The growing conviction of her own folly haunted Jane even in her belated
dreams, in which she found herself once more in the pleasant English
schoolroom superintending her two small cousins in their youthful
efforts to comprehend the fundamental principles of good conduct. "You
should always be considerate to those beneath you, Percy," she seemed to
be saying, "and help them whenever you can." Then she had quoted the
grand old motto of the French aristocracy, "_noblesse oblige_,"
explaining how one's superiority in any particular only added to one's
obligation to those less fortunate.
It was hard to awaken from this dream to find the rain beating heavily
upon the roof of Mrs. Belknap's trunkroom, and to realize, from an
inspection of the loud-voiced nickel clock which she had been told to
take upstairs, that she was very late indeed.
Mrs. Belknap was engaged in preparing breakfast as expeditiously as was
possible with her child hanging about her skirts and clamoring for his
food. She bestowed an impatient glance upon Jane as she entered the
kitchen, which had the effect of dispelling that young person's
contrition as effectually as one of Lady Agatha's ill-timed reproaches.
"I am sorry to be late," said Jane stiffly.
Mrs. Belknap did not reply. At the moment she was adding boiling water
to the coffee pot, and stirring its contents with a long-handled spoon.
Jane shrugged her shoulders. "She's an ill-bred person," she told
herself resentfully. "Shall I lay the table, madam?" she ventured, after
an uncomfortable silence, during which she watched her young mistress's
deft motions with dismayed interest.
"That is already done," replied Mrs. Belknap, turning her pretty,
flushed face upon Jane. "I believe I told you last night that Mr.
Belknap and Mr. Everett were obliged to leave for the city on the
half-past seven car. You should have been down an hour ago. I never call
a servant," she added severely.
Jane swallowed hard. Then _noblesse oblige_ recurred to her mind. "You
did tell me," she said, very gently, "and I am sorry I overslept. I will
try not to do that again. Shall I give Master Buster his breakfast,
ma'am?"
A variety of expressions passed in rapid succession over Mrs. Belknap's
mobile face, astonishment, pleasure, and a subdued twinkle of fun shone
in her eyes as she again turned to Jane. "Why, yes; you may--if he will
go with you."
A fleeting sense of wonder at this unchanging attitude of subserviency
toward the infant pervaded Jane's English mind. Then she stooped toward
the child. "If you will come with me, Master Buster, I will give you
your breakfast."
The child stared at her thoughtfully; then to his mother's manifest
astonishment he accepted the invitation. "I will do wiv oo," he said,
with immense condescension.
Mrs. Belknap heaved a thankful sigh. "How _sweet_ of the darling!" she
murmured. "Here is his breakfast food, Jane. He likes it with cream and
sugar. You may give him the juice of half an orange and two slices of
this whole wheat bread toasted, with butter. He will breakfast with us
this morning."
As Jane, in her frilled cap and white apron, bearing a tray, entered the
dining room she encountered Mr. John Everett. He looked at her
inquiringly. "Good morning," he said cheerfully.
"Good morning, sir," replied Jane unsmilingly, then blushed angrily to
find herself blushing. "He is very rude to notice a servant so
particularly," she told herself. Then her curiosity got the better of
her, and she stole a second glance at him. Mr. Everett was apparently
quite absorbed in his paper at the moment, and Jane had ample
opportunity to observe the fine, strong lines of his clean-shaven face.
He was undeniably handsome, Jane was forced to admit, and he looked
kind and sensible.
The small boy known as Buster now appeared, borne high aloft in his tall
father's arms, and presently the entire family was seated at the table.
Jane hated herself anew as she waited by her mistress's chair to pass
the cups of coffee on her little tray. Try as she would she could not
rid herself of the vision of Lady Agatha's scornful eyes, while Reginald
and Gwendolen seemed quietly to mock her from across the sea. In an
interval of absence from the dining room, in quest of fresh toast, she
caught a trill of low laughter; then Mrs. Belknap's carrying
voice--"Really quite impressive, isn't she? But I fear she's bound to be
more ornamental than useful."
Jane's indignant blushes betrayed her to at least one pair of eyes when
she reëntered the dining room, and Mr. John Everett plainly looked his
displeasure at his pretty sister, who was still exchanging smiles with
her husband.
"How would _you_ like it, sis?" Jane heard him ask pointedly, as the
two men were putting on their coats in the front hall.
"How _do_ I like it, you mean, Jack. Well, I only hope you'll find me
alive to-night," Mrs. Belknap had replied. Then she came out airily to
the kitchen, where Jane was awkwardly gathering the breakfast things
preparatory to washing them.
"Now, Jane," said Mrs. Belknap, producing a leather-covered account
book, with a pretty air of importance, "I must have a little talk with
you. What is your full name, please?"
"Jane Evelyn Aubrey-Blythe," replied Jane distinctly. "My nobleness
obliges me to be truthful and polite," she thought.
Mrs. Belknap was surveying her with an incredulous smile. "Not
_really_?" she said. "You found that name in a novel, didn't you?"
"No, madam," said Jane coldly, "that is my full name."
"Where did you work before you came to me?" went on Mrs. Belknap, with
a pause of her busy pencil.
Jane hesitated.
Mrs. Belknap's clear eyes demanded instant answer, somewhat after the
manner of a magistrate conducting a legal examination. Master Belknap,
who was leaning upon his mother's knee in a complacently postprandial
state, also centered his direct gaze upon the girl's face.
"I--worked, that is, I was last employed by a--Mrs. Markle or--Madam
Melbrun," faltered Jane, loudly clashing the cups in her confusion.
"Be careful not to break the china, Jane," advised Mrs. Belknap, with
housewifely care. "In what capacity were you employed by this Mrs. or
Madam--what was the name?"
"I don't know," confessed Jane, with desperate frankness. "She told me
her name was Markle; afterwards she said it was Melbrun."
Mrs. Belknap shook her head, as she again glanced seriously at the name
with which she had just headed the clear, new page in her book of
accounts. "I cannot understand," she said strongly, "why people should
lie about their names, or, indeed, about anything. It is so much more
_sensible_ to tell the truth. That is what I often tell Mary: '_Do_ tell
me the truth, Mary,' I say to her. But I fear she never does."
"What, never?" exclaimed Jane, unconsciously plagiarizing from a comic
opera.
"It is a habit, I fear," said Mrs. Belknap in a depressed tone, "telling
falsehoods, I mean; some persons tell them when they might just as well
tell the truth, even from their own standpoint. Of course," she added
hastily, "it is always _right_ and _best_ to tell the exact truth. I
hope, Jane, that _you_ are a _truthful_ girl. You will get on much
better with _me_ if you are. Now what did you do for this person for
whom you last worked?"
"I smuggled," said Jane shortly.
"You--_what_?"
"Smuggled," repeated Jane; "I smuggled lace--five thousand dollars
worth, the man said. Mrs. Markle sewed it in my jacket between the
lining and the outside. But they found it and took it away."
Mrs. Belknap looked actually frightened for a minute. "I--I don't
believe it," she murmured weakly.
"I didn't know Mrs. Markle put the lace there," Jane went on firmly.
"She gave me a beautiful fur coat to wear on the ship, and asked me to
leave my jacket in her stateroom. She sewed the lace in the jacket
during the voyage."
"You _look_ like a truthful girl," mused Mrs. Belknap. "But-- Then you
have just come to America," she added shrewdly, "and you have no
references, of course?"
"No, Mrs. Belknap; I have not," replied Jane, expecting no less than an
instant dismissal after this damaging statement.
To her great surprise the lady closed her book with a slight shrug of
her shapely shoulders. "The matter of wages we discussed last night,"
she said tentatively. "Now I am expecting Mrs. Whittaker to wash this
morning; you will put the kitchen to rights as quickly as you can. And
remember, Jane, that although you have no references I shall soon be
able to find out just what sort of a girl you are. I am not easily
deceived."
This improving conversation was interrupted by the arrival at the back
door of a tall, thin, dyspeptic-looking person attired in a rusty black
gown and a dispirited hat, both of which articles of attire had
obviously seen better days.
"Good mornin', Mis' Belknap," began this individual, with a trenchant
sniff, as she divested herself of her draggled black skirt, which was
thus revealed as a sort of drop curtain concealing a scant gingham
wrapper beneath, girt about the waist with a decent checkered apron.
Mrs. Belknap displayed her white teeth in a winning smile as she
replied. "And this is my new maid, Jane Blythe," she added, indicating
that young person with an affable gesture.
"My! you ain't tellin' me that Mary MacGrotty's left you?" exclaimed
Mrs. Whittaker in a sympathizing tone; "as good an' kind as you've be'n
to her! I sh'd think she'd be 'shamed to treat you so mean. As I says to
m' 'usband this mornin', 'Mary MacGrotty,' I says, 'don't know when
she's well off, a-livin' with that sweet young lady.'"
"I expect Mary back within a few days," Mrs. Belknap said guardedly.
"She's away just now."
Mrs. Whittaker bent over the tubs with a deep, discouraged sigh. "M'
back's mos' broke this mornin'," she observed, flapping a wet sheet on
the board and lathering it freely with soap; "but what with five
childern to work fer, an' m' 'usband out o' work since Christmas, it
comes pretty hard on a body. Was you expectin' to stay right along?"
"Were you speaking to me?" asked Jane coldly.
Mrs. Whittaker cast a guarded glance about the kitchen. "She's gone;
ain't she? She ain't plannin' to keep _two_, is she?"
Jane made no reply. Mrs. Whittaker gazed at her for a moment with her
soapy arms akimbo. "You won't like it here," she said at last. "I c'n
see that without ha'f lookin'. _She's turrible to work fur._ _I_
couldn't stan' her--more'n fur a day now an' then. As I tell m' 'usband,
I wasn't made to be bossed by nobody. I'm awful proud an' independent,
an' _she_ thinks she's the hull thing. I guess if she knew all 'at I
know 'bout the goin's on in this 'ere kitchen she wouldn't be quite so
uppity."
A light step at the door announced the hasty return of Mrs. Belknap;
Mrs. Whittaker was discovered diligently rubbing, with a sad, but
resigned, expression of countenance.
"I brought down this embroidered shirt-waist for you to wash, Mrs.
Whittaker, and will you please be careful not to rub the embroidery on
the board; it isn't much soiled, you see; a little of this white soap
will be best for the flannels and for all these fine white things. By
the way, you haven't put any of that washing powder into the water, have
you? I buy that for the floors and tables; Mary thinks she can't get
along without it. But it is very bad for the clothes."
Mrs. Whittaker received the garment in question with an air of lofty
unconcern. "I wuz never known to put that nasty yellow stuff in m'
clo'es," she said haughtily. "I sh'd think you'd know me well 'nough by
this time to be sure o' that, Mis' Belknap. You don't need to worry
about nothin' when _I'm_ in the kitchen."
"I know you're very careful, Mrs. Whittaker," the young mistress of the
house made haste to assure her.
"I 'ope she'll keep out the kitchen the rest of the day," Mrs. Whittaker
observed acridly, as the door closed on Mrs. Belknap's retreating
figure. "The simple idee of _her_ teaching _me_ how to wash! No washin'
powder, indeed! Well, I guess I ain't a-goin' to rub m' fingers to the
bone fur her! That there white soap ain't worth shucks. But I'll take it
'ome with me; it'll do to wash the childern with."
Mrs. Whittaker sighed deeply as she crossed the floor with the cake of
white soap. "I'll just leave it in m' pocket," she said. "Is there a
drop of tea in that pot? No? Well, I'll make me a cup, I guess. My! I
feel s' kind o' weak an' gone at the pit o' my stomick this mornin', as
I wuz tellin' m' 'usband: 'I guess I'll have to take it 's easy 's I can
to-day,' I says. An' 'e says, 'Do,' 'e says, 'an' come home 's early 's
you can, Maria.' No; you won't be in this place long. You won't like it.
Me an' Mary gits along pretty fair; but she won't stan' another girl
around. Many's the time she's said so to me, right in this kitchen."
Jane hastily hung up the tea towels; her ears were burning under the
loose waves of her hair.
"I'll help m'self to what I want to eat," Mrs. Whittaker was saying
amiably; "I know where everythin' is, an' you don't need to stay 'round
here on my account. If you was wantin' to change yer place when your
week's out I know a real nice woman down the street 'at ain't got a
girl. I promised her yeste'd'y 'at I'd inquire 'round. I'd like to
'commodate _her_; her youngest girl's clo'es just fits my Edie May.
She's a nice woman to work for, too; she ain't always a-snoopin' 'round
like some other folks I know of."
Mrs. Whittaker paused to empty a liberal shower of the tabooed washing
compound into the boiler which was beginning to steam upon the range;
then she rummaged in the pocket of her gown with an abstracted air.
"Gracious! I 'ope I didn't leave that washin' soda to home. No; 'ere it
is."
Jane observed Mrs. Whittaker's movements with astonished interest as she
proceeded to cast certain large fragments of a whitish substance after
the washing powder. "Washin' soda's m' best friend, as I tell my 'usband
frequent. I most always carry some with me. Most the women I work for
can't abide it; but it takes the dirt out, an' it saves m' back. I don't
ask 'em to buy it, an' 's long 's I furnish it m'self I say it's none o'
their business. Mind, you don't say nothin' to _her_ 'bout my puttin'
washin' soda in the boiler! But I guess you ain't that kind nohow, as I
was sayin'----"
Jane hurriedly fled, the woman's whining voice sounding in her ears.