Mrs. Belknap was brought up face to face with the inevitable by Mary
MacGrotty, who presented herself the next morning in the door of her
mistress's room. Miss MacGrotty's countenance was stern and gloomy. Her
words were few and to the point.
"I ain't goin' to stay wid yez no longer," she said.
"Why, what can have happened, Mary?" Mrs. Belknap asked, with
hypocritical solicitude.
Miss MacGrotty eyed her young mistress haughtily. "Sure, mum, an' you
know well enough widout askin' me," she said. "There ain't no room in
wan house for hur an' me."
"Do you mean Jane?"
"I do, mum; I mean Jane, wid her purty face an' her big eyes an' her
foine goin's-on behind the back o' yez. It ain't fer me to worrit the
life out o' yez wid tellin' you all 'at I know. But I'm sorry fer yez;
that's all."
The inexperienced Mrs. Belknap fell into the artful trap with ease.
"What do you mean, Mary?" she demanded anxiously.
Miss MacGrotty shrugged her shoulders. "I'll trouble yez for me money,
mum," she said loftily. "I'll not make no trouble in the house."
Mrs. Belknap happily remembered her husband's counsel at this crucial
moment. "Very well, Mary," she said coolly, "I will look over my account
book and have the money ready for you when you have packed and put your
room in order."
Miss MacGrotty threw back her head with a defiant toss. "Sure, an' I'll
not be lavin' the house till I've had me rights! There's things been
missed, an' I'll not have it said that Mary MacGrotty wud touch the lave
of a pin!" Then of a sudden she melted into copious tears. "I've be'n
that happy an' continted sinse I come to live wid you, Mis' Belknap;
sure, I can't bear the thoughts of lavin' you an' Master Buster, wid
the shwate little face on him. If it wasn't fer _hur_ I'd never be
thinkin' of goin'; but my feelin's has be'n hur-r-t an' trampled on till
I can't bear it no more. Tell me _wan thing_, Mis' Belknap, wasn't we
all goin' on peaceful an' happy loike before _she_ come, wid Mis'
Whittaker to wash an' sweep, an' me in the kitchen?"
Mrs. Belknap temporized weakly. "Do you mean to tell me that if I will
discharge Jane, you will stay?" she said at last.
"I do, mum; an' may I cross my feet this day if I stay in the same house
wid hur another week. She ain't my sort, mum!"
Still Mrs. Belknap hesitated. Jane was proving herself a most
intelligent caretaker for the idolized Buster. Indeed his mother was
forced to acknowledge that that young person's conduct showed a not
inconspicuous improvement since he had been under the firm but gentle
rule of English Jane. On the other hand, Mary's bread and rolls were
faultless, her pastry and salads beyond criticism, and her laundry work
exhibited a snowy whiteness and smoothness most gratifying to the eye
and touch of a dainty woman like Mrs. Belknap; singularly enough, not a
single MacGrotty relative had sickened or died since the advent of Jane.
This last reflection colored her next remark. "You have been much more
reliable lately, Mary," she observed thoughtfully, "and we all like your
cooking."
"_Reliable!_" echoed Miss MacGrotty warmly, "reliable? Ain't I always
reliable? Why, mum, in the last place where I wuz workin' four years to
the day, an' where I'd be yet on'y the leddy died--a shwate, purty leddy
she wuz, too. Often's the toime I've said to meself, 'Mis' Belknap's the
livin' image of hur,' I says, an' that's why I can't bear to be leavin'
yez, mum. But, as I wuz sayin', Mis' Peterson she wud be sayin': 'Oh,
Mary MacGrotty!' she says, 'I don't know what I'd be doin' widout
_you_,' she says. 'You're _that reliable_,' she says. Of course, I've
had turrible luck wid me family bein' tuk bad since I lived wid you.
But, the saints be praised! they're all well an' hearty now, exceptin'
me brother's youngest gurl that's bad wid her fut from bein' run over
by a milk wagon. Yis, mum, a turrible accident, it wuz, mum. _Hev ye
looked in hur things?_"
"Have _I what_?" faltered Mrs. Belknap.
"Looked in that gurl's trunk, mum," repeated Miss MacGrotty in a ghostly
whisper. "If you ain't, you'd better; that's all."
"Oh, I shouldn't like to do that. Dear, _dear_! what ought I to do,
anyway?"
"A workin' gurl what brags of havin' a goold watch wid a dimon' in the
back, an' a locket wid pearls an' two goold rings, wan of 'em wid a
foine blue stone in it, ain't honest, I sh'd say."
"Did Jane----?"
"I seen 'em wid me own eyes," affirmed Miss MacGrotty dramatically.
"'Where did you git the loikes o' thim?' I says to 'er. 'They wuz giv to
me,' she says, 'in me last place,' she says."
"Dear, dear!" repeated Mrs. Belknap. Then she straightened her trim
figure. "You may go now, Mary; I shall be obliged to talk with Jane,
and with Mr. Belknap, too. I don't wish to be unjust."
"You'd better talk to Mr. Everett, mum, whilst you're talkin'!" said
Mary, with artful emphasis. "Sure, an' he's too foine a gintleman
entirely to----"
"You may go to your work at once, Mary," repeated Mrs. Belknap sternly.
"I will tell you to-morrow what I have decided to do." Nevertheless the
last barbed arrow had found its mark in Mrs. Belknap's agitated bosom.
"I wonder if Jack--could--" she murmured, her mind running rapidly back
over the past weeks. He had taken the girl's part masterfully in the few
half-laughing discussions which had taken place concerning the romantic
fortunes of Jane. "She is a lady, sis," he had declared stoutly, "and
you ought to treat her like one."
"Impossible!" she thought. Of course there couldn't be such a thing in
America as the rigid class distinctions of England; still, an _Everett_
could hardly be seriously attracted by a _servant_. It was, she decided,
merely another case of dear old Jack's overflowing goodness and
kindness of heart--a heart which seemed big enough to harbor and warm
the whole world of forlorn humanity. It was, in short, "the Everett
way." Margaret Belknap recalled her father's beautiful courtesy which
had exhibited itself alike to the washerwoman and the wife of the
millionaire. All women were sacred in the eyes of the Everett men. And a
poor, sick, helpless or downtrodden woman was the object of their
keenest solicitude.
Why, Jack, she remembered, had on one occasion carried Mrs. Whittaker's
little girl through the mud and rain for a full block, with that
melancholy personage following close at his heels, delivering fulsome
panegyrics on his goodness. "And there wasn't a bit of use of it,
either; the child could have walked perfectly well," Mrs. Belknap
reminded herself. Jack was the dearest boy in the world--except Jimmy;
but, of course, he was _absurd_--sometimes. All men were. It was her
manifest duty to see to it that no appealingly helpless female
succeeded in attaching him to her perpetual and sworn service. It was
her duty; and she would do it.
This praiseworthy resolution shone keenly in her blue eyes when Jane
encountered them next. Behind the resolution lurked a question. Jane
answered it by asking another. "I fear you are not satisfied with my
work, Mrs. Belknap," she said meekly. Somehow or other, without exactly
knowing why, she had become increasingly solicitous about pleasing this
pretty, clear-eyed young matron, who, it might have seemed, was not so
difficult to please.
"Why, yes, Jane," Mrs. Belknap answered hesitatingly, "I _am_ pleased
with your work. You are really very neat about your sweeping and
dusting, now that I have taught you how"--this with a complacent tilt of
her brown head--"and you really manage surprisingly well with Buster. I
think he positively likes you--_the darling_! But----"
Jane waited the outcome of that "but" with a sinking heart.
Mrs. Belknap was gazing at her hand-maiden's downcast, faintly blushing
face with searching eyes. "Jane," she said at last, "Mary has given me
warning."
"Do you mean that Mary is going to leave you, ma'am?"
Mrs. Belknap sighed involuntarily. "Yes; that is what I mean. I was so
sorry, Jane, to hear from Mary that you two cannot live peaceably in the
same house. And then----"
"What else did Mary say about me, Mrs. Belknap?" demanded Jane with
kindling eyes.
"She said---. O Jane, how can I tell you? You _seem_ such a nice girl!"
"I _seem_--yes, madam; but you think I am not what I seem. Well, I am
not. I ought not to be doing the work of a servant in this house. I
ought never to have come here." Jane threw back her pretty head and
stared at Mrs. Belknap from under level lids.
Mrs. Belknap returned the look with one of startled interest. She had
recalled the smuggling episode. "What--do you mean, Jane?" she asked.
"You are not----"
"I am a lady," said English Jane haughtily; "and so I do not belong in
anyone's servant's hall. That is what I mean."
"Oh!--_a lady_!" repeated Mrs. Belknap, and she smiled. "Everyone who
works out in America is 'a lady.' We who employ servants are simply
women. But perhaps you did not know that, Jane." She remembered her
brother's emphatic assertions, and added kindly: "I have noticed Jane,
that you appear somewhat above your station. But you should remember
that honest work never hurts anyone's real character. Character is
marred by--by something quite different. When one allows oneself to be
tempted to--to take what belongs to another, for instance."
"Do you mean, Mrs. Belknap, that you think _I_ stole the things you have
missed?" demanded Jane, her hazel eyes darting fire. "Did that wicked
Mary say _that_ to you? Yes; I see that she did. And you"--with bitter
anger and scorn quite impossible to convey--"believed it!"
Mrs. Belknap appeared to grow small in her chair under the direct light
of the girl's indignant eyes. "I--I do not _accuse_ you of anything,"
she faltered. "I wish above all things to be just to everybody
concerned."
Jane was silent. She was thinking confusedly of _noblesse oblige_. "You
told me you were not easily deceived," she said, after a long pause;
"but you are. If you were not blind you would _know_ that I am incapable
of anything of the sort. But if you prefer to believe Mary because she
cooks your food as you like it, I shall not complain. I cannot cook."
This random shaft hit so squarely in the bull's eye of Mrs. Belknap's
wavering thought that for the moment that worthy young matron was quite
overcome with confusion. Then she rallied her forces.
"Now that we have entered upon this very disagreeable conversation,
Jane, we may as well come to a full understanding--if such a thing is
possible," she said decidedly. "I dislike more than I can tell you
mentioning the matter, because it would seem to be none of my affairs;
but Mary told me that you had shown her several articles of jewelry
which struck me as being--well, to say the least, as unsuited to a young
girl situated as you seem to be in the world, and----"
"I never showed Mary anything that belonged to me, nor talked to her
about myself," said Jane stonily. "But I will show the contents of my
box to you, madam--if you have not already seen it," she added keenly.
"No--no, Jane, indeed, I have not!" denied her mistress. "I have never
made a practice of looking into a servant's possessions without her
knowledge, as so many housekeepers do." Mrs. Belknap was feeling
thoroughly uncomfortable; quite, as she afterwards expressed it, as
though she were the culprit brought to the verge of a damaging
confession.
"Very well, madam, if you will come upstairs to my room with me I will
show you my watch and my locket, and whatever else I have which you
think may interest you."
The faint irony in Jane's well-modulated tones brought the color to
Mrs. Belknap's forehead; but she arose determinedly. "Thank you, Jane,"
she said, "it will be best, I think."
Jane threw open the door of the metamorphosed trunkroom with the air of
an empress. "Please sit down, Mrs. Belknap," she said politely. Then she
opened the lid of her trunk. "This is my watch, of which Mary spoke to
you. It belonged to my mother; it has her monogram on the back, you see;
and inside is her name, Jane Evelyn Winston."
Mrs. Belknap's eyelids flickered inquiringly.
"Winston was my mother's name before she was married," Jane explained,
with a scornful curl of her pretty lip. "This locket has my father's
picture in it, as you see. Mother used to wear it on her neck. I can
just remember it."
"It is a very handsome locket," murmured Mrs. Belknap.
"And these are mother's wedding and betrothal rings. This sapphire is
very old; it belonged to my great-great-grandmother Aubrey-Blythe.
There are some other jewels which belonged to mother, but Uncle Robert
has them put away for me. I suppose I shall never see them again."
Jane choked a little over her last words, and two or three big, homesick
tears dropped on the two rings.
"_Jane!_" exclaimed Mrs. Belknap, with sudden sharpness, "what--what is
_that_?" She was pointing to a corner of the trunk, her eyes round with
horrified surprise.
Jane's tear-blurred gaze followed the direction of her mistress's
accusing finger.
"Will you take everything out of the trunk, please, and place the
articles on this chair, one by one," commanded Mrs. Belknap.
The girl obeyed in stupefied silence.
"Do these articles--this fraternity badge, these hat pins, and this
handkerchief belong to you, Jane?"
"No!--oh, my God, _no_!" cried Jane, staring with a suddenly blanching
face at the little group of articles which Mrs. Belknap had singled out
from among the things on the chair.
There was a tense silence in the room for the space of a minute; then
Master Belknap's little feet were heard laboriously climbing the stair.
"Muzzer!" he shouted, "I want 'oo, muzzer! I tan't find my Jane!"
Jane sobbed aloud.
"Oh, Jane, I _am_ so _sorry_!" sighed Mrs. Belknap faintly. "Of course,
you will have to go. But I shall not--" She hesitated over the harsh
word, and finally substituted another. "I shall not tell anyone of this;
except," she added firmly, "Mr. Belknap and Mr. Everett. I _must_ tell
them, of course. They will be sorry, too."
Jane stared at her mistress through a blur of anguished tears.
"Do you think--oh, you _can't_ believe I did it?"
"What else _can_ I believe?" Mrs. Belknap said sorrowfully. Then she
arose with decision. "If you will come to me when you have packed, Jane,
I will pay you your wages. And I do hope, my poor girl, that this will
be a lesson to you. _Nothing_ is so well worth while as truthfulness and
honesty. _Try_ to remember it, Jane, after this; will you?"
Jane's face hardened. "I didn't do it," she said doggedly. "That wicked
Mary has been in my room. She said she had. She must have put these
things in my trunk. I never saw them before."
"_Jane!_" exclaimed Mrs. Belknap; there was stern reproof, righteous
anger, and a rapidly growing disgust in her voice. Then she swept out,
pausing merely to say: "You may pack your things _at once_!"
John Everett came home early from the city that night. He had arrived at
an important decision--namely, to make a confidante of his sister with
regard to his unmistakable feelings for Jane. "Margaret is a brick!" he
told himself hopefully. "She will understand; I know she will, and do
the square thing by us both. It isn't as though Jane was a common,
uneducated person; she is a lady to the tips of her little
fingers--bless her!"
Mr. Everett's ideas had undergone a rapid and wonderful change within
the few weeks of his meager acquaintance with Jane. He no longer
appeared to himself to be breasting an unfriendly current of life with
the mere vision of a distant, sunny shore to cheer his untiring efforts.
He seemed suddenly to have attained a larger and completer knowledge of
himself and of his powers. He knew himself to be abundantly able to make
a home for the dearest, sweetest little girl in the world, and he was
ready to ride rough shod and triumphant over difficulties of every
conceivable sort. Since he had arrived at this by no means tardy
conclusion of the matter, his love for Jane had over-leapt its barriers,
and was ready to sweep all before it, including the girl's own
delightful shyness and maiden coldness.
Mr. Everett found his sister Margaret at her little desk, a
leather-covered account book open before her, a pile of bills and silver
pushed to one side. He stooped to pinch her pink ear, following the
pinch with a hearty brotherly kiss. Then he perceived that something was
seriously amiss with the little lady. There were tears in her eyes and a
piteous quaver in her voice as she looked up to greet him.
"What's the matter, little woman?" he asked gayly. "Won't the accounts
balance?"
He bent nearer and read: "Jane Evelyn Aubrey-Blythe. Began work April
26th; wages $14.00."
"Is _that_ her name?" he almost shouted. "Why didn't you tell me
before?"
"I don't know what you mean, Jack," Mrs. Belknap replied petulantly.
Then she burst into nervous tears as she faltered: "Jane's--_gone_! And,
oh, Jack, she _wouldn't_ take her wages!"