When Jane awoke the next morning she stared for a moment at the brownish
spot in the ceiling just over her bed, as she had done every morning
during a series of London seasons. It was a sprawling indefinite stain,
caused no doubt by some leak long since stopped in the roof overhead,
but it possessed in Jane's eyes the weird peculiarity of assuming
various pictorial shapes which matched the girl's own passing
experiences. Once she remembered seeing in it a train of gypsy wagons,
with a peculiarly alluring and picturesque gypsy plodding on
before--this in the days when she longed to run away, yet did not quite
dare for fear of being caught and brought back ignominiously to taste
the sharp sting of the ferrule, which lay darkly in wait for evil doers
in the upper left-hand drawer of Lady Agatha's private desk.
Of late years the stain had assumed the appearance of a mountain
valley, with a lofty castle perched high amid inaccessible cliffs. There
was a long series of romances connected with this imaginary abode, in
every one of which Jane herself, in a robe of white samite, bound about
the waist with a girdle of red gold, figured as heroine. Sometimes a
hostile army, their spears and pennants showing dimly through the trees,
would defile stealthily through the dark passes, to intrench themselves
before the castle moat, where Jane would parley with them, intrepid and
unblenching in a glistening coat of chain armor fitting her lithe figure
like a serpent's skin. Again, a solitary knight with closed visor
overshadowed by ebon plumes could be seen pulling in his foaming charger
below the embattled terraces awaiting a glimpse of the white figure
above.
On this particular morning beetling cliffs, castle and all had vanished
and Jane, rubbing the dreams from her eyes, beheld a wide expanse of
tumbling ocean, with a sky piled high with flying clouds, and in the
foreground, ploughing its way through the foam, a stately ship. Jane
stared unwinkingly at the vision for a long minute, then her eyes
descended in startled haste to the floor, where rested the locked and
strapped box, with O. A. B. in white letters on its end. Jane sat up in
the bed with a queer choking in her slender throat. If Oliver
Aubrey-Blythe were alive, his one daughter would not be driven forth
friendless into the wide world to make her difficult way.
Twenty minutes later, refreshed by her bath and dressed in the gown she
had chosen for her travels, Jane was quite her cheerful self again. She
was also unromantically hungry, and after a brief period of indecision
descended boldly to the breakfast room, where she was tolerably certain
of finding none of the female members of the household.
Mr. Robert Aubrey-Blythe was apparently just about finishing his repast
and his newspaper. He looked up as his niece entered the room. "Good
morning, Jane," he said fussily. "You are late."
"Yes, Uncle Robert," very meekly, "I overslept this morning."
"I--er--in short, Jane, I saw Towle again yesterday, at the Club,"
pursued Mr. Aubrey-Blythe, thoughtfully gazing at the girl through his
double eyeglasses. "The man is--er--quite daft about you, Jane. I own I
was astonished. Ha-ha! very amusing, I'm sure."
"I'll never speak to Mr. Towle again--_never_!" cried Jane, her cheeks
flaming. "The idea of his daring----"
"Tut-tut, girl; don't be a fool!" advised Mr. Aubrey-Blythe testily.
"What Towle said was--er--quite correct, quite as it should be, in
case--you--er--. By the by, Jane, why can't you hit it off better with
Lady Agatha and Gwendolyn? I'm infernally bored with having to hear
about your interminable squabbles; I am, indeed. And it's beastly bad
taste in you, Jane, to be always getting up scenes. You ought to know
that."
"There'll be no further scenes between Gwendolen and myself," said Jane,
very calm and dignified. "I can promise you that, sir."
"Well now, upon my word, that sounds something like," said Mr.
Aubrey-Blythe, pushing back his chair. "I trust you'll keep that in mind
hereafter. We--er--shall endeavor to do our duty by you, Jane; and you,
on your part----"
The girl's sudden and unexpected response to this well-meant attempt at
reconciliation shocked and astonished her worthy relative beyond
measure. She arose from her chair and put her two young arms about his
neck with something very like a sob. "I do thank you, Uncle Robert, for
all you've done for me," she said. "I've not meant to be disagreeable or
ungrateful since I've lived in your house; indeed I've not. But
I--couldn't help it, and I'm sorry for--everything!"
"Come--come--er--I say!" spluttered Mr. Aubrey-Blythe. "You mustn't, you
know, or I shall have to call Lady Agatha. I dare say you'll go on quite
as you should after this."
"Good-by, uncle," said Jane, smiling and winking fast to keep the tears
from falling off her thick lashes. "I'm glad I said it. You'll not
forget."
Then she sat down with a very good appetite to the fresh coffee and eggs
and bacon which were set before her. One must eat to live, however young
and beautiful one may be, and whatever the base and undeserved cruelty
of one's relations. She had not finished when Percy and Cecil clattered
into the breakfast room, with every evidence of having carried on a
spirited skirmish on the way downstairs.
"Hello, Jane, you here?" growled Cecil, drawing a long face. "We're to
have no lessons to-day, mind!"
"Who said so?" inquired Miss Blythe tranquilly.
"Mamma said so. She said you were going to be sent away directly, and
we're to go away to school. Hooray!"
"I don't want to go to school," whined Percy dismally. "I want Jane."
"Shut up, baby; you don't know what you're talkin' about. I don't want
Jane, an' I'm glad the mater's goin' to ship her; so there! Here, you,
Calkins, fetch us some hot muffins; these ain't fit to eat. And, I say,
hustle some marmalade while you're about it!"
Miss Blythe arose from her place. "If you can't ask civilly for your
food, Cecil, you don't deserve to have anything fetched," she said
rebukingly.
"Cecil's a cad, anyhow," muttered Percy, staring truculently at his
brother from under his light lashes.
"Aw! an' you're a bally baby!" retorted Master Cecil, stuffing half a
muffin into his cheek. "My, won't you catch it in school, though!"
"See here, boys," said Jane seriously, "very likely I'll not see you
again, for I am going away----"
"You're to be _sent_, you mean," interrupted Cecil impudently.
"Be quiet, sir, and pay attention to what I have to say; it's the last
time I shall take the trouble. You, Percy, have the instincts of a
gentleman. If you'll go on telling the truth every trip, no matter what
bully threatens you, and if you'll stand for what's decent and right
you'll have nothing to fear, in school or anywhere else. As for you,
Cecil, you've a lot to learn, and I heartily hope the big boys will
thrash your meanness and cowardliness out of you before you're entirely
spoiled, and I dare say they will. Good-by."
She stooped to kiss Percy warmly, and that small boy blubbered outright
as he rubbed his smeary little face against the girl's smooth cheek. To
Cecil she offered her hand, but withdrew it with a smile, as the
grateful recipient of her counsels thrust his tongue into his cheek with
a frightful grimace. "Good-by, boys," she repeated. "You'll find what
I've told you is true before you've done."
It was a long, lonely day, passed in a dreary attempt to hasten the
lagging hours with one of Susan's "shilling shockers," which that
worthy damsel had pressed upon her adored young lady's attention as
being "perfec'ly el'gant an' that thrillin' it ud raise yer 'air to read
it." Jane found "The Duke's Revenge, or the Secret of the Hidden
Staircase" insufficient to keep her wandering attention from the water
stain on the ceiling, which by this time had assumed the appearance of a
coach and pair careering at full gallop on the verge of a precipice. She
passed the morning in momently dreading a summons from Lady Agatha, but
none came, and after luncheon (which Jane decided to omit) peeping from
her lofty window she caught a glimpse of that stately matron and her
daughter magnificently attired sailing forth to their carriage. Later in
the day she beheld the Hon. Wipplinger Towle, immaculately groomed and
wearing a gardenia in his buttonhole, advancing up the street.
Ten minutes later Susan tapped at the door, the proud bearer of a slim
white card on a diminutive salver. "I told Jeems as 'ow I thought I'd
find you 'ere, miss," she said.
"You may say that I'm not at home, if you please, Susan," said Jane.
But Susan stood still in her tracks. "'Is 'air ain't much to brag of, I
know, miss," she ventured at length; "an' 'e can't be called 'an'some in
other pertic'lers, but I ain't sure as I wouldn't tak' up wi' 'im,
seein' there ain't no lord nor dook 'andy. 'E's a gent'man, that 'e is;
'an you'd be a-ridin' in a kerridge o' yer own wi' nobody to worrit you,
an' _me_ lidy's maid a-waitin' on you constant, instead of occasional
like, as I'm forced now along wi' my reg'lar dooties."
Jane laughed outright. "You're a good soul, Susan," she said; "but your
advice isn't exactly to my taste. Go down at once and do as I've told
you. Later I've something to say to you; and I shall want your help,
too."
By this Susan's eyes had lighted upon Jane's modest box, which stood
locked and strapped for its long journey at the foot of Jane's little
bed. "Oh, Miss Jane Evelyn," she blubbered, "you ain't a-goin' away!"
"I must," said Jane. "I can't stay here any longer. I'll tell you about
it when you come up again. You must go down directly now and tell James
to excuse me to Mr. Towle."
But James was engaged in parleying with another visitor when Susan
arrived at the level of the reception room, and after an instant's
reflection she smoothed down her immaculate apron, touched up the frills
of her cap, and boldly presented herself before the Hon. Wipplinger
Towle, who was waiting with his wonted middle-aged patience.
"Miss Jane Evelyn's be'n took bad wi' a wi'lent 'eadache, sir, an' will
you kindly excuse 'er, sir." And Susan bobbed her very best courtesy.
Mr. Towle stood up and fixed his glass in his eye. "Hum--ah! I am very
sorry to hear it. You will--er--tell Miss Aubrey-Blythe so, with my
compliments, my good girl."
"Yes, sir; I will, sir; an' thank you kindly, sir," said Susan, slipping
something into her apron pocket, with a broad grin.
Mr. Towle appeared to be gazing rebukingly at the frills on Susan's
cap; but that astute damsel knew better than to withdraw too hastily.
Presently he spoke again. "You are--ah--Susan; are you not?"
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir. I ain't nobody else but Susan, sir," beamed
the girl encouragingly. "An' I'm that fond of Miss Jane Evelyn, if
you'll believe it, sir, 'as I'd lay down willin' i' the mud an' let her
walk over me, that I would, sir!"
"Hum--ah!" murmured the Hon. Mr. Towle, "that is very good of you, I'm
sure, Susan; most praiseworthy, in short. Do you--er--attend Miss Blythe
when she--er--travels? She is going out of town, I believe."
"I don't know no mor'n nothink what Miss Jane Evelyn's a-goin' to do,
sir. I'd give me heyes to go wi' 'er; that I would; but I'll not be let,
sir."
"Then you don't know where she is going?"
"No, sir; not yet, sir; but she'll tell me, sure, afore ever she goes. I
'ate to say it as I shouldn't, but Miss Jane Evelyn 'arsn't many
friends in this 'ere 'ouse but me an' cook an' may'ap Master Percy, 'im
bein' the youngest of hall. I 'ear below stairs as 'ow she's to be sent
off somewheres directly, sir, an' the young lads'll go to school hafter
she's gone wot teached 'em faithful since the las' gov'ness went away."
"Hum--ah," mused Mr. Towle, scowling fiercely. "I say," he added
abruptly, "this doesn't seem a very civil thing for me to do; but it's
important I should know where Miss--er--your young mistress goes. I
might be able to be of service to her, you know."
"Yes, sir; I gets your meanin' quite, sir," pursued the ecstatic Susan,
feeling herself to be nothing less than confidential lady in a real,
live novel of absorbing interest. "I'll let you know, sir, as soon as
ever I finds out, an' find out I will, sir; you may depend upon it,
sir."
"Thank you, Susan, my good girl; do so by all means," said Mr. Towle;
then a second something clinked against the first in an adjacent apron
pocket.
After which Susan sped up the stairs as fast as her feet could carry
her, to find Miss Jane Evelyn calmly putting on her hat and veil before
her little mirror.
"I wish you would call a cab for me, directly, Susan," said the young
lady; "and could you help me carry this box down to the area door, do
you think?"
"Oh, Miss Jane Evelyn, where _are_ you goin'?" implored Susan, wild-eyed
with haste and sudden alarm. "Don't do nothink rash, I himplore you,
miss!"
"Don't be a goose, Susan; but do as you're bid. I have arranged to
travel in America with a--lady. And you must help me get away out of the
house without a scene; there's a good girl."
Susan sighed deeply. She was as wax in Miss Jane Evelyn's hands, and she
knew it. "Does the missus know where you're a-goin', miss?" she ventured
to inquire.
"No, Susan," Jane told her firmly. "I have decided to look out for
myself from now on; I am plenty old enough." Miss Blythe looked very
tall and dignified as she said this, and Susan went meekly away to call
the cab, fingering Mr. Towle's money as she did so with an air of guilty
reserve.
It was quite dusk when Jane's modest luggage was finally strapped atop
the cab, and Jane herself was seated within. Poor Susan stood blubbering
at the curb. "I wisht to 'eavin's you'd think better of it, Miss Jane
Evelyn," she whimpered. "I 'ate to see you a-goin' hoff like this wi'
nobody to say good-by but me, an' a nice gent'man likely a-breakin' 'is
'eart to bits when 'e finds you're gone."
"Pooh!" said Jane, rather faintly; "he'll not care. Nobody will care but
you, my good Susan. Good-by, _dear, dear_ Susan! And thank you again for
everything you've always been doing for me!"
"Oh, Miss Jane Evelyn, if you do be set on going'--as I see you be, I
'ope as 'ow you'll 'ave a most 'eavinly time, an' come back merried to a
rich gent'man--for they do say as 'ow all the gents in Hamerica is
a-rollin' in gold an' di'mon's; an' 'eavin knows you deserve the best of
heverythink, Miss Jane Evelyn; that you do! God bless you, miss, an'
thank you kindly! Good-by!"
Then the cabby slammed the door and Jane found herself rolling away to
Belgravia Crescent, where Mrs. Markle, clad in a voluminous traveling
cloak and heavily veiled, was waiting to join her. Mrs. Markle pressed
the girl's hand in her fat, moist palm. "I was beginning to fear you
would not, after all, come wiz me, dear child," she said sweetly. "I
should have wept wiz ze disappointment."
Once on board ship Mrs. Markle's manner changed perceptibly. "You will
not bozzer me while at sea," she said to Jane, rather sharply,
"_not--at--all_--you comprend? I am seeck--ah! I suffer wiz ze _mal de
mer_, an' I not talk--nevaire. You sleep in anozzer cabin--ze stewardess
she will show you. But stay, your jacket iss too--what you call it--too
theen--not war-rm for the sea. It iss so cold--ugh! see! I make you
warm wiz zis." And Mrs. Markle drew from her steamer trunk a luxurious
fur-lined cloak which she threw upon Jane's slender shoulders.
"Do you mean that you want me to wear this cloak?" asked Jane,
astonished beyond measure. "Oh, thank you! You are very kind; but I
think my own jacket will be quite comfortable. I could not wear a
borrowed garment."
The woman was smiling broadly, but the smile slowly faded as she stared
at Jane's flushed face.
"Eh--but w'y not?" she demanded. "You evaire cross ze ocean before zis?"
"No," confessed Jane; "but----"
"Zen you do as I say. You would fr-r-eeze in zis sing," and she fingered
Jane's modest wrap contemptuously. "Come," she murmured persuasively;
"you will please me--yes? I ha-a-te to have anyone wiz me feel ze
discomfort. Ah, now, see!"
Jane blushed resentfully, then sighed, as the luxurious folds fell about
her little figure.
"Why, it just fits me!" she exclaimed in an astonished voice.
"_Certainment!_" smiled the woman, passing her fat, jeweled fingers
complacently over the girl's shoulders. "I am very good judge of ze
figure. I was sure it would fit."
"What, did you buy it for me?" cried Jane, quite overcome by such
kindness.
"Why sure I did!" purred the woman. "An' ze leetle cap, too--see?" And
she settled a coquetish yachting cap into place on Jane's head. "Ze hats
wiz fezzers, zey blow into bits an' fly away at sea. You leave zis
leetle coat an' hat wiz me till we come in port, zen I gif zem to you
alright. But mind, you mus' not spik to anybody on ze
ship--_not--one--word--of--me_! You un'erstan'--eh?"
Jane stared at the woman's scowling face with something like fear. But
as she looked the frown on Mrs. Markle's large face melted into quick
laughter. "You're alright--alright, a real nize young lady," she
murmured, "you will not spik to men or to any womans--no, nevaire. Go
now, an' make ze voyage. I see you once every day after ze _dejeuner_."
Jane stepped out rather uncertainly into the brilliantly lighted
corridor beyond the stateroom door, then paused with a startled face.
Something strange and powerful had begun to throb in the unknown depths
beneath her feet, slowly at first, then steadying to a monotonous
beat--beat. The screw of the great ship, which was to bear her to new
and strange experiences beyond the sea, was in motion.
Several hours later Lady Agatha returning from a dinner party, very much
out of temper because her hostess had stupidly given the rich American
wife of an up-country baronet precedence over her, found a note skewered
to her cushion with a big black-headed hat pin (Susan's device, borrowed
from a shilling shocker).
"Aunt Agatha:" (she read) "I am going to America, and as I do not
intend to return, you will have no further reason to regret my
'unfortunate influence' over your children.
"Please say good-by to Percy for me. He is a _real Aubrey-Blythe_,
and I am sorry that I shall never see him again. But I shall not
pretend that I am sorry to be leaving your house. You will be glad
to be rid of me, I know; and I am equally glad of this opportunity
of going away. So we are quits.
"You seemed to feel that I do not appreciate what you have done for
me in the past. I think I have and do appreciate _everything_; I
have thought of little else of late. And this has led quite
directly to my present determination. Good-by, good-by!
"JANE EVELYN AUBREY-BLYTHE."
On the day following, the Hon. Wipplinger Towle was likewise the
recipient of a communication, the contents of which he finally
deciphered with difficulty. It was written on pink paper, strongly
scented with cheap perfumery, and was fetched to his lodgings, so his
man informed him, "by a very respectable appearin' pusson in blue an'
scarlet livery."
"i sed as ow i wud leve yu no, sir, wen mis Jane Evelyn went away,"--he
read--"shes gon to America, that is awl i no, sir, she went suddint, or
i wud ave towld yu. if i ad munny i wud follo. if the shu fitz, put it
awn. Susan Haythorne."