Truthful Jane. Florence Morse Kingsley

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      This went on for some twenty minutes, during which period Jane stared unremittingly out of the window against which a cold rain was beating.

      Then Lady Agatha spoke: "I have purposely detained you in complete silence, Jane, that you might reflect quietly upon your present position in life. I trust you have made good use of the opportunity."

      Jane made no reply; but she withdrew her eyes from the dripping window pane and fixed them upon her aunt. In return, Lady Agatha focused her frozen stare upon the girl. "Is it possible that you had the presumption to refuse Mr. Towle's offer of marriage last night?" she asked with an indescribable mixture of unwilling respect and cold dislike in her voice.

      "Yes, Aunt Agatha, I did," said Jane, a faint expression of regret passing over her face.

      "Why?"

      "Because I—couldn't—love him."

      Lady Agatha scowled. "I cannot understand what attracted the man to you in the first place," she said disdainfully. "I believe he only saw you twice."

      "Three times," Jane corrected her.

      "You are not," said Lady Agatha, pausing to contemplate the girl's face and figure with the air of one examining a slightly damaged article of merchandise, "at all attractive. You have neither beauty nor style, and you are not in the least clever."

      Jane appeared to grow smaller in her chair. She sighed deeply.

      "Besides all this," went on Lady Agatha mercilessly, "you are practically penniless. I cannot understand how such a man as Mr. Towle, exceptionally well connected and very wealthy, ever came to think of such a thing as marrying you! But"—spitefully—"I dare say you know well enough how it came about."

      "I don't know what you mean, Aunt Agatha," stammered poor Jane.

      "Have you never met Mr. Towle, quite by accident, we will say, on the street, or——"

      "How can you say such a thing to me, Aunt Agatha!" cried Jane, "as if I were a—servant, or a—a quite common person. I never saw Mr. Towle except in this house, and I never spoke three words to him before last night. And—and I do like him, because he—likes me. But I cannot marry him on that account."

      Lady Agatha shrugged her shoulders with a hateful smile. "Oh, I dare say Mr. Towle will be very glad of the outcome later on," she said carelessly. "It is not easy to account for the vagaries of elderly men. But it was not to speak of this absurd contretemps that I sent for you this morning, Jane; Gwendolen reported to me what took place in her room last night, and at first I contemplated referring the whole matter to your uncle; but——"

      Lady Agatha paused to note the gleam of hope which lighted up the girl's expressive features, only to fade as she went on in her peculiarly frigid, precise way:

      "I finally thought best to settle the question with you. Your proposal that I should pay you the wages of a servant shocked and grieved me—inexpressibly. Your position in this household is that—er—of—a relative—an unfortunate relative, it is true; but still a relative. You bear our name, and as an Aubrey-Blythe you ought to consider what is due your—er—position. You ought, in short, to fill your humble niche in the family life cheerfully and uncomplainingly. Do you follow me?"

      "Yes, Aunt Agatha," said Jane stonily.

      "It is little indeed that you can do for us in return for all the benefits which are continually heaped upon you," went on Lady Agatha, with an air of Christian forbearance. "It ought not to be necessary for me to remind you of this, Jane. I regret that it is so. But I cannot permit a discordant element to disturb the peace of my home. You are aware that Percy and Cecil should be required to conduct themselves like gentlemen. You will see to it that the disgraceful scene of last night is not repeated. As for Gwendolen, any little service that you are requested to do for her ought to be gladly performed. Do you know, the poor, dear child was quite overcome by your rudeness; she thought you must be ill."

      "I shall never put on Gwendolen's stockings and shoes for her again," remarked Jane, with disconcerting finality.

      "Jane, you forget yourself!"

      "No, aunt; you are mistaken. I am not forgetting myself; I am remembering that I am an Aubrey-Blythe."

      Lady Agatha stared blankly at the girl for a full minute. Then she recovered herself. "You are an ungrateful, impertinent girl!" she said slowly. "If you were younger I should feel it my duty to ferule you severely. There is one other thing I wish to speak to you about; then you may go. I have observed that you are far too familiar and presuming in your manner toward your cousin Reginald. His future position in the world as my oldest son and his father's heir does not warrant any such attitude on your part."

      "Did Reginald tell you that he tried to kiss me on the stairs last night, and that I slapped him for it?" inquired Jane, in a businesslike tone. "It was 'familiar' of me, I admit; but Reginald is such a cub, you know."

      Lady Agatha rose to her full height. "You may go to your room, Jane, and stay there for the remainder of the day," she said in an awful voice. "I see that my Christian charity is entirely misplaced in your case. I shall, after all, be obliged to consult your uncle with regard to some other disposal of your person. I cannot bear you about me longer. Your influence on my dear children is most unfortunate!"

      Jane turned sharply—she already had her hand upon the door. "I hope uncle will send me away!" she exclaimed passionately. "I hate this house and everyone in it—except Percy and Susan!"

      Lady Agatha, shaken out of her usual icy self-control, darted forward. She was a tall, big woman and she swept the girl before her in a blast of cold fury up the stairs—two flights of them—to the little attic room; there she thrust the slight figure within, and locked the door upon it.

      Jane stood in the middle of the floor and listened to the ugly click of the key and the sound of Lady Agatha's retreating boot heels on the uncarpeted corridor.

      "Well," said Jane ruefully. "I have made a mess of it!" She had completely forgotten her prayer of the night before.

      Somebody had laid a fire in her rusty little grate. It was Susan, of course, who was continually going out of her way to be kind to the girl to whom everyone else was so persistently and pointedly unkind. Jane's sore heart warmed toward honest Susan, as she hunted for a match in the ugly little safe on the mantel. "I've a day off, anyway," she told herself, "and I'll cobble up that old gown of Gwen's so that I can wear it."

      Miss Blythe was well used to cobbling up old gowns and clever at it, too. She waxed increasingly cheerful as she spread the faded breadths across her knee and discovered that the wrong side of the fabric was fresh and bright. Later she congratulated herself upon a stray sheet of The Times, left behind by Susan after laying the fire; it would do admirably for pattern material. As she spread its crumpled folds upon her counterpane, preparatory to evolving a wonderful yoke design, her eye fell upon a line in the column of "Female Help Wanted." It read as follows:

      "A lady about to travel in America wishes to engage intelligent young female as companion. Good wages. Duties nominal. Apply mornings to Mrs. Augustus Markle, 10 Belgravia Crescent."

      "Oh!" murmured Jane Blythe. She sank down on the edge of her hard little bed and read the fateful lines again. СКАЧАТЬ