CHAPTER I_Jane Journeys On

Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images

generously made available by The Internet Archive/American

Libraries.)

[Illustration: "SAY, GIRLIE, DIDN'T I TELL YOU I'D PUT THE RAISIN IN IT?"]

JANE JOURNEYS ON

RUTH COMFORT MITCHELL

AUTHOR OF

"PLAY THE GAME," ETC.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

NEW YORK :: 1922 :: LONDON

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

W. C. MORROW

GUIDE AND FRIEND,

WHO HAS SET SO MANY

OF US ON OUR WAY

Transcriber's Note:

The Table of Contents is not printed in the book but has

been generated here for the convenience of the reader.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

JANE JOURNEYS ON

CHAPTER I

With but one exception, everybody in the upper layer of life in that

placid Vermont village was sure that Jane Vail was going to marry Martin

Wetherby. The one exception was Jane herself; she was not sure--not

entirely.

There were many sound and sensible reasons why she should, and only two

or three rather inconsequent ones why she should not. To begin with, he

was a Wetherby, and the family went steadily back in an unbroken line to

Colonial days; it was their grave old house with the fanlight over its

dignified door which had given Wetherby Ridge its name. He was doing

remarkably well at the bank; it was conceded that he would be assistant

cashier at the first possible moment; his habits were exemplary and he

was the most carefully dressed young man in the community. His mother

freely admitted at the Ladies' Aid and the Tuesday Club that he was as

perfect a son as any woman ever had, and that he would one day make some

girl a perfect husband.

Jane, after long and rebellious thought, could find nothing to set down

on the other side of the ledger beyond the fact that he was just a little

too good-looking, that he was already beginning, at twenty-six, to put on

the flesh which had always been intended for him, that his hands were

softer than hers, with fingers which widened puffily at the base, and

that she nearly always knew what he was going to say before he said it.

She was twenty-four years old, and the immemorial custom of that village

gave her a scant remaining year in which to make up her mind. All girls

who ran true to pattern were either snugly married or serenely teaching

by the time they were twenty-five, and the choice was not always their

own. There had been more marriageable maidens than eligible youths in the

set, and it was rather, Jane told herself grimly, like a game of Musical

Chairs--a gay, excited scramble, and some one always left out. Now, with

the exodus of a few and the marrying of many, it had narrowed down to

three of them--herself, Martin Wetherby, and Sarah Farraday, who was her

best friend during childhood and girlhood; and Sarah, an earnest, blonde

girl with nearsighted eyes and insistent upper front teeth, had, so to

speak, stopped playing. She had converted her dead father's old stable

into a studio by means of art burlap and framed photographs of famous

composers, and was giving piano lessons daily from ten to four. This left

the field entirely to Jane, and Jane was carrying about with her an

increasing conviction that she was not going to do the thing every one

expected her to do.

It came curiously to a crisis on a mild and unimportant day in November.

Jane spent a footless forenoon in her own room in the green-shuttered,

elm-shaded house where she lived with her adoring Aunt Lydia Vail, trying

to start a story. Miss Vail took great care to tiptoe whenever she passed

her door, and refrained from summoning her to the telephone, but her

pleasant old voice, explaining why her niece could not come, was clearly

audible.

"Yes, dear, she's at home, but she's at work at her writing, and you know

I never disturb her.... Yes, she's been shut away in her room since right

after breakfast.... Yes, it's a new story, but I don't know what it's

about. I'll ask her at dinner.... How's your mother, dear?... Oh, that's

_good_! That's what I always use and it never fails to relieve me. You

give her my love, won't you? I'll have Jane call you up when she comes

out for dinner."

The story simply would not start. It lay inert in the back of her brain,

listening for the telephone and Aunt Lydia's softly padding footfalls,

and at last she gave it up and got out the paper she was to read on "The

Modern Irish Dramatists" before the Tuesday Club that afternoon and went

carefully over its typed pages.

"Oh," said Aunt Lydia at the dinner table, her plump face clouding over,

"I'm _sorry_ the story didn't go well! It wasn't because you were

interrupted, was it, dear? I was especially careful this morning. You

know, I believe, without realizing it, you're just the least mite nervous

about your program. I know I am myself, though I know, of course, you're

going to do just beautifully."

Three and a half hours later, thirty-four matrons and spinsters were

warmly asserting that she had. They smiled up at her where she stood on

the shallow little platform with approval and affection, and the Chairman

of the Program Committee said she was sure they were all deeply indebted

to Miss Vail for a most enlightening little lecture. "I am free to

confess," she said, smiling, "that it is a subject upon which I,

personally, have been ignorant, and I believe many of our club ladies

would say the same."

Jane, looking down into their pleasant, best-family faces knew this was

the fact. The word "Irish" conveyed to most of them only the red-armed

minions in their kitchens; the boys who ran noisily up alleyways with

butchers' parcels; the short-tempered dames in battered hats who came--or

distressingly did not come--to them on Monday mornings, and who

frequently bore away with them bars of perfectly new soap; and the

chuckles and sobs and moonlit whimsies of Yeats and Synge and Lady

Gregory did not, in their minds, connect up at all.

"And now," said the President, in her sweet New England voice, "I know

you will all wish to express your appreciation both to the Chairman of

our Program Committee, who has arranged so many literary treats for us,

and to Miss Vail for her delightful paper by a rising vote of thanks."

Then the thirty-four ladies of the Tuesday Club clutched at their gloves

and handbags and came to their feet with soft rustlings of new foulards

and taffetas and rich old silks, and the President declared the meeting

adjourned but trusted that every one would remain for a cup of tea and a

social hour.

Martin Wetherby's handsome mother took brisk and proprietary charge of

Jane and shared her laurels happily. "Yes, in_deed_," she beamed, her

gray crêpe arm through the girl's, "I can tell you, _we're_ pretty proud

of her!" She had clearly cast herself already for the rôle of adoring and

devoted mother-in-law, and the Tuesday Club was just as clearly taking

the same view of it.

Jane, in her wine-red velvet and her glowing, gipsy beauty against the

sober blacks and grays and faded cheeks of the gathering, looking like a

Kentucky cardinal alighted in a henyard, felt her smile stiffening.

Sudden and inexplicable panic and rebellion descended upon her; it seemed

certain that if she heard Mrs. Wetherby say "proud of this dear girl of

ours" once again she would scream. She disengaged her arm and declined

tea and little frosted cakes.

"I'm so sorry--it looks so tempting, doesn't it?--but I really must fly!"

She looked earnestly at her wrist watch. "This very minute! Thank you all

so much! You've been wonderful--quite turned my head! But I _must_

hurry!"

Out in the quiet, pretty street the sense of pursuit fell away from her

and she was smiling derisively at herself when she reached Sarah

Farraday's house and passed through the side garden to the studio. An

hour with old Sally would be good for her.

Sarah was tenderly dusting her severe-looking upright piano and putting

away a pile of lesson books, and turned gladly to greet her. "Jane, dear!

Why, how did you get away so early? Didn't they serve tea? I was just

_sick_ about not going, but the little Macey girl has had so many

interruptions and is so far behind, and she does want to play at my

recital, so that I felt I couldn't put her off again. How did your paper

go?"

"Oh, well enough. They were very nice about it."

"I know they loved it. I want to read it!" She closed the music cabinet

and came to take the typed manuscript. "Why, _Jane_! What's the matter?"

"I don't know, Sally--Yes, I do know! It's--it's Mrs. Wetherby, and every

one else! She acts as if--every one acts--" it made her angrier still to

feel the color mounting hotly in her cheeks.

"Well, Jane, _dear_," a faint, sympathetic flush warmed her small, pale

face, "isn't that perfectly natural? Of course, I suppose it teases you,

but you know how happy every one is about it."

"But there isn't anything to be happy about--yet!"

"Then it's just because you have--have held things off, dear, that's all.

And I think Marty has been awfully faithful and patient--for _years_!

Ever since you were tiny kiddies!" She looked anxiously at her best

friend's mutinous face. "I'll tell you," she said, brightly, "let's run

around to Nannie's for a moment! She'll just be giving the 'Teddy-bear'

his oil rub. I'll run through the house and get my things--you wait out

in front!"

Nannie Slade Hunter (Mrs. Edward R.) was their second-best friend and

they had been among her bridesmaids two years earlier. A few minutes of

brisk footing through the fading November afternoon delivered them at the

Hunters' new, little house and in the nursery of their little son.

Sarah's knowledge of schedule had been correct. Nannie, in an enveloping

pinafore, her sleeves rolled high, her hands glistening, was anointing

her infant with the most expensive olive oil on the market. The house was

furnace heated and a small electric stove was radiating fierce warmth,

and her cheeks were blazing. Jane and Sarah flung off their wraps and

gave themselves whole-heartedly over to the business of worship and

praise.

Little Mrs. Hunter, on whom matronhood and maternity sat with the effect

of large spectacles on a small child, inquired indulgently into the

activities of her friends. "Paper go nicely, Janey? Sorry I couldn't

go.--Yes, he was his muzzie's lamby-lamby-boy! Yes, he was!--And how many

pupils have you now, Sally?"

"Seventeen," said Sarah, thankfully, "and if everything goes well I'll

have my baby-grand in four years!"

Edward R. Hunter, unmistakable father of the glistening infant, came into

the room as she spoke and at once propounded a conundrum.

"Here's a good one, Jane! What's the difference between Nannie and Sally?

Give it up? Why, Sally'll have a baby-grand, but Nannie has a grand

baby!" The hot and breathless nursery rang with mirth; it seemed to Jane

that the very pink room was growing hotter and hotter, and it smelt

stiflingly of moist varnish and talcum powder and warm olive oil and

expensive soap, and the baby, sitting solemnly erect for his powdering, a

steadying hand at his fat back, looked like a pink celluloid Kewpie

leering at her knowingly. She heard herself saying with unconsidered

mendacity that she had an errand to run for her Aunt Lydia, and that

Sally mustn't hurry away on her account, and presently she was down in

the dim street again, with Edward R.'s jocose reproach that old Marty

Wetherby was fading away to skin and bone echoing in her ears. She went

dutifully for a magazine Miss Vail had mentioned and went home the "long

way 'round," so that she was barely in time for supper, which consisted

of three slices of cold boiled ham, shaved to a refined thinness and

spread upon an ancient and honorable platter of blue willow pattern ware,

hot biscuit, a small pot of honey and two kinds of preserves, delicate

cups of not-too-strong tea, sugar cookies and a pallid custard.

Her aunt was fond and proud over the afternoon's triumph but didn't quite

understand her having gone away so abruptly, and feared that Mrs.

Wetherby had been "just the least mite hurt about it."

"But then," she hastened to add, at Jane's impatient movement, "it'll be

all right, dear! You're going to see her to-night, and I know you

can--sort of smooth it over."

"I was thinking," said her niece, dark eyes on her plate, "that perhaps I

wouldn't go this evening, Aunt Lyddy."

"Not _go_? Not go to Mrs. _Wetherby's_? Why,--_Jane_!" Miss Vail laid

down her fork and stared, her mild eyes wide with astonishment. "You

aren't sick, are you?"

"I think I'm sick of always and always going to the same places with the

same person, and hearing the same people say the same things!" Instantly

she wished she might recall the sharp words, satisfying as they were to

herself, for little Miss Lydia was regarding her much as the aunt of the

wretched girl in the fairy tale might have done,--the girl out of whose

mouth a frog jumped every time she opened it. Indeed, the sentence seemed

actually visible between them, like a squat and ugly small beast on the

shining white cloth. "Sorry, Aunt Lyddy," said Jane, penitently. "I'm a

crosspatch to-night, and I ought to sit by the fire and spin, instead of

gamboling."

Miss Vail's face cleared. "No, indeed, dearie, it'll be much better for

you to go and have a merry time with your young companions. That paper

was a nervous strain, _that's_ all! Now you just eat a good supper and

then run upstairs and make yourself as pretty as you can!" Her plump face

broke up into sly lines and she nodded happily. "Marty'll come for you at

quarter before eight; he telephoned before you got home."

Martin Wetherby was even better than his word, which was one of his most

sterling traits. He arrived at twenty-five minutes before eight and

waited contentedly in converse with her aunt until Jane came down. "I

didn't bring the car," he said. "I thought we'd like to walk." When they

reached the sidewalk he lifted her right forearm in a warm, moist grasp

and held it firmly close against him. "The car's too quick, Janey," he

said, huskily. "Gets us there too soon!"

"Well," said Jane, brightly, "we mustn't be late, your mother likes

people to be prompt, you know!" She managed to tug her arm away the

fraction of an inch.

"She likes _you_, any old time," he said, blissfully. He always got husky

and thick sounding in emotion, Jane reflected, and breathed heavily.

"Aren't we going to stop by for Sally?"

"No; I asked Edward R. and Nannie to pick her up in their little old

boat. No, we aren't going to have anybody--but just--_us_!" He squeezed

her arm against him again. "Janey, I guess you know all right how I----"

"Oh!" cried Jane,--"here they are, now! Hello, people!"

"Hello yourselves!" said Edward R. Hunter, bringing his machine to a stop

beside them. "Want to hop in? Plenty room."

"No, of course they don't want to hop in, goose!" said his wife,

reprovingly. "Edward R. Hunter, I wonder at you! Were you never young

yourself?"

"Oh, but we do!" Jane was capably opening the front door of the little

car. "We're late! I kept Marty waiting! I'm going to ride with the

chauffeur, and Marty can sit with the girls. When Mrs. Wetherby says

'eight o'clock' she means it, not quarter past." She was chatty and

intensely friendly with them all during the brief drive. She even

produced the proper degree of articulate mirth for the young father's

painstaking jest about his son's nickname being Teddy b-a-r-e, bear, most

of the time.

When they stopped before the Wetherby house Martin was out of the

automobile with heavy swiftness and lifted Jane bodily to the sidewalk

and hurried her up the walk. "All right for you, girlie," he chuckled,

"all right for you! But you just wait! Wait till going home to-night!"

Jane drew Sarah Farraday aside when they were in Mrs. Wetherby's phrase,

"taking off their things in the north chamber,"--a solid and

dependable-looking room. "Sally, I want you to come home with me and stay

over night."

"Oh, Jane, I don't believe I could,--not to-night! If I'd known sooner--I

haven't anything with me."

"I'll loan you everything you need. Please, Sally! You can telephone your

mother now."

"But Edward and Nannie brought me, and it seems sort of----"

"Sally, don't be a nuisance! I want you. I--_need_ you!"

Sarah Farraday peered closely at her through her nearsighted eyes. "Jane!

You haven't quarreled with Marty, have you? Oh, Jane!"

"No, but I shall if you don't come home with me!"

Her best friend looked long and anxiously at her and then went with a

sigh to telephone her mother, and the evening, which Mrs. Wetherby

described as "a little gathering of the young folks," got under way. Jane

played cards sedately for the earlier part of it and joined with

conscientious liveliness in the games which came later, just before Mrs.

Wetherby's conception of "light refreshments" was served,--pineapple and

banana salad with whipped cream and maraschino cherries on it, three

kinds of exceptionally sweet and sticky cake, thick chocolate with melted

marshmallows floating on its surface, and large quantities of home-made

fudge in crystal bonbon dishes.

To Martin Wetherby, watching her contentedly out of his small, bright

eyes, Jane Vail was what he and his mother termed the life of the party,

but although she played an unfaltering part in the comedy of, "Well,

_partner_! Didn't you get my signal? _Now_ who's asleep?" and the

sprightly games which followed, and exclaimed prettily over the decked

supper table, deep under the high-piled masses of her dark hair, dark

thoughts were stirring. She seemed to herself to be marching inexorably

to the crossroads, which was silly, because she had spent exactly that

sort of day and evening hundreds of times before and would again, she

told herself impatiently, but the feeling was not to be eluded. She held

herself up to her own high scorn. Why this dramatizing of the pleasant

and placid course of Wetherby Ridge events? Why shouldn't she do as the

other girls of the set had done? Was she, then, so much finer clay? If

she didn't want to be another Nannie--hot pink nursery in a shining

little new house--expensive olive oil--home-coming husband in punning

mood--pink celluloid Kewpie--half a dozen of everything in flat silver

and two _really_ good rugs to start with--then why couldn't she cast

herself serenely for the Sarah Farraday sort of thing, substituting a

typewriter for a piano? There was nothing so bleak and dreadful about

that; old Sally was busily happy, toiling hopefully for her baby-grand.

_She_ was enormously lucky, as a matter of fact, lucky beyond her

deserts. She could be, it appeared, a Nannie or a Sarah, as she chose,

and the time for choosing had arrived. And presently the girls were

exclaiming that it was twenty minutes past eleven and they really _must_

go, but it was Mrs. Wetherby's fault for always giving them such a

perfectly wonderful time that they forgot to watch the clock, and Mrs.

Wetherby was beaming back at them and insisting that she had enjoyed it

all just as much as they had, and that she hoped she could always keep

young at heart.

Sally lagged behind as they went down the steps. "Come along!" Jane

called back to her. "I know you'll talk half of what's left of the night,

and I want to get you started as soon as possible."

"She going to stay all night with you?" There was sulky surprise in

Martin's voice.

"Yes," said Jane. "But isn't 'stay _all_ night' a silly expression? As if

she might rise and stalk home in the middle of it! I wonder why we don't

say, 'stay over night'?" She ran on, ripplingly, but her escort at one

side and Sarah Farraday at the other were maintaining, respectively, a

sullen and an uncomfortable silence. When they were passing her own house

Sarah broke away from them with a little gasp.

"Oh,--do you mind waiting just a minute? I believe I'll just run up and

get my things, Jane. You know what a fussbudget I am about my own things.

And I'll just slip into another dress so I won't have to put this on for

breakfast. It won't take me two _minutes_--" She flew up the front steps

and let herself softly in with her latch key, and instantly ill humor

fell from Martin Wetherby.

"Sally's all right," he chuckled. "I'm for Sally!" He swept Jane out of

the circle of light from the street lamp, into the black shadow of the

Farraday shrubbery, and into a breathless embrace. "You--little--rascal--"

he said, huskily, gasping a trifle as he always did in moments of high

emotion. "You--little--witch! Now I've got you--and I'm going to keep

you! Now I guess you'll listen to what I've got to say and--and answer

me!" His broad, warm face was coming inexorably nearer; life--the

pleasant and placid pattern of Wetherby Ridge--was coming inexorably

nearer; life with melted marshmallows floating on its surface!

"Oh, Marty, please!" She was fatally calm and earnest about it. "I'm so

sorry--sorrier than I can tell you,--but you mustn't say it! You mustn't

make me answer you."

He was busily getting both her cool hands into the hot grasp of one of

his own, and the fingers of his other hand, a little moist, were forcing

themselves beneath her chin, but there was something in the honest

sorriness of her tone which made him pause even in that triumphant and

satisfying moment. "Why? You little----"

"Because," said Jane, steadily, "I do like you such a lot, Marty dear,

and I wish you wouldn't ask me, and make me tell you that I don't--I

can't----"

Then with a swift and amazing sense of rescue, of sanctuary, she heard

herself saying, "Besides, you see, I'm going away!"