for both liked young people, and were anxious to know these two
better, since they were to be their guides and guardians for six
months. Professor Homer was going abroad to look up certain
important facts for his great historical work, and as usual took his
wife with him; for they had no family, and the good lady was ready
to march to any quarter of the globe at short notice. Fearing to be
lonely while her husband pored over old papers in foreign libraries,
Mrs. Homer had invited Ethel Amory, a friend's daughter, to
accompany her. Of course the invitation was gladly accepted, for it
was a rare opportunity to travel in such company, and Ethel was wild
with delight at the idea. One thorn, however, vexed her, among
the roses with which her way seemed strewn. Mamma would not let her
take a French maid, but preferred a young lady as companion; for,
three being an awkward number, a fourth party would be not only
convenient, but necessary on the girl's account, since she was not
used to take care of herself and Mrs. Homer could only be expected
to act as chaperone.
“Jane Bassett is just the person I want, and Jane shall go. She
needs a change after teaching all these years; it will do her a
world of good, for she will improve and enjoy every moment, and the
salary I shall offer her will make it worth her while,” said Mrs.
Amory, as she discussed the plan with her daughter.
“She is only three years older than I am, and I hate to be taken
care of, and watched, and fussed over. I can order a maid round, but
a companion is worse than a governess; such people are always
sensitive and proud, and hard to get on with. Every one takes a
maid, and I'd set my heart on that nice Marie who wants to go home,
and talks such lovely French. Do let me have her, Mamma!” begged
Ethel, who was a spoiled child and usually got her own way.
But for once Mamma stood firm, having a strong desire to benefit her
daughter by the society of better companions than the gay girls of
her own set, also to give a great pleasure to good little Jane
Bassett, who had been governessing ever since she was sixteen, with
very few vacations in her hard, dutiful life.
“No, darling, I have asked Jane, and if her mother can spare her,
Jane it shall be. She is just what you need,--sensible and kind,
intelligent and capable; not ashamed to do anything for you, and
able to teach you a great deal in a pleasant way. Mrs. Homer
approves of her, and I am sure you will be glad by-and-by; for
travelling is not all 'fun,' as you expect, and I don't want you to
be a burden on our friends. You two young things can take care of
each other while the Professor and his wife are busy with their own
affairs; and Jane is a far better companion for you than that
coquettish French woman, who will probably leave you in the lurch as
soon as you reach Paris. I shouldn't have a moment's peace if you
were left with her, but I have entire confidence in Jane Bassett
because she is faithful, discreet, and a true lady in all things.”
There was no more to be said, and Ethel pouted in vain. Jane
accepted the place with joy; and after a month of delightful hurry
they were off, one all eagerness for the new world, the other full
of tender regret for the dear souls left behind. How they got on,
and what they learned, remains to be told.
“Come, Miss Bassett, we can't see them any longer, so we may as well
begin to enjoy ourselves. You might take those things down below,
and settle the stateroom a bit; I'm going to walk about and get my
bearings before lunch. You will find me somewhere round.”
Ethel spoke with a little tone of command, having made up her mind
to be mistress and keep Jane Bassett in her place, though she did
know three languages and sketched much better than Miss Amory.
Jenny, as we who are going to be her bosom friends will call her,
nodded cheerfully, and looked about for the stairway; for, never
having been on a steamer before, she was rather bewildered.
“I'll show you the way, my dear. I always get my things settled at
once, as one never knows when one may have to turn in. The Professor
will go with you, Ethel; it is not proper for you to roam about
alone;” and with that hint Mrs. Homer led the way below, privately
wondering how these young persons were going to get on together.
Jane swallowed her “heimweh” in silence, and bestirred herself so
well that soon the stateroom looked very cosy with the wrappers laid
ready, the hanging bags tacked up, and all made ship-shape for the
ten days' trip.
“But where are YOUR comforts? You have given Ethel all the room, the
lower berth, and the best of everything,” said Mrs. Homer, popping
in her head to see how her quiet neighbor got on.
“Oh, I live in my trunk; I didn't bring half as many little luxuries
as Ethel did, so I don't need as much room. I'm used to living in
corners like a mouse, and I get on very well,” answered Jane,
looking very like a mouse just then, as she peeped out of the upper
berth, with her gray gown, bright eyes, and quick nod of
contentment.
“Well, my dear, I've just one word of advice to give you. Don't let
that child tyrannize over you. She means well, but is wilful and
thoughtless, and it is NOT your duty to be made a slave of. Assert
yourself and she will obey and respect you, and you will help her a
great deal. I know all about it; I was a companion in my youth, and
had a hard time of it till I revolted and took my proper place. Now
let us go up and enjoy the fine air while we can.”
“Thank you, I will remember;” and Jane offered the good lady her
arm, with a feeling of gratitude for such friendliness, all being
new and strange to her, and many doubts of her own fitness for the
position lying heavy at her heart.
But soon all was forgotten as she sat on deck watching the islands,
lighthouses, ships, and shores glide by as she went swiftly out to
sea that bright June day. Here was the long-cherished desire of her
life come to pass at last, and now the parting with mother and
sisters was over, nothing but pleasure remained, and a very earnest
purpose to improve this unexpected opportunity to the uttermost.
The cares of life had begun early for little Jane, she being the
eldest of the three girls, and her mother a widow. First came hard
study, then a timid beginning as nursery governess; and as year by
year the teaching of others taught her, she ventured on till here
she was companion to a fine young lady “going abroad,” where every
facility for acquiring languages, studying history, seeing the best
pictures, and enjoying good society would all be hers. No wonder the
quiet face under the modest gray hat beamed, as it turned wistfully
toward the unknown world before her, and that her thoughts were so
far away, she was quite unconscious of the kind eyes watching her,
as Mrs. Homer sat placidly knitting beside her.
“I shall like the Mouse, I'm quite sure. Hope Lemuel will be as well
satisfied. Ethel is charming when she chooses, but will need looking
after, that's plain,” thought the lady as she glanced down the deck
to where her husband stood talking with several gentlemen, while his
charge was already making friends with the gay girls who were to be
her fellow-passengers.
“Daisy Millers, I fear,” went on Mrs. Homer, who had a keen eye for
character, and was as fond of studying the people about her as the
Professor was of looking up dead statesmen, kings, and warriors. The
young ladies certainly bore some resemblance to the type of American
girl which one never fails to meet in travelling. They were dressed
in the height of the fashion, pretty with the delicate evanescent
beauty of too many of our girls, and all gifted with the loud
voices, shrill laughter, and free-and-easy manners which so astonish
decorous English matrons and maids. Ethel was evidently impressed
with their style, as they had a man and maid at their beck and call,
and every sign of ostentatious wealth about them. A stout papa, a
thin mamma, evidently worn out with the cares of the past winter,
three half-grown girls, and a lad of sixteen made up the party; and
a very lively one it was, as the Professor soon found, for he
presently bowed himself away, and left Ethel to her new friends,
since she smilingly refused to leave them.
“Ought I to go to her?” asked Jenny, waking from her happy reverie
to a sudden sense of duty as the gentleman sat down beside her.
“Oh dear, no, she is all right. Those are the Sibleys of New York.
Her father knows them, and she will find them a congenial refuge
when she tires of us quiet folk; and you too, perhaps?” added the
Professor as he glanced at the girl.
“I think not. I should not be welcome to them, nor are they the sort
of people I like. I shall be very happy with the 'quiet folk,' if
they won't let me be in the way,” answered Jenny, in the cheerful
voice that reminded one of the chirp of a robin.
“We won't; we'll toss you overboard as soon as you begin to scream
and bounce in that style,” he answered, laughing at the idea of this
demure young person's ever dreaming of such a thing. Jenny laughed
also, and ran to pick up Mrs. Homer's ball, as it set out for a roll
into the lee-scuppers. As she brought it back she found the
Professor examining the book she left behind her.
“Like all young travellers you cling to your 'Baedeker,' I see, even
in the first excitement of the start. He is a useful fellow, but I
know my Europe so well now, I don't need him.”
“I thought it would be wise to read up our route a little, then I
needn't ask questions. They must be very tiresome to people who know
all about it,” said Jenny, regarding him with an expression of deep
respect for she considered him a sort of walking encyclopaedia of
universal knowledge.
It pleased the learned man, who was kindly as well as wise, and
loved to let his knowledge overflow into any thirsty mind, however
small the cup might be. He liked the intelligent face before him,
and a timid question or two set him off on his favorite hobby at a
pleasant amble, with Jenny on the pillion behind, as it were. She
enjoyed it immensely, and was deep in French history, when the lunch
gong recalled her from Francis I. and his sister Margaret to chops
and English ale.
Ethel came prancing back to her own party, full of praises of the
Sibleys, and the fun they meant to have together.
“They are going to the Langham; so we shall be able to go about with
them, and they know all the best shops, and some lords and ladies,
and expect to be in Paris when we are, and that will be a great help
with our dresses and things.”
“But we are not going to shop and have new dresses till we are on
our way home, you know. Now we haven't time for such things, and
can't trouble the Homers with more trunks,” answered Jenny, as they
followed their elders to the table.
“I shall buy what I like, and have ten trunks if it suits me. I'm
not going to poke round over old books and ruins, and live in a
travelling-dress all the time. You can do as you like; it's
different with me, and _I_ know what is proper.”
With which naughty speech Ethel took her seat first at the table,
and began to nod and smile at the Sibleys opposite. Jenny set her
lips and made no answer, but ate her lunch with what appetite she
could, trying to forget her troubles in listening to the chat going
on around her.
All that afternoon Ethel left her to herself, and enjoyed the more
congenial society of the new acquaintances. Jenny was tired, and
glad to read and dream in the comfortable seat Mrs. Homer left her
when she went for her nap.
By sunset the sea grew rough and people began to vanish below. There
were many empty places at dinner-time, and those who appeared seemed
to have lost their appetites suddenly. The Homers were good
sailors, but Jenny looked pale, and Ethel said her head ached,
though both kept up bravely till nine o'clock, when the Sibleys
precipitately retired after supper, and Ethel thought she might as
well go to bed early to be ready for another pleasant day to-morrow.
Jenny had a bad night, but disturbed no one. Ethel slept soundly,
and sprang up in the morning, eager to be the first on deck. But a
sudden lurch sent her and her hair-brush into a corner: and when she
rose, everything in the stateroom seemed to be turning somersaults,
while a deathly faintness crept over her.
“Oh, wake up, Jane! We are sinking! What is it? Help me, help me!”
and with a dismal wail Ethel tumbled into her berth in the first
anguish of seasickness.
We will draw the curtain for three days, during which rough weather
and general despair reigned. Mrs. Homer took care of the girls till
Jenny was able to sit up and amuse Ethel; but the latter had a hard
time of it, for a series of farewell lunches had left her in a bad
state for a sea-voyage, and the poor girl could not lift her head
for days. The new-made friends did not trouble themselves about her
after a call of condolence, but faithful Jenny sat by her hour after
hour, reading and talking by day, singing her to sleep at night, and
often creeping from her bed on the sofa to light her little candle
and see that her charge was warmly covered and quite comfortable.
Ethel was used to being petted, so she was not very grateful; but
she felt the watchful care about her, and thought Jane almost as
handy a person as a maid, and told her so.
Jenny thanked her and said nothing of her own discomforts; but Mrs.
Homer saw them, and wrote to Mrs. Amory that so far the companion
was doing admirably and all that could be desired. A few days later
she added more commendations to the journal-letters she kept for the
anxious mothers at home, and this serio-comical event was the cause
of her fresh praises.
The occupants of the deck staterooms were wakened in the middle of
the night by a crash and a cry, and starting up found that the
engines were still, and something was evidently the matter
somewhere. A momentary panic took place; ladies screamed, children
cried, and gentlemen in queer costumes burst out of their rooms,
excitedly demanding, “What is the matter?”
As no lamps are allowed in the rooms at night, darkness added to the
alarm, and it was some time before the real state of the case was
known. Mrs. Homer went at once to the frightened girls, and found
Ethel clinging to Jenny, who was trying to find the life-preservers
lashed to the wall.
“We've struck! Don't leave me! Let us die together! Oh, why did I
come? why did I come?” she wailed; while the other girl answered
with a brave attempt at cheerfulness, as she put over Ethel's head
the only life-preserver she could find,--.
“I will! I will! Be calm, dear! I guess there is no immediate
danger. Hold fast to this while I try to find something warm for you
to put on.”
In a moment Jenny's candle shone like a star of hope in the gloom,
and by the time the three had got into wrappers and shawls, a peal
of laughter from the Professor assured them that the danger could
not be great. Other sounds of merriment, as well as Mrs. Sibley's
voice scolding violently, was heard; and presently Mr. Homer came to
tell them to be calm, for the stoppage was only to cool the engines,
and the noise was occasioned by Joe Sibley's tumbling out of his
berth in a fit of nightmare caused by Welsh rarebits and poached
eggs at eleven at night.
Much relieved, and a little ashamed now of their fright, every one
subsided; but Ethel could not sleep, and clung to Jenny in an
hysterical state till a soft voice began to sing “Abide with me” so
sweetly that more than one agitated listener blessed the singer and
fell asleep before the comforting hymn ended.
Ethel was up next day, and lay on the Professor's bearskin rug on
deck, looking pale and interesting, while the Sibleys sat by her
talking over the exciting event of the night, to poor Joe's great
disgust. Jenny crept to her usual corner and sat with a book on her
lap, quietly reviving in the fresh air till she was able to enjoy
the pleasant chat of the Homers, who established themselves near by
and took care of her, learning each day to love and respect the
faithful little soul who kept her worries to herself, and looked
brightly forward no matter how black the sky might be.
Only one other incident of the voyage need be told; but as that
marked a change in the relations between the two girls it is worth
recording.
As she prepared for bed late one evening, Mrs. Homer heard Jenny say
in a tone never used before,--
“My dear, I must say something to you or I shall not feel as if I
were doing my duty. I promised your mother that you should keep
early hours, as you are not very strong and excitement is bad for
you. Now, you WON'T come to bed at ten, as I ask you to every night,
but stay up playing cards or sitting on deck till nearly every one
but the Sibleys is gone. Mrs. Homer waits for us, and is tired, and
it is very rude to keep her up. Will you PLEASE do as you ought, and
not oblige me to say you must?”
Ethel was sleepy and cross, and answered pettishly, as she held out
her foot to have her boot unbuttoned,--for Jenny, anxious to please,
refused no service asked of her,--
“I shall do as I like, and you and Mrs. Homer needn't trouble
yourselves about me. Mamma wished me to have a good time, and I
shall! There is no harm in staying up to enjoy the moonlight, and
sing and tell stories. Mrs. Sibley knows what is proper better than
you do.”
“I don't think she does, for she goes to bed and leaves the girls to
flirt with those officers in a way that I know is NOT proper,”
answered Jenny, firmly. “I should be very sorry to hear them say of
you as they did of the Sibley girls, 'They are a wild lot, but great
fun.'”
“Did they say that? How impertinent!” and Ethel bridled up like a
ruffled chicken, for she was not out yet, and had not lost the
modest instincts that so soon get blunted when a frivolous
fashionable life begins.
“I heard them, and I know that the well-bred people on board do not
like the Sibleys' noisy ways and bad manners. Now, you, my dear, are
young and unused to this sort of life; so you cannot be too careful
what you say and do, and with whom you go.”
“Good gracious! any one would think YOU were as wise as Solomon and
as old as the hills. YOU are young, and YOU haven't travelled, and
don't know any more of the world than I do,--not so much of some
things; so you needn't preach.”
“I'm not wise nor old, but I DO know more of the world than you, for
I began to take care of myself and earn my living at sixteen, and
four years of hard work have taught me a great deal. I am to watch
over you, and I intend to do it faithfully, no matter what you say,
nor how hard you make it for me; because I promised, and I shall
keep my word. We are not to trouble Mrs. Homer with our little
worries, but try to help each other and have a really good time. I
will do anything for you that I can, but I shall NOT let you do
things which I wouldn't allow my own sisters to do, and if you
refuse to mind me, I shall write to your mother and ask to go home.
My conscience won't let me take money and pleasure unless I earn
them and do my duty.”
“Well, upon my word!” cried Ethel, much impressed by such a decided
speech from gentle Jane, and dismayed at the idea of being taken
home in disgrace.
“We won't talk any more now, because we may get angry and say what
we should be sorry for. I am sure you will see that I am right when
you think it over quietly. So good-night, dear.”
“Good-night,” was all the reply Ethel gave, and a long silence
followed.
Mrs. Homer could not help hearing as the staterooms were close
together, and the well-ventilated doors made all conversation
beyond a whisper audible.
“I didn't think Jane had the spirit to talk like that. She has taken
my hint and asserted herself, and I'm very glad, for Ethel must be
set right at once or we shall have no peace. She will respect and
obey Jane after this, or I shall be obliged to say MY word.”
Mrs. Homer was right, and before her first nap set in she heard a
meek voice say,--
“Are you asleep, Miss Bassett?”
“No, dear.”
“Then I want to say, I've thought it over. Please DON'T write to
mamma. I'll be good. I'm sorry I was rude to you; do forgive--”
The sentence was not ended, for a sudden rustle, a little sob, and
several hearty kisses plainly told that Jenny had flown to pardon,
comfort, and caress her naughty child, and that all was well.
After that Ethel's behavior was painfully decorous for the rest of
the voyage, which, fortunately for her good resolutions, ended at
Queenstown, much to her regret. The Homers thought a glimpse at
Ireland and Scotland would be good for the girls; and as the
Professor had business in Edinburgh this was the better route for
all parties. But Ethel longed for London, and refused to see any
beauty in the Lakes of Killarney, turned up her nose at
jaunting-cars, and pronounced Dublin a stupid place.
Scotland suited her better, and she could not help enjoying the fine
scenery with such companions as the Homers; for the Professor knew
all about the relics and ruins, and his wife had a memory richly
stored with the legends, poetry, and romance which make dull facts
memorable and history enchanting.
But Jenny's quiet rapture was pleasant to behold. She had not
scorned Scott's novels as old-fashioned, and she peopled the
cottages and castles with his heroes and heroines; she crooned
Burns's sweet songs to herself as she visited his haunts, and went
about in a happy sort of dream, with her head full of Highland Mary,
Tam o' Shanter, field-mice and daisies, or fought terrific battles
with Fitz-James and Marmion, and tried if “the light harebell” would
“raise its head, elastic from her airy tread,” as it did from the
Lady of the Lake's famous foot.
Ethel told her she was “clean daft;” but Jenny said, “Let me enjoy
it while I can. I've dreamed of it so long I can hardly realize that
it has come, and I cannot lose a minute of it;” so she absorbed
Scotch poetry and romance with the mist and the keen air from the
moors, and bloomed like the bonnie heather which she loved to wear.
“What shall we do this rainy day in this stupid place?” said Ethel,
one morning when bad weather kept them from an excursion to Stirling
Castle.
“Write our journals and read up for the visit; then we shall know
all about the castle, and need not tire people with our questions,”
answered Jenny, already established in a deep window-seat of their
parlor at the hotel with her books and portfolio.
“I don't keep a journal, and I hate to read guide-books; it's much
easier to ask, though there is very little I care for about these
mouldy old places,” said Ethel with a yawn, as she looked out into
the muddy street.
“How can you say so? Don't you care for poor Mary, and Prince
Charlie, and all the other sad and romantic memories that haunt the
country? Why, it seems as real to me as if it happened yesterday,
and I never can forget anything about the place or the people now.
Really, dear, I think you ought to take more interest and improve
this fine chance. Just see how helpful and lovely Mrs. Homer is,
with a quotation for every famous spot we see. It adds so much to
our pleasure, and makes her so interesting. I'm going to learn some
of the fine bits in this book of hers, and make them my own, since I
cannot buy the beautiful little set this Burns belongs to. Don't you
want to try it, and while away the dull day by hearing each other
recite and talking over the beautiful places we have seen?”
“No, thank you; no study for me. It is to be all play now. Why tire
my wits with that Scotch stuff when Mrs. Homer is here to do it for
me?” and lazy Ethel turned to the papers on the table for amusement
more to her taste.
“But we shouldn't think only of our own pleasure, you know. It is so
sweet to be able to teach, amuse, or help others in any way. I'm
glad to learn this new accomplishment, so that I may be to some one
by-and-by what dear Mrs. Homer is to us now, if I ever can. Didn't
you see how charmed those English people were at Holyrood when she
was reciting those fine lines to us? The old gentleman bowed and
thanked her, and the handsome lady called her 'a book of elegant
extracts.' I thought it was such a pretty and pleasant thing that I
described it all to mother and the girls.”
“So it was; but did you know that the party was Lord Cumberland and
his family? The guide told me afterward. I never guessed they were
anybody, in such plain tweed gowns and thick boots; did you?”
“I knew they were ladies and gentlemen by their manners and
conversation; did you expect they would travel in coronets and
ermine mantles?” laughed Jenny.
“I'm not such a goose! But I'm glad we met them, because I can tell
the Sibleys of it. They think so much of titles, and brag about Lady
Watts Barclay, whose husband is only a brewer knighted. I shall buy
a plaid like the one the lord's daughter wore, and wave it in the
faces of those girls; they do put on SUCH airs because they have
been in Europe before.”