car, I think he, too, will go to heaven in
a chariot of fire. But”--this to the chauffeur--“I was not referring
to Mrs. Carruth’s man, Elihu, but to Elijah, a Bible character. Don’t
you”--severely--“read your Bible, Johnson?”
“Well, mum,” began Johnson, cautiously, “seeing as how I didn’t take
much to books when I was a kid, and seeing as how big words always
kind of floor me now, I don’t go in much for readin’, ’cept about the
sports in the papers.”
“They should publish the Bible in words of one syllable,” reflected
Jane. “I must speak to the bishop about it. Elijah, Johnson, was a
prophet who went to heaven in a chariot of fire. I’ve always liked to
think that it was a kind of superior motor car, and that it took Elijah
several days to reach his destination, and that he had a perfectly
delicious time whizzing up through the air, past the stars and the
moon, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised, Johnson, if he leaned out
and jabbed at the moon as he passed, just to see what it was really
made of. Personally, I take no stock in what the scientists tell us,
and I’ve often thought that if Elijah had come back and told about
his ride, they wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Now, it’s my private
opinion, Johnson, that the world is flat, as flat as a--goodness
gracious, what’s that!”
“It’s somethin’ gone wrong, mum,” said Johnson, resignedly. “There
was a bolt I was suspectin’ of this morning, but Mr. Scott said
that on no account was you to be kept waitin’, and that, bolt or no
bolt, I was to be at your door at ten sharp. An’ you’ll remember,
mum”--reproachfully--“that I waited in front of those steps one hour by
th’ watch Mr. Scott gave me Christmas, and if it wasn’t for the fact
that every minute I was expectin’ to see you come runnin’ down them, I
could have put in a new bolt----”
“Of course it’s all my fault, Johnson,” interrupted Jane, “but I never
was on time in my life, and I’m too old to begin now. Here’s a nice
secluded bit of road where you can overhaul the car, and I’ll just walk
about a bit for exercise. But don’t let it take long, Johnson, for I’m
simply famished, and we have to go ten miles yet before we get any
luncheon.”
By this time the driver was under the car, and only a pair of
tremendous boots was visible. After giving them an amused look, Jane
divested herself of her motor rig, shook out her skirts, and, with
a parting warning to Johnson to blow the horn when he was ready,
sauntered slowly down the country road, which reminded her of one of
the picturesque lanes in English Surrey.
“It’s a queer thing,” she communed with herself, as she walked along,
“that the first day I’m in the country I adore it, and resolve firmly
never, never to leave it again; and the second day I begin to pick
flaws in it, and take notice of all the hideous little creeping things,
and the third I loathe it, and feel that I will die instantly if I
can’t get back to where there are lots of people and a great deal of
noise and plenty of dirt. I suppose I----”
Jane’s saunter and reflections both came to an abrupt end, for a
turn in the lane had disclosed to her a man sitting on a log by the
roadside, munching hungrily at an appetizing-looking sandwich, the most
appetizing one, the hungry Mrs. De Mille instantly decided, that she
had ever seen. Beside the man was a small hamper of straw, and leaning
against the log was a bottle. He was reading out of a small book, and
utterly oblivious, apparently, to his surroundings. He finished in a
few bites the sandwich, and, without lifting his eyes, thrust his hand
in the hamper, drew forth another, and proceeded deliberately to devour
that, too. More and more envious grew Jane’s eyes as she watched the
rapid shrinking of the thing she most coveted just then. The second
sandwich disappeared like its predecessor, and once more the long,
brown hand sought the hamper. Another sandwich was drawn forth, it was
raised to the man’s mouth, but before he had a chance to take a bite
Jane cried out, impulsively: “Oh, please don’t eat them _all_!”
The man looked up, bewildered, and then, catching sight of Jane, sprang
to his feet and pulled off his cap. “I--beg your pardon,” he began,
uncertainly; “did you speak?”
“Yes,” calmly answered Mrs. De Mille, who was always prepared to back
her own imprudent impulses. “I asked you to please not eat that other
sandwich. I’m terribly hungry!”
A smile lighted up the man’s serious face. “Oh, there are more in the
hamper,” he answered. “My appetite is big enough, but it is not as big
as Mrs. Moore thinks it is. Please help yourself.” He held out the
hamper.
“Thanks,” said Jane, taking a sandwich and beginning to devour it
hungrily. “If Mrs. Moore made these,” she observed, presently, “I think
she has very good taste--in sandwiches.”
“It’s her specialty,” he responded. “Everybody, you know, has a
specialty. But won’t you be seated?” With a gesture he indicated the
log, and Jane, frankly delighted with her adventure, seated herself.
“Have they?” she queried, helping herself to another sandwich. “Now, I
wonder what mine is?”
The man regarded her with interest. “If you have just fallen from the
sky----” he began.
“No, it was a motor car,” interrupted Jane. “That is, I didn’t fall
from it, but something happened to a bolt. The chauffeur is working at
it down the road a bit. I didn’t stay to examine it, for I always get
a smudge on my nose when I look at the works of a motor car. Perhaps
that’s my specialty--getting smudges on my nose.” She looked at the man
and smiled. “It isn’t a very useful one, is it?”
“There are practical specialties and ornamental specialties,” he
observed, “and it’s----”
“Oh, well, you know getting a smudge on one’s nose is neither
ornamental nor practical,” broke in Jane, with a laugh. Then, changing
the subject quickly: “It’s awfully good of you to feed the hungry.”
“Pray let me give drink to the thirsty, too,” he said. Picking up a
small silver cup, he walked over to a brook that purled behind them,
rinsed it out and, coming back, filled it from the bottle of wine that
rested against the log.
Jane drank it gratefully. “I never in my life had a more delicious
meal,” she said, quite truthfully. Then she looked at him
inquisitively. “Do you live some place around here, or did your car
break down, too?” she asked.
“I’m not so lucky as to own a car. I’m stopping for a time at
Rosemount--the village, you know.”
“Oh, then, perhaps you know the Willoughbys,” said Jane. “The
Willoughbys, of Willoughby Hall.”
“Do they live in an ugly mass of architecture on a hill, and does the
lady look like a grenadier and the man like a drummer boy in his first
engagement?”
Jane threw back her head and laughed. “That’s Aunt Susan and Uncle
Jacob to a T,” she exclaimed. The man flushed with embarrassment.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Of course I had no idea they were
relatives of yours.”
“You haven’t offended me,” Jane hastened to assure him. “I know they’re
impossible, though Uncle Jacob really means well. I’m on my way down
there now.”
“For a visit?” queried the man, who was staring at her in an impersonal
sort of way that rather piqued her.
“Not if I know myself, and I flatter myself I do,” she responded,
decidedly. “No, I’m going down to give them--Aunt Susan particularly--a
piece of my mind.”
“Lucky Aunt Susan!” commented the man, still regarding her with that
air of detached interest.
“You say that because you’ve never had a piece of my mind,” observed
Jane, darkly. “Because I’m desperately poor----”
“Poor!” exclaimed the man, disbelievingly, as his eye took in the
details of her exceedingly smart get-up.
“As poor as a church mouse,” said Jane, impressively. “I’m supported
by contributions made by the Willoughby connection, and because my
bills for the past season have been a--a trifle large, they wrote me an
abusive letter. Fancy!”
“Fancy!” echoed the man, absent-mindedly. “Why don’t you----”
But an explosive blast on a horn interrupted him. Jane rose hastily.
“That’s Johnson,” she said. “I must go. But how are you going to get
back to Rosemount?” she demanded.
“Oh, I’ll pick up one of the market gardeners along the road,” he
answered, indifferently. “Besides, I came out on a quest, and I can’t
return until it is successfully consummated.”
“A quest!” echoed Jane, and promptly sat down again. “It sounds
interesting,” she said; “tell me about it.”
“I’m looking for a heroine,” he explained.
“A heroine!” repeated Mrs. De Mille, blankly, wondering for the first
time if he was as sane as he looked.
“Yes, for a book, you know,” he said, in a matter-of-fact way. “I
scribble for a living, and lately my publishers have complained that I
never draw a real flesh-and-blood woman. I’ve determined to put one in
the new book I’m writing.”
“So you’re strolling around the country in search of one,” mused Jane.
“I should think you’d stand a better chance of finding one in town.”
There was another blast on the horn, short and angry this time, but
Mrs. De Mille waved it airily aside.
“I can’t work in town,” he answered. “I’ve just come back from Alaska,
and it seems so shut-in there.” He nodded in the direction of the
skyscrapers of New York.
“What would a heroine have to do?” queried Jane. “I mean a model
heroine?”
“Oh, just give me a chance to study her, and let me pay her for it,”
he answered, coolly. “I work in a small bungalow, and if she’d give
me some sittings----” But once more the voice of the horn broke in--a
long, reproachful, plaintive note this time. Mrs. De Mille rose,
reluctantly. “I really must go, or Johnson will ruin his voice,” she
said. Then she had a sudden inspiration. “You’re going to Rosemount,”
she said to the man. “Why can’t we take you there? I’d like to do
something to pay for that delicious meal.”
“You’ve paid me a thousandfold by accepting it,” he answered, quickly.
“I couldn’t think of putting you to any trouble.”
“It isn’t any trouble,” she answered, positively. “There’s plenty of
room in the car.” The man’s face showed signs of yielding.
“Come,” she commanded, imperiously; and he stooped and gathered up the
hamper and his book and followed her down the road.
“Johnson,” Mrs. De Mille called to the chauffeur, who was sitting in
the car like patience on a monument, but without the smile, “this
gentleman has saved me from starvation, and he’s now going to save you;
for in this hamper, Johnson, are three of the most delicious sandwiches
you ever ate. Hustle them down as quickly as you can, and then we’ll
repay his generosity by giving him a lift to Rosemount.”
When the car was well under way, Jane turned impressively to her new
acquaintance. “And now I want to ask you,” she said, “if you think I’d
do for the heroine?”
“It’s been my wish ever since I first set eyes on you,” he answered,
calmly. “I’m in great luck.”
“And the Willoughbys,” said Jane, cheerfully, “will be in a rage, so
it’s a delightful arrangement all around.”