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 BOOKS BY L. ALLEN HARKER 
 
 PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 JAN AND HER JOB. Illustrated . . net $1.50 
 THE FFOLLIOTS OF REDMARLEY . net 1.35 
 
 MISS ESPERANCE AND MR. WYCHERLY 
 
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 MR. WYCHERLY'S WARDS . . . . net 1.35 
 
 MASTER AND MAID net 1.35 
 
 CONCERNING PAUL AND FIAMMETTA 
 
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 A ROMANCE OF THE NURSERY . . net 1.33
 
 JAN AND HER JOB
 
 ''But surely," said Peter, "I am your job part of it, 
 anyway."
 
 JAN AND HER JOB 
 
 BY 
 
 L. ALLEN HARKER 
 
 AUTHOR 07 "A BOMANCE OP THE NCKSEBT"; " MISS ESPEBAXCE AND MB. WYCHEBLT ' 
 
 "KB. WTCHEBLT'S WABDB"; "THE FFOLLJOTS or BEDMAHLEY," ETC. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1917
 
 COPTKIGHT, 1917, BT 
 CHAHLES SCRIBNEB'S SONS 
 
 Published March, 1917
 
 TO 
 
 F. R. P. 
 
 ' Chary of praise and prodigal of counsel- 
 Who but thou ? " 
 
 R. L. S. 
 
 999O9On 
 
 A*l/Vj--H< ^ <jt**i\J
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. JAN 1 
 
 II. JAN'S MAIL 13 
 
 III. BOMBAY 19 
 
 IV. THE BEGINNING OF THE JOB 39 
 
 V. THE CHILDREN 52 
 
 VI. THE SHADOW BEFORE 62 
 
 VII. THE HUMAN TOUCH 78 
 
 VIII. THE END OF THE DBEAM 91 
 
 IX. MEG 97 
 
 X. PLANS 124 
 
 XI. THE STATE OF PETEE 139 
 
 XII. "THE BEST-LAID SCHEMES" 149 
 
 XIII. THE WHEELS OF CHANCE 162 
 
 XIV. PERPLEXITIES 173 
 
 XV. WREN'S END 184 
 
 XVI. "THE BLUDGEONINGS OF CHANCE" .... 201 
 
 XVII. "THOUGH AN HOST SHOULD ENCAMP AGAINST 
 
 ME" 212 
 
 vii
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XVIII. MEG AND CAPTAIN MIDDLETON 220 
 
 XIX. THE YOUNG IDEA 240 
 
 XX. "ONE WAY OF LOVE" 252 
 
 XXI. ANOTHER WAT OF LOVE 261 
 
 XXII. THE ENCAMPMENT 276 
 
 XXIII. TACTICS 287 
 
 XXIV. " THE WAT OF A MAN WITH A MAID " . . 303 
 XXV. A DEMONSTRATION IN FORCE 325 
 
 XXVI. IN WHICH SEVERAL PEOPLE SPEAK THEIR MINDS 339 
 
 XXVII. AUGUST, 1914 351 
 
 Vlll
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "But surely," said Peter, "I am your job part of it, 
 
 anyway" Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 
 PAGE 
 
 "It would make it easier for both of us if you'd face it, 
 
 my dear " 66 
 
 He washed his small sister with thoroughness and des- 
 patch, pointing out . . . that he "went into all the 
 corners" 156 
 
 William rushed out to welcome the strangers. Two . . . 
 
 nice children 188
 
 JAN AND HER JOB 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 JAN 
 
 SHE was something of a puzzle to the other 
 passengers. They couldn't quite place her. 
 She came on board the P. and 0. at Marseilles. 
 JBeing Christmas week the boat was not crowded, 
 and she had a cabin to herself on the spar deck, 
 so there was no "stable-companion" to find out 
 anything about her. 
 
 The sharp-eyed Australian lady, who sat op- 
 posite her at the Purser's table, decided that she 
 was not married, or even engaged, as she wore 
 no rings of any kind. Besides, her name, "Miss 
 Janet Ross," figured in the dinner-list and was 
 plainly painted on her deck-chair. At meals she 
 sat beside the Purser, and seemed more or less 
 under his wing. People at her table decided that 
 she couldn't be going out as a governess or she 
 would hardly be travelling first class, and yet 
 she did not look of the sort who globe-trot all 
 by themselves. 
 
 Rather tall, slender without being thin, she 
 moved well. Her ringless hands were smooth 
 and prettily shaped, so were her slim feet, and 
 always singularly well-shod. 
 
 1
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Perhaps her chief outward characteristic was 
 that she looked delightfully fresh and clean. Her 
 fair skin helped to this effect, and the trim suit- 
 ability of her clothes accentuated it. And yet 
 there was nothing challenging or particularly no- 
 ticeable in her personality. 
 
 Her face, fresh-coloured and unlined, was rather 
 round. Her eyes well-opened and blue-grey, long- 
 sighted and extremely honest. Her hair, thick 
 and naturally wavy, had been what hairdressers 
 call "mid-brown," but was now frankly grey, 
 especially round the temples; and the grey hair 
 puzzled people, so that opinions differed widely 
 regarding her age. 
 
 The five box-wallahs (gentlemen engaged in 
 commercial pursuits are so named in the East to 
 distinguish them from the Heaven-Born in the 
 various services that govern India), who, with the 
 Australian lady, sat opposite to her at table, de- 
 cided that she was really young and prematurely 
 grey. Between the courses they diligently took 
 stock of her. The Australian lady disagreed with 
 them. She declared Miss Ross tb be middle- 
 aged, to look younger than she was. In this the 
 Australian lady was quite sincere. She could not 
 conceive of any young woman neglecting the 
 many legitimate means that existed of combating 
 this most distressing semblance if semblance it 
 was of age. 
 
 The Australian lady set her down as a well- 
 preserved forty at least. 
 
 Mr. Frewellen, the oldest and Grossest and 
 greediest of the five box-wallahs, declared that 
 
 2
 
 Jan 
 
 he would lay fifteen rupees to five annas that 
 she was under thirty; that her eyes were sad, and 
 it was probably trouble that had turned her hair. 
 At his time of life, he could tell a young woman 
 when he saw one. No painted old harridan could 
 deceive him. After all, if Miss Ross had grey 
 hair, she had plenty of it, and it was her own. 
 But Mr. Frewellen, who sat directly opposite her, 
 was prejudiced in her favour, for she always let 
 him take her roll if it was browner than his own. 
 He also took her knife if it happened to be sharper 
 than the one he had, and he insisted on her 
 listening to his incessant grumbling as to the 
 food, the service, the temperature, and the gen- 
 eral imbecility and baseness of his fellow- 
 creatures. 
 
 Like the Ancient Mariner, he held her with his 
 glittering spectacles. Miss Ross trembled before 
 his diatribes. He spoke in a loud and rumbling 
 voice, and made derogatory remarks about the 
 other passengers as they passed to their respective 
 tables. She would thankfully have changed hers, 
 but that it might have seemed ungrateful to the 
 Purser, into whose charge she had been given by 
 friends; and the Purser had been most kind and 
 attentive. 
 
 The Australian lady was sure that the Purser 
 knew more about Miss Ross than he would ac- 
 knowledge which he did. But when tackled by 
 one passenger about another, he was discreet or 
 otherwise in direct ratio to what he considered 
 was the discretion of the questioner. And he 
 was a pretty shrewd judge of character. He had 
 
 3
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 infinite opportunities of so judging. A sea- 
 voyage lays bare many secrets and shows up 
 human nature at its starkest. 
 
 Janet Ross did not seek to make friends, but 
 kindly people who spoke to her found her pleas- 
 ant and not in the least disposed to be mysteri- 
 ous when questioned, though she never volun- 
 teered any information about herself. She was a 
 good listener, and about the middle of any voyage 
 that is a quality supplying a felt want. Mankind 
 in general finds his own doings very interesting, 
 and takes great pleasure in recounting the same. 
 Even the most energetic young passenger cannot 
 play deck-quoits all day, and mixed cricket 
 matches are too heating to last long once Aden 
 is left behind. A great many people found it 
 pleasant to drop into a chair beside the quiet lady, 
 who was always politely interested hi their re- 
 marks. She looked so cool and restful in her 
 white frock and shady hat. She did not buy a 
 solar topee at Port Said, for though this was her 
 first voyage she had not, it seemed, started quite 
 unwarned. 
 
 In the middle of the Indian Ocean she suddenly 
 found favour in the eyes of Sir Langham Sykes, 
 and when that was the case Sir Langham pro- 
 claimed his preference to the whole ship. No 
 one who attracted his notice could remain in ob- 
 scurity. When he was not eating he was talking, 
 generally about himself, though he was also fond 
 of asking questions. 
 
 A short, stout man with a red face, little fierce 
 blue eyes, a booming voice, noisy laugh and a 
 
 4
 
 Jan 
 
 truculent, domineering manner, Sir Langham 
 made his presence felt wherever he was. 
 
 It was "her shape," as he called it, that first 
 attracted his attention to Miss Ross, as he 
 watched her walking briskly round and round 
 the hurricane-deck for her morning constitutional. 
 
 "That woman moves well," he remarked to 
 his neighbour; "wonder if she's goin' out to be 
 married. Nice-looking woman and pleasant, no 
 frills about her sort that would be kind in ill- 
 ness." 
 
 And Sir Langham sighed. He couldn't take 
 any exercise just then, for his last attack of gout 
 had been very severe, and his left foot was still 
 swathed and slippered. 
 
 There was a dance that night on the hurricane- 
 deck, and Sir Langham, while watching the 
 dancers, talked at the top of his voice with the 
 more important lady passengers. On such occa- 
 sions he claimed close intimacy with the Reign- 
 ing House, and at all times of day one heard such 
 sentences as, "And 7 said to the Princess Hen- 
 rietta," with a full account of what he did say. 
 And the things he declared he said, and the stories 
 he told, certainly suggested a doubt as to whether 
 the ladies of our Royal Family are quite as strait- 
 laced as the ordinary public is led to believe. 
 But then one had only Sir Langham's word for 
 it. There was no possibility of questioning the 
 Princess. 
 
 Presently Sir Langham got tired of trying to 
 drown the band it was such a noisy band and 
 he hobbled down the companion on to the almost 
 
 5
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 deserted deck. Right up in the stern he spied 
 Miss Ross, quite alone, sitting under an electric 
 light absorbed in a book. Beside her was an 
 empty chair with a comfortable leg-rest. Sir 
 Langham never made any bones about interrupt- 
 ing people. It would not, to him, have seemed 
 possible that a woman could prefer any form of 
 literature to the charm of his conversation. So 
 with a series of grunts he lowered himself into it, 
 arranged his foot upon the rest, and, without ask- 
 ing permission, lit a cigar. 
 
 "Don't you care for dancin'?" he asked. 
 
 She closed her book. "Oh, yes," she said, 
 "but I don't know many men on board, and there 
 are such a lot of young people who do know one 
 another. It's pretty to watch them; but the 
 night is pretty, too, don't you think? The stars 
 all seem so near compared to what they do at 
 home." 
 
 "I've seen too many Eastern nights to take 
 much stock in 'em now," he said in a disparaging 
 voice. "I take it this is all new to you first 
 voyage, eh?" 
 
 " Yes, I've never been a long voyage before." 
 
 " Goin' to India, I suppose. You'd have started 
 sooner if you'd been goin' for the winter to Aus- 
 tralia. Now what are you goin' to India for f " 
 
 "To stay with my sister." 
 
 "Married sister?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Older than you, then, of course." 
 
 "No, younger." 
 
 "Much younger?" 
 
 6
 
 Jan 
 
 " Three years." 
 
 "Is she like you?" 
 
 "Not in the least. She is a beautiful person." 
 
 "Been married long?" 
 
 "Between five and six years. I'm to take her 
 home at the end of the cold weather." 
 
 "Any kids?" 
 
 "Two." 
 
 "And you haven't been out before?" 
 
 "No; this is my first visit." 
 
 "She's been home, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes, once." 
 
 "Is her husband in the Army?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Had Sir Langham been an observant person he 
 would have noted that her very brief replies did 
 not exactly encourage further questions. But 
 his idea of conversation was either a monologue 
 or a means of obtaining information, so he in- 
 stantly demanded, "What does her husband do?" 
 
 The impulse of the moment urged her to reply, 
 "What possible business is it of yours what he 
 does?" But well-bred people do not yield to 
 these impulses, so she answered quietly, "He's in 
 the P.W.D." 
 
 "Not a bad service, not a bad service, though 
 not equal to the I.C.S. They've had rather a 
 scandal in it lately. Didn't you see about it in 
 the papers just before we left?" 
 
 At that moment Sir Langham was very care- 
 fully flicking the ash from the end of his cigar, 
 otherwise he might have observed that as he 
 spoke his companion flushed. A wave of warm 
 
 7
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 colour surged over her face and bare neck and 
 receded again, leaving her very pale. Her hands 
 closed over the book lying in her lap, as if glad to 
 hold on to something, and their knuckles were 
 white against the tan. 
 
 " Didn't you see it?" he repeated. "Some 
 chap been found to have taken bribes over con- 
 tracts in a native state. Regular rumpus there's 
 been. Quite right, too; we sahibs must have 
 clean hands. No dealing with brown people if 
 you haven't clean hands can't have rupees stick- 
 ing to 'em in any Government transactions. Ex- 
 pect you'll hear all about it when you get out 
 there makes a great sensation in any service 
 does that sort of thing. I don't remember the 
 name of the chap perhaps they didn't give it- 
 do you?" 
 
 "I didn't see anything about it," she said 
 quietly. "I was very busy just before I left, and 
 hardly looked at a paper." 
 
 "Where is your sister?" 
 
 "In Bombay." 
 
 "Oh, got a billet there, has he? Expect you'll 
 like Bombay; cheery place, in the cold weather, 
 but not a patch on Calcutta, to my mind. I 
 hear the Governor and his wife do the thing in 
 style hospitable, you know; got private means, 
 as people in that position always ought to have." 
 
 "I don't suppose I shall go out at all," she said. 
 "My sister is ill, and I've got to look after her. 
 Directly she is strong enough to travel I shall 
 bring her home." 
 
 "Oh, you must see something of the social life 
 8
 
 Jan 
 
 of the place while you're there. D'you know 
 what I thought? I thought you were goin' out 
 to get married, and" he continued gallantly 
 "I thought he was a deuced lucky chap." 
 
 She smiled and shook her head. She was not 
 looking at Sir Langham, but at the long, white, 
 moonlit pathway of foam left in the wake of the 
 ship. 
 
 "I say," he went on confidentially, "what's 
 your Christian name? I'm certain they don't 
 call you Janet. Is it Nettie, now? I bet it's 
 Nettie!" 
 
 "My family," said Miss Ross somewhat coldly, 
 "call me Jan." 
 
 "Nice little name," he exclaimed, "but more 
 like a boy's. Now, I never got a pet name. I 
 started Langham, and Langham I've stopped, 
 and I flatter myself I've made the name known 
 and respected." 
 
 He wanted her to look at him, and leaned to- 
 wards her: "Look here, Miss Ross, I'm goin' to 
 ask you a funny question, and it's not one you 
 can ask most women but you're a puzzle. 
 You've got a face like a child, and yet you're as 
 grey as a badger. What is your age?" 
 
 "I shall be twenty-eight in March." 
 
 She looked at him then, and her grey eyes were 
 so full of amusement that, incredulous as he 
 usually was as to other people's statements, he 
 knew that she was speaking the truth. 
 
 "Then why the devil don't you do something 
 to it?" he demanded. 
 
 She laughed. "I couldn't be bothered. And 
 9
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 it might turn green, or something. I don't mind 
 it. It began when I was twenty-three." 
 
 "/ don't mind it either," Sir Langham declared 
 magnanimously; "but it's misleading." 
 
 "I'm sorry," she said demurely. "I wouldn't 
 mislead anyone for the world." 
 
 "Now, what age should you think I am? But 
 I suppose you know that's the worst of being a 
 public character; when one gets nearly a column 
 hi Who's Who, everybody knows all about one. 
 That's the penalty of celebrity." 
 
 "Do you mind people knowing your age?" 
 
 "Not I! Nor anything else about me. I've 
 never done anything to be ashamed of. Quite 
 the other way, I can assure you." 
 
 "How pleasant that must be," she said quietly. 
 
 Sir Langham turned and looked suspiciously at 
 her; but her face was guileless and calm, with no 
 trace of raillery, her eyes still fixed on the long 
 bright track of foam. 
 
 "I suppose you, now," he muttered hoarsely, 
 "always sleep well, go off directly you turn in 
 eh?" 
 
 Her quiet eyes met his; little and fierce and 
 truculent, but behind then: rather bloodshot 
 boldness there lurked something else, and with a 
 sudden pang of pity she knew that it was fear, 
 and that Sir Langham dreaded the night. 
 
 "As a rule I do," she said gently; "but of 
 course I've known what it is to be sleepless, and 
 it's horrid." 
 
 "It's hell," said Sir Langham, "and I'm in it 
 every night this voyage, for I've knocked off 
 
 10
 
 Jan 
 
 morphia and opiates they were playing the 
 deuce with my constitution, and I've strength of 
 mind for anything when I fairly take hold. But 
 it's awful. When d'you suppose natural sleep 
 will come back?" 
 
 She knew that he did not lack physical courage, 
 that he had fearlessly faced great dangers in 
 many outposts of the world; but the demon of 
 insomnia had got a hold of Sir Langham, and he 
 dreaded the night unspeakably. At that mo- 
 ment there was something pathetic about the lit- 
 tle, boastful, filibustering man. 
 
 "I think you will sleep to-night," she said con- 
 fidently, "especially if you go to bed early." 
 
 She half rose as she spoke, but he put his hand 
 on her arm and pressed her down in her chair 
 again. 
 
 "Don't go yet," he cried. "Keep on tellin' me 
 I'll sleep, and then perhaps I shall. You look as 
 if you could will people to do things. You're 
 that quiet sort. Will me, there's a good girl. 
 Tell me again I'll sleep to-night." 
 
 It was getting late; the music had stopped and 
 the dancers had disappeared. Miss Ross did not 
 feel over comfortable alone with Sir Langham so 
 far away from everybody else. Especially as 
 she saw he was excited and nervous. Had he 
 been drinking? she wondered. But she remem- 
 bered that he had proclaimed far and wide that, 
 because of his gout, he'd made a vow to touch 
 no form of "alcoholic liquor" on the voyage, ex- 
 cept on Christmas and New Year's Day. It was 
 six days since Christmas, and already Aden was 
 
 11
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 left behind. No, it was just sheer nervous ex- 
 citement, and if she could do him any good . . . 
 
 "I feel sure you will sleep to-night," she said 
 soothingly, "if you will do as I tell you." 
 
 "I'll do any mortal thing. I've got a deck- 
 cabin to myself. Will you keep willin' me when 
 you turn in?" 
 
 "Go to bed now," she said firmly. "Undress 
 quickly, and then think about nothing . . . and 
 I'll do the rest." 
 
 "You will, you promise?" 
 
 "Yes, but you must keep your mind a perfect 
 blank, or I can't do anything." 
 
 She stood up tall and straight. The moonlight 
 caught her grey hair and burnished it to an 
 aureole of silver. 
 
 With many grunts Sir Langham pulled himself 
 out of his chair. "No smokin'-room, eh?" 
 
 "Good night," Miss Ross said firmly, and left 
 him. 
 
 "Don't forget to ask your sister's husband 
 about that chap in the P.W.D.," he called after 
 her. "He's sure to know all about it. What's 
 his name? your brother-in-law, I mean." 
 
 But Miss Ross had disappeared. 
 
 "Now how the devil," he muttered, "am I to 
 make my mind, my mind, a perfect blank?" 
 
 Two hours later Sir Langham's snores griev- 
 ously disturbed the occupants of adjacent cabins. 
 
 In hers, Miss Ross sat by the open porthole 
 reading and re-reading the mail that had reached 
 her at Aden. 
 
 12
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 JAN'S MAIL 
 
 Bombay, December 13th. 
 TV/TY DEAR JAN, 
 
 ***- It was a great relief to get your cable say- 
 ing definitely that you were sailing by the Cam- 
 duff. Misfortunes seem to have come upon us 
 in such numbers of late that I dreaded lest your 
 departure might be unavoidably delayed or pre- 
 vented. I will not now enter into the painful 
 question of my shameful treatment by Govern- 
 ment, but you can well understand that I shall 
 leave no stone unturned to reverse then* most 
 unfair and unjust decision, and to bring my tra- 
 ducers to book. Important business having ref- 
 erence to these matters calls me away at once, as 
 I feel it is most essential not to lose a moment, 
 my reputation and my whole future being at 
 stake. I shall therefore, to my great regret, be 
 unable to meet you on your arrival in Bombay, 
 and, as my movements for the next few months 
 will be rather uncertain, I may find it difficult 
 to let you have regular news of me. I would 
 therefore advise you to take Fay and the children 
 home as soon as all is safely over and she is able 
 to travel, and I will join you in England if and 
 when I find I can get away. I know, dear Jan, 
 that you will not mind financing Fay to this 
 
 13
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 extent at present; as, owing to these wholly un- 
 expected departmental complications, I am un- 
 commonly hard up. I will, of course, repay you 
 at the earliest possible opportunity. 
 
 Poor Fay is not at all well; all these worries 
 have been very bad for her, and I have been dis- 
 tracted by anxiety on her behalf, as well as about 
 my own most distressing position, and a severe 
 attack of fever has left me weak and ailing. I 
 thought it better to bring Fay down to Bombay, 
 where she can get the best medical advice, and 
 her being there will save you the long, tiresome 
 journey to Dariawarpur. It is also most conve- 
 nient for going home. She is installed in a most 
 comfortable flat, and we brought our own ser- 
 vants, so I hope you will feel that I have done 
 my best for her. 
 
 Fay will explain the whole miserable business 
 to you, and although appearances may be against 
 me, I trust that you will realise how misleading 
 these may be. I cannot thank you enough for 
 responding so promptly to our ardently expressed 
 desire for your presence at this difficult time. It 
 will make all the difference in the world to Fay; 
 and, on her account, to me also. 
 
 Believe me, always yours affectionately, 
 
 HUGO TANCRED. 
 
 Bombay, Friday. 
 
 Jan my dear, my dear, are you really on your 
 way? And shall I see your face and hear your 
 kind voice, and be able to cry against your 
 shoulder ? 
 
 14
 
 Jan's Mail 
 
 I can't meet you, my precious, because I don't 
 go out. I'm afraid. Afraid lest I should see any- 
 one who knew us at Dariawarpur. India is so 
 large and so small, and people from everywhere 
 are always in Bombay, and I couldn't bear it. 
 
 Do you know, Jan, that when the very worst 
 has happened, you get kind of numbed. You 
 can't suffer any more. You can't be sorry or 
 angry or shocked or indignant, or anything but 
 just broken, and that's what I am. 
 
 After all, I've one good friend here who knew 
 us at Dariawarpur. He's got a job at the secre- 
 tariat, and he tries to help me all he can. I don't 
 mind him somehow. He understands. He will 
 meet you and bring you to the bungalow, so look 
 out for him when the boat gets in. He's tall and 
 thin and clean-shaven and yellow, with a grave, 
 stern face and beautiful kind eyes. Peter is an 
 angel, so be nice to him, Jan dear. It has been 
 awful; it will go on being awful; but it will be a 
 little more bearable when you come for me, I 
 mean for you it will be horrid. All of us on 
 your hands, and no money, and me such a crock, 
 and presently a new baby. The children are 
 well. It's so queer to think you haven't seen 
 "little Fay." Come soon, Jan, come soon, to 
 your miserable FAY. 
 
 Jan sat on her bunk under the open porthole. 
 One after the other she held the letters open in 
 her hand and stared at them, but she did not 
 read. The sentences were burnt into her brain 
 already. 
 
 15
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Hugo Tancred's letter was dated. Fay's was 
 not, and neither letter bore any address in Bom- 
 bay. Now, Jan knew that Bombay is a large 
 town; and that people like the Tancreds, who, if 
 not actually in hiding, certainly did not seek to 
 draw attention to then' movements, would be 
 hard to find. Fay had wholly omitted to men- 
 tion the surname of the tall, thin, yellow man 
 with the "grave, stern face and beautiful kind 
 eyes." Even in the midst of her poignant anxiety 
 Jan found herself smiling at this. It was so like 
 Fay so like her to give no address. And should 
 the tall, thin gentleman fail to appear, what was 
 Jan to do? She could hardly go about the ship 
 asking if one "Peter" had come to fetch her. 
 
 How would she find Fay ? 
 
 Would they allow her to wait at the landing- 
 place till someone came, or were there stringent 
 regulations compelling passengers to leave the 
 docks with the utmost speed, as most of them 
 would assuredly desire to do? 
 
 She knitted her brows and worried a good deal 
 about this; then suddenly put the question from 
 her as too trivial when there were such infinitely 
 greater problems to solve. 
 
 Only one thing was clear. One central fact 
 shone out, a beacon amidst the gloom of the "de- 
 partmental complications" enshrouding the con- 
 duct of Hugo Tancred, the certainty that he had, 
 for the present anyway, shifted the responsibility 
 of his family from his own shoulders to hers. As 
 she sat square and upright under the porthole, 
 with the cool air from an inserted "wind-sail" 
 
 16
 
 Jan's Mail 
 
 ruffling her hair, she looked as though she braced 
 herself to the burden. 
 
 She wished she knew exactly what had hap- 
 pened, what Hugo Tancred had actually done. 
 For some years she had known that he was by 
 no means scrupulous hi money matters, and that 
 very evening Sir Langham had made it clear to 
 her that this crookedness had not stopped short 
 at his official work. There had been a scandal, 
 so far-reaching a scandal that it had got into the 
 home papers. 
 
 This struck Jan as rather extraordinary, for 
 Hugo Tancred was by no means a stupid man. 
 
 It is one thing to be pleasantly oblivious of 
 private debts, to omit cheques hi repayment of 
 various necessaries got at the Stores by an oblig- 
 ing sister-in-law. One thing to muddle away hi 
 wild-cat speculations a wife's money that, but for 
 the procrastination of an easy-going father, would 
 have been tightly tied up quite another to bring 
 himself so nearly within the clutches of the law as 
 to make it possible for the Government of India 
 to dismiss him. 
 
 And what was he to do? What did the future 
 hold for him? 
 
 Who would give employment to however able 
 a man with such a career behind him? 
 
 Jan's imagination refused to take such flights. 
 Resolutely she put the subject from her and be- 
 gan to consider what her own best course would 
 be with Fay, her nephew and niece, and, very 
 shortly, a new baby on her hands. 
 
 Jan was not a young woman to let things drift. 
 17
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 She had kept house for a whimsical, happy-go- 
 lucky father since she was fourteen; mothered her 
 beautiful young sister; and, at her father's death, 
 two years before, had with quiet decision ar- 
 ranged her own life, wholly avoiding the discus- 
 sion and the friction which generally are the lot 
 of an unmarried woman of five-and-twenty left 
 without natural guardians and with a large circle 
 of friends and relations. 
 
 It was nearly two o'clock when she undressed 
 and went to bed, and before that she had drafted 
 two cablegrams one to a house-agent, the other 
 to her bankers. 
 
 18
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 BOMBAY 
 
 Jan the next two days passed as in a 
 more or less disagreeable dream. She could 
 never afterwards recall very clearly what hap- 
 pened, except that Sir Langham Sykes seemed 
 absolutely omnipresent, and made her, she felt, 
 ridiculous before the whole ship, by proclaim- 
 ing far and wide that she had bestowed upon 
 him the healing gift of sleep. 
 
 He was so effusive, so palpably grateful, that 
 she simply could not undeceive him by telling 
 him that after they parted the night before she 
 had never given him another thought. 
 
 When he was not doing this he was pursuing, 
 with fulminations against the whole tribe of 
 missionaries, two kindly, quiet members of the 
 Society of Friends. 
 
 In an evil moment they had gratified his in- 
 satiable curiosity as to the object of their voy- 
 age to India, which was to visit and report upon 
 the missionary work of then* community. Once 
 he discovered this he never let them alone, and 
 the deck resounded with his denunciations of 
 all Protestant missionaries as "self-seeking, oily 
 humbugs." 
 
 They bore it with well-mannered resignation, 
 and a common dislike for Sir Langham formed 
 quite a bond of union between them and Jan. 
 
 19
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 There was the usual dance on New Year's 
 Eve, the usual singing of "Auld Lang Syne" 
 in two huge circles; and Jan would have enjoyed 
 it all but for the heavy foreboding in her heart; 
 for she was a simple person who responded easily 
 to the emotions of others. Before she could 
 slip away to bed Sir Langham cornered her again, 
 conjuring her to "will" him to sleep and "to 
 go on doin' it" after they parted in Bombay. 
 He became rather maudlin, and she seized the 
 opportunity of telling him that her best efforts 
 would be wholly unavailing if he at all relaxed 
 the temperate habits, so necessary for the cure 
 of his gout, that he had acquired during the 
 voyage. She was stern with Sir Langham, and 
 her admonitions had considerable effect. He 
 sought his cabin chastened and thoughtful. 
 
 The boat was due early in the morning. Jan 
 finished most of her packing before she un- 
 dressed; then, tired and excited, she could not 
 sleep. A large cockroach scuttling about her 
 cabin did not tend to calm her nerves. She 
 plentifully besprinkled the floor with powdered 
 borax, kept the electric light turned on and the 
 fan whirring, and lay down wide-awake to wait 
 for the dawn. 
 
 The ship was unusually noisy, but just about 
 four o'clock came a new sound right outside her 
 porthole the rush alongside of the boat bearing 
 the pilot and strange loud voices calling direc- 
 tions in an unknown tongue. She turned out 
 her light (first peering fearfully under her berth 
 to make sure no borax-braving cockroach was 
 
 20
 
 Bombay 
 
 lurking in ambush) and knelt on her bed to look 
 out and watch the boat with its turbaned occu- 
 pants: big brown men, who shouted to one 
 another in a liquid language full of mystery. 
 
 For a brief space the little boat was towed 
 alongside the great liner, then cast off, and pres- 
 ently far away on the horizon Jan saw a streak 
 of pearly pinkish light, as though the soft blue 
 curtain of the night had been lifted just a little; 
 and against that luminous streak were hills. 
 
 In spite of her anxiety, in spite of her fears as 
 to the future, Jan's heart beat fast with pleasur- 
 able excitement. She was young and strong and 
 eager, and here at last was the real East. A 
 little soft wind caressed her tired forehead and 
 she drank in the blessed coolness of the early 
 morning. 
 
 Both day and night come quickly in the East. 
 Jan got up, had her bath, dressed, and by half- 
 past six she was on deck. The dark-blue cur- 
 tain was rolled up, and the scene set was the 
 harbour of Bombay. 
 
 Such a gracious haven of strange multi-coloured 
 craft, with its double coast-line of misty hills 
 on one side, and clear-cut, high-piled buildings, 
 domes and trees upon the other. 
 
 A gay white-and-gold launch, with its atten- 
 dants in scarlet and white, came for certain pas- 
 sengers, who were guests of the Governor. The 
 police launch, trim and business-like with its 
 cheerful yellow-hatted sepoys, came for others. 
 Jan watched these favoured persons depart in 
 stately comfort, and went downstairs to get 
 
 21
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 some breakfast. Then came the rush of de- 
 parture by the tender. So many had friends to 
 meet them, and all seemed full of pleasure in 
 arrival. Jan was just beginning to feel rather 
 forlorn and anxious when the Purser, fussed and 
 over-driven as he always is at such times, came 
 towards her, followed by a tall man wearing a 
 pith helmet and an overcoat. 
 
 "Mr. Ledgard has come to meet you, Miss 
 Ross, so you'll be all right." 
 
 It was amazing how easy everything became. 
 Mr. Ledgard's servants collected Jan's cabin 
 baggage and took it with them in the tender 
 and, on arrival, in a tikka- gharri the little 
 pony-carriage which is the gondola of Bombay 
 and almost before she quite realised that the 
 voyage was over she found herself seated beside 
 Peter hi a comfortable motor-car, with a cheerful 
 little Hindu chauffeur at the steering-wheel, 
 sliding through wide, well-watered streets, still 
 comparatively empty because it was so early. 
 
 By mutual consent they turned to look at one 
 another, and Jan noted that Peter Ledgard was 
 thin and extremely yellow. That his eyes (hol- 
 low and tired-looking as are the eyes of so many 
 officials in the East) were kind, and she thought 
 she had never before beheld a firmer mouth or 
 more masterful jaw. 
 
 What Peter saw evidently satisfied him as to 
 her common sense, for he plunged in medias res 
 at once: "How much do you know of this un- 
 fortunate affair?" he asked. 
 
 "Very little," she answered, "and that little 
 22
 
 Bombay 
 
 extremely vague. Will you tell me has Hugo 
 come to total grief or not?" 
 
 "Officially, yes. He is finished, done for 
 may thank his lucky stars he's not in gaol. It's 
 well you should know this at the very beginning, 
 for of course he won't allow it, and poor Fay 
 Mrs. Tancred (I'm afraid we're rather free-and- 
 easy about Christian names hi India) doesn't 
 know the whole facts by a very long way. From 
 what she tells me, I fear he has made away with 
 most of her money, too. Was any of it tied up?" 
 
 Jan shook her head. "We both got what 
 money there was absolutely on my father's 
 death." 
 
 "Then," said Peter, "I fear you've got the 
 whole of them on your hands, Miss Ross." 
 
 "That's what I've come for," Jan said simply, 
 "to take care of Fay and the children." 
 
 Peter Ledgard looked straight hi front of him. 
 
 "It's a lot to put on you," he said slowly, 
 "and I'm afraid you'll find it a bit more com- 
 plicated than you expect. Will you remember 
 that I'd like to help you all I can?" 
 
 Jan looked at the stern profile beside her and 
 felt vaguely comforted. "I shall be most grate- 
 ful for your advice," she said humbly. "I know 
 I shall need it." 
 
 The motor stopped, and as she stepped from 
 it in front of the tall block of buildings, Jan 
 knew that the old easy, straightforward life was 
 over. Unconsciously she stiffened her back and 
 squared her shoulders, and looked very tall 
 and straight as she stood beside Peter Ledgard 
 
 23
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 in the entrance. The pretty colour he had ad- 
 mired when he met her had faded from her cheeks, 
 and the face under the shady hat looked grave 
 and older. 
 
 Peter said something to the smiling lift-man 
 in an extremely dirty dhoti who stood salaaming 
 in the entrance. 
 
 "I won't come up now," he said to Jan. 
 "Please tell Mrs. Tancred I'll look hi about 
 tea-time." 
 
 As Jan entered the lift and vanished from his 
 sight, Peter reflected, "So that's the much- 
 talked-of Jan! Well, I'm not surprised Fay 
 wanted her." 
 
 The lift stopped. An elderly white-clad butler 
 stood salaaming at an open door, and Jan fol- 
 lowed him. 
 
 A few steps through a rather narrow passage 
 and she was in a large light room opening on to 
 a verandah, and in the centre stood her sister 
 Fay, with outstretched arms. 
 
 A pathetic, inarticulate, worn and faded Fay: 
 her pretty freshness dimmed. A Fay with dark 
 circles round her hollow eyes and all the living 
 light gone from her abundant fair hair. It was 
 as though her face was covered by an impalpable 
 grey mask. 
 
 There was no doubt about it. Fay looked 
 desperately ill. Ill in a way not to be accounted 
 for by her condition. 
 
 Clinging together they sat down on an im- 
 mense sofa, exchanging trivial question and 
 answer as to the matters ordinary happy folk 
 
 24
 
 Bombay 
 
 discuss when they first meet after a long absence. 
 Jan asked for the children, who had not yet re- 
 turned from their early morning walk with the 
 ayah. Fay asked about the voyage and friends 
 at home, and told Jan she had got dreadfully 
 grey; then kissed her and leant against her just 
 as she used to do when they were both children 
 and she needed comfort. 
 
 Jan said nothing to Fay about her looks, and 
 neither of them so much as mentioned Hugo 
 Tancred. But Jan felt a wild desire to get away 
 by herself and cry and cry over this sad wraith 
 of the young sister whose serene and happy 
 beauty had been the family pride. 
 
 And yet she was so essentially the same Fay, 
 tender and loving and inconsequent, and full of 
 pretty cares for Jan's comfort. 
 
 The dining-room was behind the sitting-room, 
 with only a curtain between, and as they sat at 
 breakfast Fay was so eager Jan should eat she 
 ate nothing herself so anxious lest she should 
 not like the Indian food, that poor Jan, with a 
 lump in her throat that choked her at every 
 morsel, forced down the carefully thought-out 
 breakfast and meekly accepted everything pre- 
 sented by the grey-haired turbaned butler who 
 bent over her paternally and offered every dish 
 much as one would tempt a shy child with some 
 amusing toy. 
 
 Presently Fay took her to see her room, large, 
 bare and airy, with little furniture save the bed 
 with its clean white mosquito curtains placed 
 under the electric fan in the centre of the ceiling. 
 
 25
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Outside the window was a narrow balcony, and 
 Jan went there at once to look out; and though 
 her Jieart was so heavy she was fain to exclaim 
 joyfully at the beauty of the view. 
 
 Right opposite, across Back Bay, lay the 
 wooded villa-crowned slopes of Malabar Hill, 
 flung like a garland on the bosom of a sea deeply 
 blue and smiling, smooth as a lake, while below 
 her lay the pageant of the street, with its ever- 
 changing panorama of vivid life. The whole so 
 brilliant, so various, so wholly unlike any beauti- 
 ful place she had ever seen before that, artist's 
 daughter she was, she cried eagerly to Fay, "Oh, 
 come and look! Did you ever see anything so 
 lovely? How Dad would have rejoiced in this!" 
 
 Fay followed slowly: "I thought you'd like 
 it," she said, evidently pleased by Jan's enthusi- 
 asm, "that's why I gave you this room. Look, 
 Jan! There are the children coming, those two 
 over by the band-stand. They see us. Do wave 
 to them." 
 
 The children were still a long way off. Jan 
 could only see an ayah in her white draperies 
 pushing a little go-cart with a child in it, and a 
 small boy trotting by her side, but she waved as 
 she was bidden. 
 
 The room had evidently at one tune been used 
 as a nursery, for inside the stone balustrade was 
 a high trellis of wood. Jan and Fay were both 
 tall women, but even on them the guarding trellis 
 came right up to their shoulders. Neither of 
 them could really lean over, though Fay tried, in 
 her eagerness to attract the attention of the little 
 
 26
 
 Bombay 
 
 group. Jan watched her sister's face and again 
 felt that cruel constriction of the throat that 
 holds back tears. Fay's tired eyes were so 'sad, 
 so out of keeping with the cheerful movement of 
 her hand, so shadowed by some knowledge she 
 could not share. 
 
 "You mustn't stand here without a hat," she 
 said, turning to go in. "The sun is getting hot. 
 You must get a topee this afternoon. Peter will 
 take you and help to choose it." 
 
 "Couldn't you come, if we took a little car- 
 riage? Does driving tire you when it's cool?" 
 Jan asked as she followed her sister back into the 
 room. 
 
 "I never go out," Fay said decidedly. "I 
 never shall again ... I mean," she added, "till 
 it's all over. I couldn't bear it just now I might 
 meet someone I know." 
 
 "But, Fay, it's very bad for you to be always 
 indoors. Surely, in the early morning or the 
 evening you'll come out then?" 
 
 Fay shook her head. "Peter has taken me 
 out in the motor once or twice at night but I 
 don't really like it. It makes me so dreadfully 
 tired. Don't worry me about that, Jan. I get 
 plenty of air in the verandah. It's just as pretty 
 there as in your balcony, and we can have com- 
 fortable chairs. Let's go there now. You shall 
 go out as much as you like. I'll send Lalkhan 
 with you, or Ayah and the children; and Peter 
 will take you about all he can he promised he 
 would. Don't think I want to be selfish and 
 keep you here with me all the time." 
 
 27
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 The flat, weak voice, so nervous, so terrified 
 lest her stronger sister should force her to some 
 course of action she dreaded, went to Jan's 
 heart. 
 
 "My dear," she said gently, "I haven't come 
 here to rush about. I've come to be with you. 
 We'll do exactly what you like best." 
 
 Fay clung to her again and whispered, " Later on 
 you'll understand better I'll be able to tell you 
 things, and perhaps you'll understand . . . though 
 I'm not sure you're not weak like me, you'd 
 never go under . . . you'd always fight. . . ." 
 
 There was a pattering of small feet in the pas- 
 sage. Little high voices called for " Mummy," 
 and the children came in. 
 
 Tony, a grave-eyed, pale-faced child of five, 
 came forward instantly, with his hand held out 
 far hi front of him. Jan, who loved little children, 
 knew in a minute that he was afraid she would 
 kiss him; so she shook hands with gentlemanly 
 stiffness. Little Fay, on the contrary, ran for- 
 ward, held up her arms "to be taken" and her 
 adorably pretty little face to be kissed. She was 
 startlingly like her mother at the same age, with 
 bobbing curls of feathery gold, beseeching blue 
 eyes and a complexion delicately coloured as the 
 pearly pink lining of certain shells. She was, 
 moreover, chubby, sturdy and robust quite un- 
 like Tony, who looked nervous, bleached and 
 delicate. 
 
 Tony went and leant against his mother, re- 
 garding Jan and his small sister with dubious, 
 questioning eyes. 
 
 28
 
 Bombay 
 
 Presently he remarked, "I wish she hadn't 
 come." 
 
 "Oh, Tony," Fay exclaimed reproachfully, 
 "you must both love Auntie Jan very dearly. 
 She has come such a long way to be good to us 
 all." 
 
 "I wish she hadn't," Tony persisted. 
 
 "I sail love Auntie Dzan," Fay remarked, 
 virtuously. 
 
 It was pleasant to be cuddled by this friendly 
 baby, and Jan laid her cheek against the fluffy 
 golden head; but all the time she was watching 
 Tony. He reminded her of someone, and she 
 couldn't think who. He maintained his aloof 
 and unfriendly attitude till Ayah came to take 
 the children to their second breakfast. Little 
 Fay, however, refused to budge, and when the 
 meekly salaaming ayah attempted to take her, 
 made her strong little body stiff, and screamed 
 vigorously, clinging so firmly to her aunt that 
 Jan had herself to carry the obstreperous baby 
 to the nursery, where she left her lying on the 
 floor, still yelling with all the strength of her 
 evidently healthy lungs. 
 
 When Jan returned, rather dishevelled for 
 her niece had seized a handful of her hah* in the 
 final struggle not to be put down Fay said al- 
 most complacently, "You see, the dear little soul 
 took a fancy to you at once. Tony is much more 
 reserved and not nearly so friendly. He's very 
 Scotch, is Tony." 
 
 "He does what he's told, anyway." 
 
 "Oh, not always," Fay said reassuringly, "only 
 29
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 when he doesn't mind doing it. They've both got 
 very strong wills." 
 
 "So have I," said Jan. 
 
 Fay sighed. "It was time you came to keep 
 them in order. I can't." 
 
 This was evident, for Fay had not attempted 
 to interfere with her daughter beyond saying, "I 
 expect she's hungry, that's why she's so fretty, 
 poor dear." 
 
 That afternoon Peter went to the flat and was 
 shown as usual into the sitting-room. 
 
 Jan and the children were in the verandah, all 
 with their backs to the room, and did not notice 
 his entrance as Jan was singing nursery-rhymes. 
 Fay sat on her knee, cuddled close as though 
 there were no such thing as tempers in the world. 
 Tony sat on a little chair at her side, not very 
 near, but still near enough to manifest a more 
 friendly spirit than in the morning. Peter waited 
 in the background while the song went on. 
 
 I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing on the sea, 
 
 And it was full of pretty things for Tony, Fay and me. 
 
 There was sugar in the cabin and kisses in the hold 
 
 "Whose kisses?" Tony asked suspiciously. 
 
 "Mummy's kisses, of course," said Jan. 
 
 "Why doesn't it say so, then?" Tony de- 
 manded. 
 
 "Mummy's kisses in the hold," Jan sang obedi- 
 ently 
 
 The sails were made of silk and the masts were made of gold. 
 Gold, gold, the masts were made of gold. 
 
 30
 
 Bombay 
 
 "What nelse?" Fay asked before Jan could 
 start the second verse. 
 
 There were four-and-twenty sailors a-skipping on the deck, 
 And they were little white mice with rings about their neck. 
 The captain was a duck, with a jacket on his back, 
 And when the ship began to sail, the captain cried, "Quack! 
 
 Quack ! 
 Quack! Quack!" The captain cried, "Quack! Quack!" 
 
 "What nelse?" Fay asked again. 
 
 "There isn't any nelse, that's all." 
 
 "Adain," said Fay. 
 
 "Praps," Tony said thoughtfully, "there was 
 some auntie's kisses in that hold . . . just a 
 few . . ." 
 
 "I'm sure there were," said a new voice, and 
 Peter appeared on the verandah. 
 
 The children greeted him with effusion, and 
 when he sat down Tony sat on his knee. He was 
 never assailed by fears lest Peter should want to 
 kiss him. Peter was not that sort. 
 
 "Sing nunner song," little Fay commanded. 
 
 "Not now," Jan said; "we've got a visitor and 
 must talk to him." 
 
 "Sing nunner song," little Fay repeated firmly, 
 just as though she had not heard. 
 
 "Not now; some other tune," Jan said with 
 equal firmness. 
 
 "Mack!" said the baby, and suited the action 
 to the word by dealing her aunt a good hard 
 smack on the arm. 
 
 "You mustn't do that," said Jan; "it's not 
 kind." 
 
 31
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "Mack, mack, mack," in crescendo with ac- 
 companying blows. 
 
 Jan caught the little hand, while Peter and 
 Tony, interested spectators, said nothing. She 
 held it firmly. "Listen, little Fay," she said, 
 very gently. "If you do that again I shall take 
 you to Ayah in the nursery. Just once again, 
 and you go." 
 
 Jan loosed the little hand, and instantly it 
 dealt her a resounding slap on the cheek. 
 
 It is of no avail to kick and scream and wriggle 
 in the arms of a strong, decided young aunt. 
 For the second time that day, a vociferously 
 struggling baby was borne back to the nursery. 
 
 As the yells died away in the distance, Tony 
 turned right round on Peter's knee and faced 
 him: "She does what she says," he remarked in 
 an awestruck whisper. 
 
 "And a jolly good thing too," answered Peter. 
 
 When Jan came back she brought her sister 
 with her. Lalkhan brought tea, and Tony went 
 with him quite meekly to the nursery. They 
 heard him chattering to Lalkhan in Hindustani 
 as they went along the passage. 
 
 Fay looked a thought less haggard than in the 
 morning. She had slept after tiffin; the fact that 
 her sister was actually in the bungalow had a 
 calming effect upon her. She was quite cheerful 
 and full of plans for Jan's amusement; plans 
 in which, of course, she proposed to take no part 
 herself. Jan listened in considerable dismay 
 to arrangements which appeared to her to make 
 enormous inroads into Peter Ledgard's leisure 
 
 32
 
 Bombay 
 
 hours. He and his motor seemed to be quite 
 at Fay's disposal, and Jan found the situation 
 both bewildering and embarrassing. 
 
 "What a nuisance for him," she reflected, "to 
 have a young woman thrust upon him in this 
 fashion. It won't do to upset Fay, but I must 
 tell him at the first opportunity that none of 
 these projects hold good." 
 
 I* Directly tea was over Fay almost hustled 
 them out to go and buy a topee for Jan, and 
 suggested that, having accomplished this, they 
 should look in at the Yacht Club for an hour, 
 "because it was band-night," and Jan would 
 like the Yacht Club lawn, with the sea and the 
 boats and all the cheerful people. 
 
 As the car slid into the crowded traffic of the 
 Esplanade Road, Peter pointed to a large build- 
 ing on the left, saying, "There's the Army and 
 Navy Stores, quite close to you, you see. You 
 can always get anything you want there. I'll 
 give you my number . . . not that it matters." 
 
 "I've belonged for years to the one at home," 
 said Jan, "and I understand the same number 
 will do." 
 
 She felt she really could not be beholden to 
 this strange young man for everything, even a 
 Stores number; and that she had better make 
 the situation clear at once that she had come to 
 take care of Fay and not to be an additional 
 anxiety to him. At that moment she felt almost 
 jealous of Peter. Fay seemed to turn to him 
 for everything. 
 
 When they reached the shop where topees 
 33
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 were to be got, she heard a familiar, booming 
 voice. Had she been alone she would certainly 
 have turned and fled, deferring her purchase till Sir 
 Langham Sykes had concluded his, but she could 
 hardly explain her rather complicated reasons 
 to Peter, who told the Eurasian assistant to bring 
 topees for her inspection. 
 
 Jan tried vainly to efface herself behind a 
 tailor's dummy, but her back was reflected in 
 the very mirror which also reproduced Sir Lang- 
 ham in the act of trying on a khaki-coloured 
 topee. He saw her and at once hurried in her 
 direction, exclaiming: 
 
 "Ah, Miss Ross, run to earth! You slipped 
 off this morning without bidding me good-bye, 
 and I've been wonderin' all day where we should 
 meet. Now let me advise you about your topee. 
 Pll choose it for you, then you can't go wrong. 
 Get a large one, mind, or the back of your nice 
 little neck will be burnt the colour of the toast 
 they gave us on the Carnduff shockin' toast, 
 wasn't it? No, not that shape, idiot . . . unless 
 you're goin' to ride, are you? If so, you must 
 have one of each a large one, I said what the 
 devil's the use of that? You must wear it well 
 on your head, mind; you can't show much of 
 that pretty grey hair that puzzled us all se- 
 en, w'at?" 
 
 Jan had been white enough as she entered the 
 shop, for she was beginning to feel quite amaz- 
 ingly tired; but now the face under the over- 
 shadowing topee was crimson and she was hope- 
 lessly confused and helpless in the overpowering 
 
 34
 
 Bombay 
 
 presence of Sir Langham, who, when he could 
 for a moment detach his mind from Jan, looked 
 with considerable curiosity at Peter. 
 
 Peter stood there silent, aloof, detached; and 
 he appeared quite cool. Jan felt the atmosphere 
 to be almost insufferably close, and heaved a 
 sigh of gratitude when he suddenly turned on 
 an electric fan above her head. 
 
 "I think this will do," she said, in a faint voice 
 to the assistant, though the crinkly green lining 
 round the crown seemed searing her very brain. 
 
 Peter intervened, asking: "Is it comfortable? 
 No ..." as she took it off. "I can see it isn't. 
 It has marked your forehead already. Don't 
 be in a hurry. They'll probably need to alter 
 the lining. Some women have it taken out al- 
 together. Pins keep it on all right." 
 
 Thus encouraged, she tried on others, and all 
 the time Sir Langham held forth at the top of 
 his voice, interrupting his announcement that 
 he was dining at Government House that very 
 night to swear at the assistant when he brought 
 topees that did not fit, and giving his opinion 
 of her appearance with the utmost frankness, 
 till Jan found one that seemed rather less un- 
 comfortable than the rest. Then in desperation 
 she introduced Sir Langham to Peter. 
 
 "Your sister-in-law looks a bit tucked up," he 
 remarked affably. "We'd better take her to 
 the Yacht Club and give her a peg she seems 
 to feel the heat." 
 
 Jan cast one despairing, imploring glance at 
 Peter, who rose to the occasion nobly. 
 
 35
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "You're quite right," he said. "This place is 
 infernally stuffy. Come on. They know where 
 to send it. Good afternoon sir," and before she 
 realised what had happened Peter seized her by 
 the arm and swept her out of the shop and into 
 the front seat of the car, stepped over her and 
 himself took the steering-wheel. 
 
 While Sir Langham's voice bayed forth a mix- 
 ture of expostulation and assignation at the 
 Yacht Club later on. 
 
 "Now where shall we go?" asked Peter. 
 
 "Not the Yacht Club," Jan besought him. 
 "He's coming there; he said so. Isn't he dread- 
 ful? Did you mind very much being taken for 
 my brother-in-law? He has no idea who he 
 really is, or I wouldn't have let it pass . . . but I 
 felt I could never explain . . . I'm so sorry ..." 
 
 Her face was white enough now. 
 
 "It would have been absurd to explain, and 
 it's I who should apologise for the free-and-easy 
 way I carried you off, but it was clearly a case 
 for strong measures, or he'd have insisted on 
 coming with us. What an awful little man ! 
 Did you have him all the voyage? No wonder 
 you look tired. ... I hope he didn't sit at 
 your table. . . ." 
 
 Once out of doors, the delicious breeze from 
 the sea that springs up every evening in Bombay 
 revived her. She forgot Sir Langham, for a 
 few minutes she even forgot Fay and her anxieties 
 in sheer pleasure in the prospect, as the car fell 
 into its place in the crowded traffic of the Queen's 
 Road. 
 
 36
 
 Jan never forgot that drive. He ran her out 
 to Chowpatty, where the road lies along the 
 shore and the carriages of Mohammedan, Hindu 
 and Parsee gentlemen stand in serried rows while 
 their picturesque occupants "eat the air" in 
 passive and contented Eastern fashion; then 
 up to Ridge Road on Malabar Hill, where he 
 stopped that she might get out and walk to the 
 edge of the wooded cliff and look down at the 
 sea and the great city lying bathed in that clear 
 golden light only to be found at sunset in the East. 
 
 Peter enjoyed her evident appreciation of it 
 all. She said very little, but she looked fresh 
 and rested again, and he was conscious of a quite 
 unusual pleasure in her mere presence as they 
 stood together in the green garden, got and kept 
 by such infinite pains and care, that borders the 
 road running along the top of Malabar Hill. 
 
 Suddenly she turned. "We mustn't wait 
 another minute," she said. "You, doubtless, 
 want to go to the club. It has been very good 
 of you to spend so much time with me. What 
 makes it all so beautiful is that everywhere one 
 sees the sea. I will tell Fay how much I have 
 enjoyed it." 
 
 Peter's eyes met hers and held them: "Try to 
 think of me as a friend, Miss Ross. I can see you 
 are thoroughly capable and independent; but, 
 believe me, India is not like England, and a 
 white woman needs a good many things done 
 for her here if she's to be at all comfortable. I 
 don't want to butt in and be a nuisance, but 
 
 just remember I'm there when the bell rings " 
 
 37
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "I am not likely to forget," said Jan. 
 
 Lights began to twinkle in the city below. 
 The soft monotonous throb of tom-toms came 
 beating through the ambient air like a pulse of 
 teeming life; and when he left her at her sister's 
 door the purple darkness of an Eastern night 
 had curtained off the sea. 
 
 38
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE JOB 
 
 was still lying on her long chair in the 
 verandah when Jan got in. She had turned 
 on the electric light above her head and had, 
 seemingly, been working at some diminutive 
 garment of nainsook and lace. She looked up 
 at Jan's step, asking eagerly, "Well, did you 
 like it? Did you see many people? Was the 
 band good?" 
 
 Jan sat down beside her and explained that 
 Peter had taken her for a drive instead. She 
 made her laugh over her encounter with Sir 
 Langham, and was enthusiastic about the view 
 from Malabar Hill. Then Fay sent her to say 
 good night to the children, who were just getting 
 ready for bed. 
 
 As she went down the long passage towards 
 the nursery, she heard small voices chattering in 
 Hindustani, and as she opened the door little 
 Fay was hi the act of stepping out of all her 
 clothes. 
 
 Tony was already clad in pink pyjamas, which 
 made him look paler than ever. 
 
 Little Fay, naked as any shameless cherub on 
 a Renaissance festoon, danced across the tiled 
 floor, and, pausing directly in front of her aunt, 
 announced : 
 
 "I sail mack Ayah as muts as I like." 
 39
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 The good-natured Goanese ayah salaamed and, 
 beaming upon her charge, murmured entire ac- 
 quiescence. 
 
 Jan looked down at the absurd round atom 
 who defied her, and, trying hard not to laugh, 
 said: 
 
 "Oh, no, you won't." 
 
 "I sail!" the baby declared even more em- 
 phatically, and, lifting up her adorable, obstinate 
 little face to look at Jan, nodded her curly head 
 vigorously. 
 
 "I think not," Jan remarked rather unsteadily, 
 "because if you do, people won't like you. We 
 can none of us go about smacking innocent folks 
 just for the fun of it. Everybody would be 
 shocked and horrified." 
 
 "Socked and hollified," echoed little Fay, 
 delighted with the new words, "socked and 
 hollified! . . . What nelse?" 
 
 "What usually follows is that the disagreeable 
 little girl gets smacked herself." 
 
 "No," said Fay, but a thought doubtfully. 
 "No," more firmly. Then with a smile that was 
 subtly compounded of pathos and confidence, 
 "Nobody would mack plitty little Fay . . . 'cept 
 . . . plapse . . . Auntie Dzan." 
 
 The stern aunt in question snatched up her 
 niece to cover her with kisses. Ayah escaped 
 chastisement that evening, for, arrayed in a 
 white nighty, "plitty little Fay" sat good as 
 gold on Jan's knee, absorbed in the interest of 
 "This little pig went to market," told on her 
 own toes. Even Tony, the aloof and unfriendly, 
 
 40
 
 The Beginning of the Job 
 
 consented to unbend to the extent of being in- 
 terested in the dialogue of "John Smith and 
 Minnie Bowl, can you shoe a little foal?" and 
 actually thrust out his own bare feet that Jan 
 might make them take part in the drama of the 
 "twa wee doggies who went to the market," and 
 came back " louper-scamper, louper-scamper." 
 
 At the end of every song or legend came the 
 inevitable "What nelse?" from little Fay and 
 Jan only escaped after the most solemn promises 
 had been exacted for a triple bill on the morrow. 
 
 When she had changed and went back to the 
 sitting-room, dinner was ready. Lalkhan again 
 bent over her with fatherly solicitude as he 
 offered each course, and this tune Jan, being 
 really hungry, rather enjoyed his ministrations. 
 A boy assisted at the sideboard, and another 
 minion appeared to bring the dishes from the 
 kitchen, for the butler and the boy never left the 
 room for an instant. 
 
 Fay looked like a tired ghost, and Jan could 
 see that it was a great effort to her to talk cheer- 
 fully and seem interested in the home news. 
 
 After dinner they went back to the sitting- 
 room. Lalkhan brought coffee and Fay lit a 
 cigarette. Jan wandered round, looking at the 
 photographs and engravings on the walls. 
 
 "How is it," she asked, "that Mr. Ledgard 
 seems to come in so many of these groups? Did 
 you rent the flat from a friend of his?" 
 
 "I didn't 'rent' the flat from anybody," Fay 
 answered. "It's Peter's own flat. He lent it 
 to us." 
 
 41
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Jan turned and stared at her sister. "Mr. 
 Ledgard's flat!" she repeated. "And what is 
 he doing?" 
 
 "He's living at the club just now. He turned 
 out when we came. Don't look at me like that, 
 Jan. . . . There was nothing else to be done." 
 
 Jan came back and sat on the edge of the 
 big sofa. "But I understood Hugo's letter to 
 say . . ." 
 
 "Whatever Hugo said in his letter was prob- 
 ably lies. If Peter hadn't lent us his flat, I 
 should have had nowhere to lay my head. Who 
 do you suppose would let us a flat here, after all 
 that has happened, unless we paid in advance, 
 and how could we do that without any ready 
 money? Why, a flat like this unfurnished costs 
 over three hundred rupees a month. I don't 
 know what a furnished flat would be." 
 
 "But isn't it ... taking a great deal from 
 Mr. Ledgard?" Jan asked timidly. 
 
 Fay stretched out her hand and suddenly 
 switched off the lights, so that they were left to- 
 gether on the big sofa in the soft darkness. 
 
 "Give me your hand, Jan. I shall be less 
 afraid of you when I just feel you and can't see 
 you." 
 
 "Why should you be afraid of me? . . . Dear, 
 dear Fay, you must remember how little I really 
 know. How can I understand?" 
 
 Fay leant against her sister and held her close. 
 "Sometimes I feel as if I couldn't understand it 
 all myself. But you mustn't worry about Peter's 
 flat. We'll all go home the minute I can be 
 
 42
 
 The Beginning of the Job 
 
 moved. He doesn't mind, really . . . and there 
 was nothing else to be done." 
 
 "Does Hugo know you are here?" 
 
 Fay laughed, a sad, bitter little laugh. "It 
 was Hugo who asked Peter to lend his flat." 
 
 "Then what about his servants? What has he 
 done with them while you are here?" 
 
 " These are his servants." 
 
 "But Hugo said . . ." 
 
 "Jan, dear, it is no use quoting Hugo to me. 
 I can tell you the sort of thing he would say. . . . 
 Did he mention Peter at all?" 
 
 "Certainly not. He said you were 'installed in 
 a most comfortable flat' and had brought your 
 own servants." 
 
 "I brought Ayah naturally, Peter hadn't an 
 ayah. But why do you object to his servants? 
 They're very good." 
 
 "But don't they think it ... a little odd?" 
 
 "Oh, you can't bother about what servants 
 think in India. They think us all mad anyway." 
 
 There was silence for a few minutes while Jan 
 realised the fact that, dislike it as she might, she 
 seemed fated to be laid under considerable obli- 
 gation to Mr. Peter Ledgard. 
 
 "Where is Hugo?" she asked at last. 
 
 "My dear, you appear to have heard from 
 Hugo since I have. As to his whereabouts I 
 haven't the remotest idea." 
 
 "Do you mean to say, Fay, that he hasn't let 
 you know where he is?" 
 
 "He didn't come with us to the flat because he 
 was afraid he'd be seized for debts and things. 
 
 43
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 We've only been here a fortnight. He's probably 
 on board ship somewhere there hasn't been 
 much time for him to let me know ..." 
 
 Fay spoke plaintively, as though Jan were 
 rather hard on Hugo in expecting him to give his 
 wife any account of his movements. 
 
 Jan was glad it was dark. She felt bewildered 
 and oppressed and very, very angry with her 
 brother-in-law, who seemed to have left his 
 entire household in the care of Peter Ledgard. 
 Was Peter paying for then* very food, she won- 
 dered? She'd put a stop to that, anyhow. 
 
 "Jan" she felt Fay lean a little closer "don't 
 be down on me. You've no idea how hard it has 
 all been. You're such a daylight person your- 
 self." 
 
 "Hard on you, my precious! I could never 
 feel the least little bit hard. Only it's all so 
 puzzling. And what do you mean by a 'day- 
 light person'?" 
 
 "You know, Jan, for three months now I've 
 been a lot alone, and I've done a deal of thinking 
 more than ever in all my life before; and it 
 seems to me that the world is divided into three 
 kinds of people the daylight people, and the 
 twilight people and the night people." 
 
 Fay paused. Jan stroked her hot, thin hand, 
 but did not speak, and the tired, whispering voice 
 went on: "We were daylight people Daddy was 
 very daylight. There were never any mysteries; 
 we all of us knew always where each of us was, 
 and there were no secrets and no queer people 
 coming for interviews, and it wouldn't have mat- 
 
 44
 
 The Beginning of the Job 
 
 tered very much if anyone had opened one of our 
 letters. Oh, it's such an easy life in the daylight 
 country ..." 
 
 "And in the twilight country?" asked Jan. 
 
 "Ah, there it's very different. Everything is 
 mysterious. You never know where anyone has 
 gone, and if he's away queer people quite hor- 
 rid people come and ask for him and won't go 
 away, and sit in the verandah and cheek the 
 butler and the boy and insist on seeing the 'mem- 
 sahib/ and when she screws up her courage and 
 goes to them, they ask for money, and show dirty 
 bits of paper and threaten, and it's all awful 
 till somebody like Peter comes and kicks them 
 out, and then they simply fly." 
 
 In spite of her irritation at being beholden to 
 him, Jan began to feel grateful to Peter. 
 
 "Sometimes," Fay continued, "I think it would 
 be easier to be a night person. They've no ap- 
 pearances to keep up. You see, what makes it so 
 difficult for the twilight people is that they want 
 to live in the daylight, and it's too strong for 
 them. All the night people whom they know 
 and if you're twilight you know lots of 'em 
 come and drag them back. They don't care. 
 They rather like to go right in among the day- 
 light folk and scare and shock them, and make 
 them uncomfortable. You can't suffer hi the 
 same way when you've gone under altogether." 
 
 "But, Fay dear," Jan interposed, "you talk 
 as though the twilight people couldn't help 
 it . . ." 
 
 "They can't they truly can't." 
 45
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "But surely there's right and wrong, straight- 
 ness and crookedness, and no one need be crooked." 
 
 "People like you needn't but everybody isn't 
 strong like that. Hugo says every man has his 
 price, and every woman too Peter says so, too." 
 
 "Then Peter oXight to be ashamed of himself. 
 Do you suppose he has his price?" 
 
 "No, not in that way. He'd think it silly to 
 be pettifogging and dishonest about money, or 
 to go in for mad speculations run by shady com- 
 panies; but he wouldn't think it extraordinary 
 like you." 
 
 "I'm afraid my education has been neglected. 
 A great many things seem extraordinary to me." 
 
 "You think it funny I should be living in 
 Peter's flat, waited on by Peter's servants but 
 what else could I do?" 
 
 Jan smiled in the darkness. She saw where 
 her niece had got "what nelse?" 
 
 "Isn't it just a little unusual?" she asked 
 gently. "Is there no money at all, Fay? What 
 has become of all your own?" 
 
 "It's not all gone," Fay said eagerly. "I think 
 there's nearly two thousand pounds left, but 
 Peter made me write home that was at Daria- 
 warpur, before he came down here and say no 
 more was to be sent out, not even if I wrote my- 
 self to ask for it and he wrote to Mr. Davidson 
 ^ oo 
 
 "I know somebody wrote. Mr. Davidson was 
 very worried . . . but what can Hugo have done 
 with eight thousand pounds hi two years? Be- 
 sides his pay . . ." 
 
 46
 
 The Beginning of the Job 
 
 "Eight thousand pounds doesn't go far when 
 you've dealings with money-lenders and mines in 
 Peru but / don't understand it don't ask me. 
 I believe he left me a little money I don't know 
 how much at a bank in Elphinstone Circle 
 but I haven't liked to write and find out, lest it 
 should be very little ... or none ..." 
 
 " Mercy!" exclaimed Jan. "It surely would 
 be better to know for certain." 
 
 "When you've lived in the twilight country 
 as long as I have you'll not want to know any- 
 thing for certain. It's only when things are 
 wrapped up in a merciful haze of obscurity that 
 life is tolerable at all. Do you suppose I wanted 
 to find out that my husband was a rascal? I 
 shut my eyes to it as long as I could, and then 
 Truth came with all he* cruel tools and pried 
 them open. Oh, Jan, it did hurt so!" 
 
 If Fay had cried, if her voice had even broken 
 or she had seemed deeply moved, it would have 
 been more bearable. It was the poor thing's 
 calm almost indifference that frightened Jan. 
 For it proved that her perceptions were numbed. 
 
 Fay had been tortured till she could feel noth- 
 ing acutely any more. Jan had the feeling .that 
 hi some dreadful, inscrutable way her sister was 
 shut away from her in some prison-house of the 
 mind. 
 
 And who shall break through those strange, in- 
 tangible, impenetrable walls of unshared expe- 
 rience ? 
 
 Jan swallowed her tears and said cheerfully: 
 "Well, it's all going to be different now. You 
 
 47
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 needn't worry about anything any more. If 
 Hugo has left no money we'll manage without. 
 Mr. Davidson will let me have what I want . . . 
 but we must be careful, because of the children." 
 
 "And you'll try not to mind living in Peter's 
 flat?" Fay said, rubbing her head against Jan's 
 shoulder. "It's India, you know, and men are 
 very kind out here much friendlier than they 
 are at home." 
 
 "So it seems." 
 
 "You needn't think there's anything wrong, 
 Jan. Peter isn't in love with me now." 
 
 "Was he ever in love with you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, a bit, once; when he first came to 
 Dariawarpur . . . lots of them were then. I 
 really was very pretty, and I had quite a little 
 court . . . but when the bad times came and 
 people began to look shy at Hugo everybody 
 was nice to me always then Peter seemed differ- 
 ent. There was no more philandering, he was 
 just . . . Oh, Jan, he was just such a daylight 
 person, and might have been Daddie. I should 
 have died without him." 
 
 "Fay, tell me I'll never ask again was Hugo 
 unkind to you?" 
 
 "No, Jan, truly not unkind. He shut me 
 away from the greater part of his life . . . and 
 there were other people . . . not ladies" Fay 
 felt the shoulder she leant against stiffen "but 
 I didn't know that for quite a long tune . . . 
 and he wasn't ever surly or cross or grudging. 
 He always wanted me to have everything very 
 nice, and I really believe he always hoped the 
 
 48
 
 The Beginning of the Job 
 
 mines and things would make lots of money. . . . 
 You know, Jan, I'd rather believe in people. I 
 daresay you think I'm weak and stupid . . . 
 but I can never understand wives who set detec- 
 tives on then* husbands." 
 
 "It isn't done by the best people," Jan said 
 with a laugh that was half a sob. "Let's hope 
 it isn't often necessary. . . ." 
 
 Fay drew a little closer: "Oh, you are dear not 
 to be stern and scolding. ..." 
 
 "It's not you I feel like scolding." 
 
 "If you scolded him, he'd agree with every 
 word, so that you simply couldn't go on ... 
 and then he'd go away and do just the same 
 things over again, and fondly hope you'd never 
 hear of it. But he was kind hi lots of ways. 
 He didn't drink " 
 
 "I don't see anything so very creditable in 
 that," Jan interrupted. 
 
 "Well, it's one of the things he didn't do and 
 we had the nicest bungalow in the station and 
 by far the best motor a much smarter motor 
 than the Resident. And it was only when I dis- 
 covered that Hugo had made out I was an heiress 
 that I began to feel uncomfortable." 
 
 "Was he good to the children?" 
 
 "He hardly saw them. Children don't interest 
 him much. He liked little Fay because she's so 
 pretty, but I don't think he cared a great deal for 
 Tony. Tony is queer and judging. Don't take 
 a dislike to Tony, Jan; he needs a long time, but 
 once you've got him he stays for ever will you 
 remember that?" 
 
 49
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Again, Jan felt that cold hand laid on her heart, 
 the hand of chill foreboding. She had noticed 
 many times already that when Fay was off her 
 guard she always talked as though, for her, every- 
 thing were ended, and she was only waiting for 
 something. There seemed no permanence in her 
 relations with them all. 
 
 A shadowy white figure lifted the curtain be- 
 tween the two rooms and stood salaaming. 
 
 Jan started violently. She was not yet accus- 
 tomed to the soundless naked feet of the servants 
 whose presence might be betrayed by a rustle, 
 never by a step. 
 
 It was Ayah waiting to know if Fay would 
 like to go to bed. 
 
 "Shall I go, Jan? Are you tired?" 
 
 Jan was, desperately tired, for she had had no 
 sleep the night before, but Fay's voice had in it 
 a little tremor of fear that showed she dreaded 
 the night. 
 
 "Send her to bed, poor thing. I'll look after 
 you, brush your hair and tuck you up and 
 all. . . . Fay, oughtn't you to have somebody 
 in your room? Couldn't my cot be put in there, 
 just to sleep?" 
 
 "Oh, Jan, would you? Don't you mind?" 
 
 "Shall I help her to move it?" Jan said, get- 
 ting up. 
 
 Fay pulled her down again. "You funny Jan, 
 you can't do that sort of thing here. The ser- 
 vants will do it." 
 
 She sat up, gave a rapid, eager order to Ayah, 
 and in a few minutes Jan heard her bed being 
 
 50
 
 The Beginning of the Job 
 
 wheeled down the passage. Every room had 
 wide double doors like French rooms and there 
 was no difficulty. 
 
 Fay sank down again among her cushions with 
 a great sigh of relief : "I don't mind now how soon 
 I go to bed. I shan't be frightened in the long 
 dark night any more. Oh, Jan, you are a dear 
 daylight person!" 
 
 51
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE CHILDREN 
 
 JAN made headway with Tony and little Fay. 
 An aunt who carried one pick-a-back; who 
 trotted, galloped, or curvetted to command as 
 an animated steed; who provided spades and 
 buckets, and herself, getting up very early, took 
 them and the children to an adorable sandy 
 beach, deserted save for two or three solitary 
 horsemen; an aunt who dug holes and built cas- 
 tles and was indirectly the means of thrilling rides 
 upon a real horse, when Peter was encountered 
 as one of the mounted few taking exercise before 
 breakfast; such an aunt could not be regarded 
 otherwise than as an acquisition, even though 
 she did at tunes exert authority and insist upon 
 obedience. 
 
 She got it, too; especially from little Fay, who, 
 hitherto, had obeyed nobody. Tony, less wilful 
 and not so prone to be destructive, was secretly 
 still unwon, though outwardly quite friendly. 
 He waited and watched and weighed Jan in the 
 balance of his small judgment. Tony was never 
 hi any hurry to make up his mind. 
 
 One great hold Jan had was a seemingly inex- 
 haustible supply of rhymes, songs, and stories, 
 and she was, moreover, of a telling disposition. 
 
 52
 
 The Children 
 
 Both children had a quite unusual passion for 
 new words. Little Fay would stop short in the 
 midst of the angriest yells if anyone called her 
 conduct in question by some new term of oppro- 
 brium. Ayah's vocabulary was limited, even in 
 the vernacular, and nothing would have induced 
 her to return railing for railing to the children, 
 however sorely they abused her. But Jan occa- 
 sionally freed her mind, and at such times her 
 speech was terse and incisive. Moreover, she 
 quickly perceived her power over her niece hi this 
 respect, and traded on the baby's quick ear and 
 interest. 
 
 One day there was a tremendous uproar in the 
 nursery just after tiffin, when poor Fay usually 
 tried to get the sleep that would partially atone 
 for her restless night. Jan swept down the pas- 
 sage and into the room, to find her niece netted 
 in her cot, and bouncing up and down like a 
 newly-landed trout, while Ayah wrestled with a 
 struggling Tony, who tried to drown his sister's 
 screams with angry cries of "Let me get at her 
 to box her," and, failing that, vigorously boxing 
 Ayah. 
 
 Jan closed the door behind her and stood where 
 she was, saying in the quiet, compelling voice 
 they had both already learned to respect: "It's 
 tune for Mummy's sleep, and how can Mummy 
 sleep in such a pandemonium?" 
 
 Little Fay paused hi the very middle of a yell 
 and her face twinkled through the restraining net. 
 
 "Pandemolium," she echoed, joyously rolling 
 it over on her tongue with obvious gusto. 
 
 53
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 " Pandemolium." 
 
 "She kickened and fit with me," Tony cried 
 angrily. "I must box her." 
 
 "Pandemolium?" little Fay repeated inquir- 
 ingly. "What nelse?" 
 
 "Yes," said Jan, trying hard not to laugh; 
 "that's exactly what it was . . . disgraceful." 
 
 "What nelse?" little Fay persisted. She had 
 heard disgraceful before. It lacked novelty. 
 
 "All sorts of horrid things," said Jan. "Selfish 
 and odious and ill-bred 
 
 "White bled, blown bled, ill-bled," the person 
 under the net chanted. "What nother bled?" 
 
 "There's well-bred," said Jan severely, "and 
 that's what neither you nor Tony are at the 
 present moment." 
 
 "There's teas' too," said the voice from under 
 the net, ignoring the personal application. "Sail 
 we have some?" 
 
 "Certainly not," Jan answered with great 
 sternness. "People who riot and brawl 
 
 "Don't like zose words," the netted one in- 
 terrupted distastefully (R's always stumped her), 
 "naughty words." 
 
 "Not so naughty as the people who do it. 
 Has Ayah had her dinner? No? Then poor 
 Ayah must go and have it, and I shall stay here 
 and tell a very soft, whispery story to people 
 who are quiet and good, who lie hi their cots and 
 don't quarrel 
 
 "Or blawl" came from the net hi a small de- 
 termined voice. She could not let the new word 
 pass after all. 
 
 54
 
 The Children 
 
 "Exactly ... or brawl," Jan repeated in 
 tones nothing like so firm. 
 
 "She kickened and fit me, she did," Tony 
 mumbled moodily as he climbed into his cot: 
 "Can't I box her nor nothing?" 
 
 "Not now," Jan said, soothingly. Ayah 
 salaamed and hurried away. She, at all events, 
 had cause to bless Jan, for now she got her meals 
 with fair regularity and in peace. 
 
 In a few minutes the room was as quiet as an 
 empty church, save for a low voice that related 
 an mterminable story about " Cockie-Lockie and 
 Henny-Penny going to tell the King the lift's fal- 
 len," till one, at all events, of the "blawlers" was 
 sound asleep. 
 
 The voice ceased and Tony's head appeared 
 over the rail of his cot. 
 
 "Hush!" Jan whispered. "Sister's asleep. 
 Just wait a few minutes till Ayah comes, then 
 I'll take you away with me." 
 
 Faithful Ayah didn't dawdle over her food. 
 She returned, sat down on the floor beside little 
 Fay's cot and started her endless mending. 
 
 Jan carried Tony away with her along the 
 passage and into the drawing-room. The ve- 
 randah was too hot in the early afternoon. 
 
 "Now what shall we do?" she asked, with a 
 sigh, as she sat down on the big sofa. "Td like 
 to sleep, but I suppose you won't let me." 
 
 Tony got off her knee and looked at her 
 gravely. 
 
 "You can," he said, magnanimously, "because 
 you brought me. I hate bed. I'll build a temple 
 
 55
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 with my bricks and I won't knock it down. Not 
 loud." 
 
 And like his aunt he did what he said. 
 
 Jan put her feet up and lay very still. For a 
 week now she had risen early every morning to 
 take the children out in the freshest part of the 
 day. She seldom got any rest in the afternoon, 
 as she saw to it that they should be quiet to let 
 Fay sleep, and she went late to bed because the 
 cool nights hi the verandah were the pleasant 
 time for Fay. 
 
 Tony murmured to himself, but he made little 
 noise with his stone bricks. And presently Jan 
 was sleeping almost as soundly as her obstrep- 
 erous niece. 
 
 Tony did not repeat new words aloud as did 
 his sister. He turned them over in his mind 
 and treasured some simply because he liked the 
 sound of them. 
 
 There were two that he had carried in his 
 memory for nearly half his life; two that had 
 for him a mysterious fascination, a vaguely agree- 
 able significance that he couldn't at all explain. 
 One was "Piccadilly" and the other "Coin St. 
 Aldwyn's." He didn't even know that they 
 were the names of places at first, but he thought 
 they had a most beautiful sound. Gradually 
 the fact that they were places filtered into his 
 mind, and for Tony Piccadilly seemed partic- 
 ularly rural. He connected it in some way with 
 the duck-slaying Mrs. Bond of the Baby's Opera, 
 a book he and Mummy used to sing from before 
 she grew too tired and sad to sing. Before she 
 
 56
 
 The Children 
 
 lay so many hours in her long chair, before the 
 big man he called Daddie became so furtive and 
 disturbing. Then Mummy used to tell him 
 things about a place called Home, and though 
 she never actually mentioned Piccadilly he had 
 heard the word very often in a song that some- 
 body sang in the drawing-room at Dariawarpur. 
 
 Theatricals had been towards and Mummy 
 was acting, and people came to practise their 
 songs with her, for not only did she sing herself 
 delightfully, but she played accompaniments 
 well for other people. The play was a singing 
 play, and the Assistant Superintendent of Police, 
 a small, fair young man with next to no voice 
 and a very clear enunciation, continually prac- 
 tised a song that described someone as walking 
 "down Piccadilly with a tulip or a lily in his 
 mediaeval hand." 
 
 Tony rather liked "mediaeval" too, but not 
 so much as Piccadilly. A flowery way, he was 
 sure, with real grass hi it like the Resident's 
 garden. Besides, the "dilly" suggested "daffy- 
 down dilly come up to town hi a yellow petti- 
 coat and a green gown." 
 
 But not even Piccadilly could compete with 
 Coin St. Aldwyn's in Tony's affections. There 
 was something about that suggestive of exquisite 
 peace and loveliness, no mosquitoes and many 
 friendly beasts. He had only heard the word 
 once by chance in connection with the mys- 
 terious place called Home, in some casual con- 
 versation when no one thought he was listening. 
 He seized upon it instantly and it became a 
 
 57
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 priceless possession, comforting in times of stress, 
 soothing at all times, a sort of refuge from a 
 real world that had lately been very puzzling 
 for a little boy. 
 
 He was certain that at Coin St. Aldwyn's 
 there was a mighty forest peopled by all the 
 nicest animals. Dogs that were ever ready to 
 extend a welcoming paw, elephants and mild 
 clumsy buffaloes that gave good milk to the 
 thirsty. Little grey squirrels frolicked in the 
 branches of the trees, and the tiny birds Mummy 
 told him about that lived hi the yew hedge at 
 Wren's End. Tony had himself been to Wren's 
 End he was told, but he was only one at the 
 time, and beyond a feeling that he liked the 
 name and that it was a very green place his ideas 
 about it were hazy. 
 
 Sometimes he wished it had been called "Wren 
 St. Endwyn's," but after mature reflection he 
 decided it was but a poor imitation of the real 
 thing, so he kept the two names separate in his 
 mind. 
 
 He had added two more names to his collec- 
 tion since he came to Bombay. "Mahaluxmi," 
 the road running beside the sea, where Peter 
 sometimes took them and Auntie Jan for a drive 
 after tea when it was high tide; and "Tara- 
 porevala," who owned a famous book-shop in 
 Medow Street where he had once been in a tikka- 
 gharri with Auntie Jan to get some books for 
 Mummy. Peter had recommended the shop, 
 and the name instantly seized upon Tony's 
 imagination and will remain with it evermore. 
 
 58
 
 The Children 
 
 He never for one moment connected it with the 
 urbane gentleman in eyeglasses and a funny 
 little round hat who owned the shop. For Tony 
 "Taraporevala" will always suggest endless vistas 
 of halls, fitted with books, shelves, and tall stacks 
 of books, and counters laden with piles of books. 
 It seemed amazing to find anything so vast in 
 such a narrow street. There was something 
 magic about it, like the name. Tony was sure 
 that some day when he should explore the forest 
 of Coin St. Aldwyn he would come upon a little 
 solid door in a great rock. A little solid door 
 studded with heavy nails and leading to a magic 
 cave full of unimaginable treasure. This door 
 should only open to the incantation of " Tara- 
 porevala." None of your " abracadabras" for 
 him. 
 
 And just as Mummy had talked much of 
 "Wren's End" in happier days, so now Auntie 
 Jan told them endless stories about it and what 
 they would all do there when they went home. 
 Some day, when he knew her better, he would 
 ask her about Coin St. Aldwyn's. He felt he 
 didn't know her intimately enough to do so yet, 
 but he was gradually beginning to have some 
 faith in her. She was a well-instructed person, 
 too, on the whole, and she answered a straight 
 question in a straight way. 
 
 It was one of the things Tony could never 
 condone in the big man called Daddie, that he 
 could never answer the simplest question. He 
 always asked another in return, and there was 
 derision of some sort concealed in this circuitous 
 
 59
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 answer. Doubtless he meant to be pleasant and 
 amusing Tony was just enough to admit that 
 but he was, so Tony felt, profoundly mistaken 
 in the means he sought. He took liberties, too; 
 punching liberties that knocked the breath out 
 of a small boy's body without actually hurting 
 much; and he never, never talked sense. Tony 
 resented this. Like the Preacher, he felt there 
 was a tune to jest and a time to refrain from 
 jesting, and it didn't amuse him a bit to be 
 punched and rumpled and told he was a surly 
 little devil if he attempted to punch back. In 
 some vague way Tony felt that it wasn't play- 
 ing the game if it was a game. Often, too, for 
 the past year and more, he connected the fre- 
 quent disappearances of the big man with trouble 
 for Mummy. Tony understood Hindustani as 
 well as and better than English. His extensive 
 vocabulary in the former would have astonished 
 his mother's friends had they been able to trans- 
 late, and he understood a good deal of the ser- 
 vants' talk. He felt no real affection for the big, 
 tiresome man, though he admired him, his size, 
 his good looks, and a way he had with grown-up 
 people; but he decided quite dispassionately, on 
 evidence and without any rancour, that the big 
 man was a "budmash," for he, unlike Auntie 
 Jan, never did anything he said he'd do. And 
 when, before they left Dariawarpur, the big man 
 entirely disappeared, Tony felt no sorrow, only 
 some surprise that having said he was going he 
 actually had gone. Auntie Jan never mentioned 
 him, Mummy had reminded them both always to 
 
 60
 
 The Children 
 
 include him when they said their prayers, but 
 latterly Mummy had been too tired to come to 
 hear prayers. Auntie Jan came instead, and 
 Tony, watching her face out of half-shut eyes, 
 tried leaving out "bless Daddie" to see if any- 
 thing happened. Sure enough something did; 
 Auntie Jan looked startled. "Say 'Bless Dad- 
 die,' Tony, 'and please help him.'" 
 
 "To do what?" Tony asked. "Not to come 
 back here?" 
 
 "I don't think he'll come back here just now," 
 Auntie Jan said in a frightened sort of whisper, 
 "but he needs help badly." 
 
 Tony folded his hands devoutly and said, 
 "Bless Daddie and please help him to stay 
 away just now." 
 
 And low down under her breath Jan said, 
 "Amen." 
 
 61
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE SHADOW BEFORE 
 
 JAN had been a week in Bombay, and her grave 
 anxiety about Fay was in no way lessened. 
 Rather did it increase and intensify, for not only 
 did her bodily strength seem to ebb from her 
 almost visibly day by day, but her mind seemed 
 so detached and aloof from both present and 
 future. 
 
 It was only when Jan talked about the past, 
 about their happy girlhood and their lovable 
 comrade-father, that Fay seemed to take hold 
 and understand. All that had happened before 
 his death seemed real and vital to her. But when 
 Jan tried to interest her in plans for the future, 
 the voyage home, the children, the baby that 
 was due so soon, Fay looked at her with tired, 
 lack-lustre eyes and seemed at once to become 
 absent-minded and irrelevant. 
 
 She was ready enough to discuss the characters 
 of the children, to impress upon Jan the fact that 
 Tony was not unloving, only cautious and slow 
 before he really gave his affection. That little 
 Fay was exactly what she appeared on the surface 
 affectionate, quick, wilful, and already con- 
 scious of her own power through her charm. 
 
 "I defy anybody to quarrel with Fay when 
 she is willing to make it up," her mother said. 
 "Tony melts like wax before the warmth of her 
 
 62
 
 The Shadow Before 
 
 advances. She may have behaved atrociously to 
 him five minutes before Ayah lets her, and I 
 am far too weak with her but if she wants to 
 be friends Tony forgets and condones everything. 
 Was I very naughty to you, Jan, as a baby?" 
 
 "Not that I can remember. I think you were 
 very biddable and good." 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 Jan laughed " There you have me. I believe 
 I was most naughty and obstreperous, and have 
 vivid recollections of being sent to bed for various 
 offences. You see, Mother was far too strong 
 and wise to spoil me as little Fay is spoilt. 
 Father tried his best, but you remember Hannah ? 
 Could you imagine Hannah submitting for one 
 moment to the sort of treatment that baby metes 
 out to poor, patient Ayah every single day?" 
 
 "By the way, how is Hannah?" 
 
 "Hannah is in her hardy usual. She is going 
 strong, and has developed all sorts of latent tal- 
 ent as a cook. She was with me in the furnished 
 flat I rented till the day I left (I only took it by 
 the month), and she'll be with us again when we 
 all get back to Wren's End." 
 
 "But I thought Wren's End was let?" 
 
 "Only till March quarter-day, and I've cabled 
 to the agent not to entertain any other offer, as 
 we want it ourselves." 
 
 "I like to think of the children at Wren's 
 End," Fay said dreamily. 
 
 "Don't you like to think of yourself there, too? 
 Would you like any other place better?" 
 
 Jan's voice sounded constrained and a little 
 63
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 hard. People sometimes speak crossly when 
 they are frightened, and just then Jan felt the 
 cold, skinny hands of some unnameable terror 
 clutching her heart. Why did Fay always ex- 
 clude herself from all plans? 
 
 They were, as usual, sitting in the verandah 
 after dinner, and Fay's eyes were fixed on the 
 deeply blue expanse of sky. She hardly seemed 
 to hear Jan, for she continued : " Do you remem- 
 ber the sketch Daddie did of me against the yew 
 hedge? I'd like Tony to have that some day if 
 you'd let him." 
 
 "Of course that picture is yours," Jan said, 
 hastily. "We never divided the pictures when 
 he died. Some were sold and we shared the 
 money, but our pictures are at Wren's End." 
 
 "I remember that money," Fay interrupted. 
 "Hugo was so pleased about it, and gave me a 
 diamond chain." 
 
 "Fay, where do you keep your jewellery?" 
 
 "There isn't any to keep now. He 'realised' 
 it all long before we left Dariawarpur." 
 
 "What do you mean, Fay? Has Hugo pawned 
 it? All Mother's things, too?" 
 
 "I don't know what he did with it," Fay said, 
 wearily. "He told me it wasn't safe in Daria- 
 warpur, as there were so many robbers about 
 that hot weather, and he took all the things in 
 their cases to send to the bank. And I never 
 saw them again." 
 
 Jan said nothing, but she reflected rather rue- 
 fully that when Fay married she had let her have 
 nearly all their mother's ornaments, partly be- 
 
 64
 
 The Shadow Before 
 
 cause Fay loved jewels as jewels, and Jan cared 
 little for them except as associations. "If I'd 
 kept more," Jan thought, "they'd have come in 
 for little Fay. Now there's nothing except what 
 Daddie gave me." 
 
 "Are you sorry, Jan?" Fay asked, presently. 
 "I suppose there again you think I ought to 
 have stood out, to have made inquiries and in- 
 sisted on getting a receipt from the bank. But 
 I knew very well they were not going to the bank. 
 I don't think they fetched much, but Hugo looked 
 a little less harassed after he'd got them. I've 
 nothing left now but my wedding ring and the 
 little enamel chain like yours, that Daddie gave 
 us the year he had that portrait of Meg in the 
 Salon and took us over to see it. Where is Meg ? 
 Has she come back yet?" 
 
 "Meg is still in Bremen with an odious Ger- 
 man family, but she leaves at the end of the 
 Christmas holidays, as the girl is going to school, 
 and Meg will be utilised to bring her over. Then 
 she's to have a rest for a month or two, and I 
 daresay she'd come to Wren's End and help us 
 with the babies when we get back." 
 
 Fay leant forward and said eagerly, "Try to 
 get her, Jan. I'd love to think she was there to 
 help you." 
 
 "To help us," Jan repeated firmly. 
 
 Fay sighed. "I can never think of myself as 
 of much use any more; besides . . . Oh, Jan, 
 won't you face it? You who are so brave about 
 facing things ... I don't believe I shall come 
 through this time." 
 
 65
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Jan got up and walked restlessly about the 
 verandah. She tried to make herself say, heard 
 her own voice saying without any conviction, that 
 it was nonsense; that Fay was run down and 
 depressed and no wonder; and that she would 
 feel quite different hi a month or two. And all 
 the time, though her voice said these prepos- 
 terously banal things, her brain repeated the doc- 
 tor's words after his last visit: "I wish there was 
 a little more stamina, Miss Ross. I don't like 
 this complete inertia. It's not natural. Can't 
 you rouse her at all?" 
 
 "My sister has had a very trying time, you 
 know. She seems thoroughly worn out." 
 
 "I know, I know," the doctor had said. "A 
 bad business and cruelly hard on her; but I wish 
 we could get her strength up a bit somehow. I 
 don't like it this lack of interest in everything 
 I don't like it." And the doctor's thin, clever 
 face looked lined and worried as he left. 
 
 His words rang hi Jan's ears, drowning her own 
 spoken words that seemed such a hollow sham. 
 
 She went and knelt by Fay's long chair. Fay 
 touched her cheek very gently (little Fay had the 
 same adorable tender gestures). "It would make 
 it easier for both of us if you'd face it, my dear," 
 she said. "I could talk much more sensibly then 
 and make plans, and perhaps really be of some 
 use. But I feel a wretched hypocrite to talk of 
 sharing in things when I know perfectly well I 
 shan't be there." 
 
 "Don't you want to be there?" Jan asked, 
 hoarsely. 
 
 66
 
 The Shadow Before 
 
 Fay shook her head. "I know it's mean to 
 shuffle out of it all, but I am so tired. Do you 
 think it very horrid of me, Jan?" 
 
 In silence Jan held her close; and in that mo- 
 ment she faced it. 
 
 The days went on, strange, quiet days of bril- 
 liant sunshine. Their daily life shrouded from 
 the outside world even as the verandah was 
 shrouded from the sun when Lalkhan let down 
 the chicks every day after tiffin. 
 
 Peter was then* only visitor besides the doctor, 
 and Peter came practically every day. He gen- 
 erally took Jan out after tea, sometimes with the 
 children, sometimes alone. He even went with 
 her to the bank in Elphinstone Circle, so like a 
 bit of Edinburgh, with its solid stone houses, and 
 found that Hugo actually had lodged fifty pounds 
 there in Fay's name. The clerks looked curiously 
 at Jan, for they thought she was Mrs. Tancred. 
 Every one in business or official circles in Bombay 
 knew about Hugo Tancred. His conduct had, 
 for a while, even ousted the usual topics of con- 
 versation money, food, and woman from the 
 bazaars; and an exhaustive discussion of it was 
 only kept out of the Native Press by the com- 
 bined efforts of the Police and his own Depart- 
 ment. Jan gained from Peter a fairly clear idea 
 of the debacle that had occurred in Hugo Tan- 
 cred's life. She no longer wondered that Fay re- 
 fused to leave the bungalow. She began to feel 
 branded herself. 
 
 For Jan, Peter's visits had come to have some- 
 thing of the relief the loosening of a too-tight 
 
 67
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 bandage gives to a wounded man. He generally 
 came at tea-time when Fay was at her best, and 
 he brought her news of her little world at Daria- 
 warpur. To her sister he seemed the one link 
 with reality. Without him the heavy dream 
 would have gone on unbroken. Fay was always 
 most eager he should take Jan out, and, though 
 at first Jan had been unwilling, she gradually 
 came to look upon such times as a blessed break 
 in the monotonous restraint of her day. With 
 him she was natural, said what she felt, expressed 
 her fears, and never failed to return comforted 
 and more hopeful. 
 
 One night he took her to the Yacht Club, and 
 Jan was glad she had gone, because it gave her 
 so much to tell Fay when she got back. 
 
 It was a very odd experience for Jan, this tea 
 on the crowded lawn of the Yacht Club. She 
 turned hot when people looked at her, and Jan 
 had always felt so sure of herself before, so proud 
 to be a daughter of brilliant, lovable Anthony 
 Ross. 
 
 Here, she knew that her sole claim to notice 
 was that she had the misfortune to be Hugo 
 Tancred's sister-in-law. Fay, too, had once been 
 joyfully proud and confident and now ! 
 
 Sometimes in the long, still days Jan wondered 
 whether their father had brought them up to 
 expect too much from life, to take their happiness 
 too absolutely as a matter of course. Anthony 
 Ross had fully subscribed to the R.L.S. doctrine 
 that happiness is a duty. When they were both 
 quite little girls he had loved to hear them repeat: 
 
 68
 
 The Shadow Before 
 
 If I have faltered more or less 
 In my great task of happiness; 
 If I have moved among my race 
 And shown no glorious morning face; 
 If beams from happy human eyes 
 Have moved me not; if morning skies, 
 Books, and my food and summer rain 
 Knocked on my sullen heart in vain; 
 Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure take, 
 And stab my spirit broad awake. 
 
 Surely as young girls they had both shown a 
 "glorious morning face." Who more so than 
 poor Fay? So gay and beautiful and kind. 
 Why had this come upon her, this cruel, numbing 
 disgrace and sorrow? Jan was thoroughly rebel- 
 lious. Again she went over that time in Scotland 
 six years before, when, at a big shooting-box up 
 in Sutherland, they met, among other guests, 
 handsome Hugo Tancred, home on leave. How 
 he had, almost at first sight, fallen violently in 
 love with Fay. How he had singled her out for 
 every deferent and delicate attention; how she, 
 young, enthusiastic, happy and flattered, had 
 fallen quite equally in love with him. Jan re- 
 called her father's rather comical dismay and 
 astonishment. His horror when they pressed an 
 immediate marriage, so that Fay might go out 
 with Hugo in November. And his final giving-in 
 to everything Fay wanted because Fay wanted it. 
 
 Did her father really like Hugo Tancred? she 
 wondered. And then came the certainty that he 
 wouldn't ever have liked anybody much who 
 wanted to marry either of them; but he was far 
 too just and too imaginative to stand in the way 
 
 69
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 where, what seemed, the happiness of his daughter 
 was concerned. 
 
 "What a gamble it all is," thought Jan, and 
 felt inclined to thank heaven that she was neither 
 so fascinating nor as susceptible as Fay. 
 
 How were they to help to set Hugo Tancred on 
 his legs again, and reconstruct something of a 
 future for Fay? And then there always sounded, 
 like a knell, Fay's tired, pathetic voice: "Don't 
 bother to make plans for me, Jan. For the chil- 
 dren, yes, as much as you like. You are so clever 
 and constructive but leave me out, dear, for it's 
 just a waste of time." 
 
 And the dreadful part of it was that Jan felt 
 a growing conviction that Fay was right. And 
 what was more, that Peter felt about it exactly 
 as Fay did, in spite of his matter-of-fact optimism 
 at all such tunes as Jan dared to express her dread. 
 
 Peter learned a good deal about the Ross family 
 in those talks with Jan. She was very frank 
 about her affairs, told him what money she had 
 and how it was invested. That the old house in 
 Gloucestershire was hers, left directly to her and 
 not to her father, by a curious freak on the part 
 of his aunt, one Janet Ross, who disapproved of 
 Anthony's habit of living up to whatever he 
 made each year by his pictures, and saving noth- 
 ing that he earned. 
 
 "My little girls are safe, anyway," he always 
 said. "Their mother's money is tied up on 
 them, though they don't get it except with my 
 sanction till my death. I can't touch the capital. 
 Why, then, shouldn't we have an occasional flut- 
 
 70
 
 The Shadow Before 
 
 ter when I have a good year, while we are all 
 young and can enjoy things?" 
 
 They had a great many flutters for Anthony's 
 pictures sold well among a rather eclectic set. 
 His portraits had a certain cachet that gave them 
 a vogue. They were delicate, distinguished, and 
 unlike other work. The beauties without brains 
 never succeeded in getting Anthony Ross to paint 
 them, bribed they never so. But the clever 
 beauties were well satisfied, and the clever who 
 were not at all beautiful felt that Anthony Ross 
 painted their souls, so they were satisfied, too. 
 Besides, he made then* sittings so delightful and 
 flirted with them with such absolute discretion 
 always. The year that Hugo Tancred met Fay 
 was a particularly good year, and Anthony had 
 bought a touring-car, and they all went up to 
 Scotland in it. The girls were always well dressed 
 and went out a good deal. Young as she was, 
 Jan was already an excellent manager and a 
 pleasant hostess. She had been taking care of 
 her father from the time she was twelve years 
 old, and knew exactly how to manage him. 
 When there was plenty of money she let him 
 launch out; when it was spent she made him 
 draw in again, and he was always quite ready to 
 do so. Money as money had no charms for 
 Anthony Ross, but the pleasures it could pro- 
 vide, the kindnesses it enabled him to do, the 
 easy travel and the gracious life were precious to 
 him. He abhorred debt in any form and paid 
 his way as he went; lavishly when he had it, 
 justly and exactly always. 
 
 71
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 On hearing all this Peter came to the conclu- 
 sion that Hugo Tancred was not altogether to 
 blame if he had expected a good deal more finan- 
 cial assistance from his father-in-law than he got. 
 Anthony made no marriage settlement on Fay. 
 He allowed her two hundred a year for her per- 
 sonal expenses and considered that Hugo Tancred 
 should manage the running of his own house out 
 of his quite comfortable salary. He had, of 
 course, no smallest inkling of Hugo's debts or 
 gambling propensities. And all might have gone 
 well if only Anthony Ross had made a new will 
 when Fay married; a will which tied up her 
 mother's money and anything he might leave her, 
 so that she couldn't touch the capital. But noth- 
 ing of the kind was done. 
 
 It never occurred to Jan to think of wills. 
 
 Anthony Ross was strong and cheerful and so 
 exceedingly young at fifty-two that it seemed 
 absurd that he should have grown-up daughters, 
 quite ludicrous that he should be a grandfather. 
 
 Many charming ladies would greatly like to 
 have occupied the position of stepmother to 
 "those nice girls," but Anthony, universal lover 
 as he was within strictly platonic limits, showed 
 no desire to give his girls anything of the sort. 
 Jan satisfied his craving for a gracious and well- 
 ordered comfort in all his surroundings. Fay 
 gratified his aesthetic appreciation of beauty and 
 gentleness. What would he do with a third 
 woman who might introduce discord into these 
 harmonies ? 
 
 Fay came home for a short visit when Tony 
 72
 
 The Shadow Before 
 
 Was six months old, as Hugo had not got a very 
 good station just then. She was prettier than 
 ever, seemed perfectly happy, and both Anthony 
 and Jan rejoiced in her. 
 
 After she went out the Tancreds moved to 
 Dariawarpur, which was considered one of the 
 best stations in then* province, and there little 
 Fay was born, and it was arranged that Jan and 
 her father were to visit India and Fay during the 
 next cold weather. 
 
 But early in the following November Anthony 
 Ross got influenza, recovered, went out too soon, 
 got a fresh chill, and in two days developed double 
 pneumonia. 
 
 His heart gave out, and before his many friends 
 had realised he was at all seriously ill, he died. 
 
 Jan, stunned, bewildered, and heart-broken, yet 
 contrived to keep her head. She got rid of the 
 big house in St. George's Square and most of the 
 servants, finally keeping only Hannah, her old 
 Scottish nurse. She paid everybody, rendered 
 a full account of her stewardship to Fay and Hugo, 
 and then prepared to go out to India as had been 
 arranged. Her heart cried out for her only sister. 
 
 To her surprise this proposition met with but 
 scant enthusiasm. It seemed the Tancreds' plans 
 were uncertain; perhaps it might be better for 
 Fay and the children to come home in spring in- 
 stead of Jan going out to them. Hugo's letters 
 were ambiguous and rather cold; Fay's a curious 
 mixture of abandonment and restraint; but the 
 prevailing note of both was "would she please do 
 nothing in a hurry, but wait." 
 
 73
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 So, of course, Jan waited. 
 
 She waited two years, growing more anxious 
 and puzzled as time went on. Her lawyer pro- 
 tested unavailingly at Hugo's perpetual demands 
 (of course, backed up by Fay) for more and more 
 capital that he might "re-invest" it. Fay's let- 
 ters grew shorter and balder and more constrained. 
 At last, quite suddenly, came the imperative 
 summons to go out at once to be with Fay when 
 the new baby should arrive. 
 
 And now after three weeks in Bombay Jan 
 felt that she had never known any other life, that 
 she never would know any other life than this curi- 
 ous dream-like existence, this silent, hopeless wait- 
 ing for something as afflicting as it was inevitable. 
 
 There had been a great fire in the cotton green 
 towards Colaba. It had blazed all night, and, 
 in spite of the efforts of the Bombay firemen and 
 their engines, was still blazing at six o'clock the 
 following evening. 
 
 Peter took Jan in his car out to see it. There 
 was an immense crowd, so they left the car on its 
 outskirts and plunged into the throng on foot. 
 On either side of the road were tall, flimsy houses 
 with a wooden staircase outside; those curious 
 tenements so characteristic of the poorer parts of 
 Bombay, and in such marked contrast to the 
 "Fort," the European quarter of the town. They 
 were occupied chiefly by Eurasians and very poor 
 Europeans. That the road was a sea of mud, 
 varied by quite deep pools of water, seemed the 
 only possible reason why such houses were not 
 also burning. 
 
 74
 
 Jan splashed bravely through the mud, inter- 
 ested and excited by the people and the leaping 
 flames so dangerously near. It was growing 
 dusk; the air was full of the acrid smell of burnt 
 cotton, and the red glow from the sky was re- 
 flected on the grave brown faces watching the fire. 
 
 Any crowd hi Bombay is always extremely 
 varied, and Jan almost forgot her anxieties in her 
 enjoyment of the picturesque scene. 
 
 "I don't think the people ought to be allowed 
 to throng on the top of that staircase," Peter said 
 suddenly. "They aren't built to hold a number 
 at once; there'll be an accident," and he left her 
 side for a moment to speak to an inspector of 
 police. 
 
 Jan looked up at a tall house on her left, where 
 sightseers were collecting on the staircase to get a 
 better view. Every window was crowded with 
 gazers, all but one. From one, quite at the top, 
 a solitary watcher looked out. 
 
 There was a sudden shout from the crowd be- 
 low, a redder glow as more piled cotton fell into 
 the general furnace and blazed up, and in that 
 moment Jan saw that the solitary watcher was 
 Hugo Tancred, and that he recognised her. She 
 gave a little gasp of horror, which Peter heard as 
 he joined her again. "What is it?" he said. 
 "What has frightened you?" 
 
 Jan pointed upwards. "I've just seen Hugo," 
 she whispered. "There, in one of those windows 
 the empty one. Oh, what can he be doing in 
 those dreadful houses, and why is he in Bombay 
 all this time and never a word to Fay?" 
 
 75
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Jan was trembling. Peter put his hand under 
 her arm and walked on with her. 
 
 "I knew he was in Bombay," he said, "but 
 I didn't think the poor devil was reduced to 
 this." 
 
 "What is to be done?" Jan exclaimed. "If 
 he comes and worries Fay for money now, it will 
 kill her. She thinks he is safely out of India. 
 What is to be done?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Peter. "He'll go the very 
 minute he can, and you may be sure he'll raise 
 the wind somehow. He's got all sorts of queer 
 irons in the fire. He daren't appear at the flat, 
 or some of his creditors would cop him for debt 
 it's watched day and night, I know. Just let 
 it alone. I'd no idea he was hiding in this region 
 or I wouldn't have brought you. We all want 
 him to get clear. He might file his petition, but 
 it would only rake up all the old scandals, and 
 they know pretty well there's nothing to be got 
 out of him." 
 
 "He looked so dreadful, so savage and miser- 
 able," Jan said with a half-sob. 
 
 "Well naturally," said Peter. "You'd feel 
 savage and miserable if you were in his shoes." 
 
 "But oughtn't I to help him? Send him 
 money, I mean." 
 
 "Not one single anna. It'll take you all your 
 time to get his family home and keep them when 
 you get there. Have you seen enough? Shall 
 we go back?" 
 
 "You don't think he'll molest Fay?" 
 
 "I'm certain of it." 
 
 76
 
 The Shadow Before 
 
 "Please take me home. I shall never feel it 
 safe to leave Fay again for a minute." 
 
 "That's nonsense, you know," said Peter. 
 
 "It's what I feel," said Jan. 
 
 It was that night Tony's extempore prayer was 
 echoed so earnestly by his aunt. 
 
 77
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE HUMAN TOUCH 
 
 days later Jan got a note from Peter 
 telling her that Hugo Tancred had left 
 Bombay and was probably leaving India at once 
 from one of the smaller ports. 
 
 He had not attempted to communicate in per- 
 son or by letter with either Jan or his wife. 
 
 Early in the morning, just a week from the 
 time Jan had seen Hugo Tancred at the window 
 of that tall house near the cotton green, Fay's 
 third child, a girl, was still-born; and Fay, her- 
 self, never recovered consciousness all day. A 
 most competent nurse had been in the house 
 nearly a week, the doctor had done all that human 
 skill could do, but Fay continued to sink rapidly. 
 
 About midnight the nurse, who had been 
 standing by the bed with her finger on Fay's 
 pulse, moved suddenly and gently laid down the 
 weak hand she had been holding. She looked 
 warningly across at Jan, who knelt at the other 
 side, her eyes fixed on the pale, beautiful face 
 that looked so wonderfully young and peaceful. 
 
 Suddenly Fay opened her eyes and smiled. 
 She looked right past Jan, exclaiming joyfully, 
 "There you are at last, Daddie, and it's broad 
 daylight." 
 
 For Jan it was still the middle of the Indian 
 night and very dark indeed. 
 
 78
 
 The Human Touch 
 
 The servants were all asleep; the little mother- 
 less children safely wrapped in happy unconscious- 
 ness in their nursery with Ayah. 
 
 The last sad offices had been done for Fay, and 
 the nurse, tired out, was also sleeping on Jan's 
 bed. 
 
 Jan, alone of all the household, kept watch, 
 standing in the verandah, a ghostly figure, still 
 in the tumbled white muslin frock she had had no 
 time all day to change. 
 
 It was nearly one o'clock. Motors and car- 
 riages were beginning to come back from Govern- 
 ment House, where there was a reception. The 
 motor-horns and horses' hoofs sounded loud in 
 the wide silent street, and the head lights swept 
 down the Queen's Road like fireflies in flight. 
 
 Jan turned on the light in the verandah. Peter 
 would perhaps look up and see her standing there, 
 and realise why she kept watch. Perhaps he 
 would stop and come up. 
 
 She wanted Peter desperately. 
 
 Compassed about with many relatives and in- 
 numerable friends at home, out here Jan was 
 singularly alone. In all that great city she knew 
 no one save Peter, the doctor and the nurse. 
 Some few women, knowing all the circumstances, 
 had called and were ready to be kind and helpful 
 and friendly, as women are all over India, but 
 Fay would admit none but Peter even to see 
 Jan; and always begged her not to return the 
 calls "till it was all over." 
 
 Well, it was all over now. Fay would never be 
 timid and ashamed any more. 
 
 79
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Jan had not shed a tear. The longing to cry- 
 that had assailed her so continuously in her first 
 week had entirely left her. She felt clear-headed 
 and cold and bitterly resentful. She would like 
 to have made Hugo Tancred go in front of her 
 into that quiet room and forced him to look at 
 the girlish figure on the bed his handiwork. 
 She wanted to hurt him, to make him more 
 wretched than he was already. 
 
 A car stopped in the street below. Jan went 
 very quietly to the door of the flat and listened 
 at the top of the staircase. 
 
 Steps were on the stairs, but they stopped at 
 one of the flats below. 
 
 Presently another car stopped. Again she 
 went out and listened. The steps came up and 
 up and she switched on the light in the passage. 
 
 This tune it was Peter. 
 
 He looked very tired. 
 
 "I thought you would come," Jan said. "She 
 died at midnight." 
 
 Peter closed the outer door, and taking Jan 
 by the arm led her back into the sitting-room, 
 where he put her in a corner of the big sofa and 
 sat down beside her. 
 
 He could not speak, and Jan saw that the tears 
 she could not shed were in his eyes, those large 
 dark eyes that could appear so sombre and then 
 again so kind. 
 
 Jan watched him enviously. She was acutely 
 conscious of trifling things. She even noticed 
 what very black eyebrows he had and how as 
 always, when he was either angry or deeply 
 
 80
 
 The Human Touch 
 
 moved the veins in his forehead stood out in a 
 strongly-marked V. 
 
 "It was best, I think," Jan said, and even to 
 herself her voice sounded like the voice of a 
 stranger. "She would have been very unhappy 
 if she had lived." 
 
 Peter started at the cool, hard tones, and looked 
 at her. Then, simply and naturally, like a child, 
 he took her hand and held it; and there was that 
 in the human contact, hi the firm, comfortable 
 clasp, that seemed to break something down in 
 Jan, and all at once she felt weak and faint and 
 trembling. She leaned her head against the pil- 
 lows piled high in the corner where Fay had al- 
 ways rested. The electric light in the verandah 
 seemed suddenly to recede to an immense dis- 
 tance and became a tiny luminous pin-head, like 
 a far lone star. 
 
 She heard Peter moving about in the dining- 
 room behind and clinking things, but she felt 
 quite incapable of going to see what he was doing 
 or of trying to be hospitable besides, it was his 
 house, he knew where things were, and she was 
 so tired. 
 
 And then he was standing over her, holding a 
 tumbler against her chattering teeth. 
 
 "Drink it," he said, and, though his voice 
 sounded far away, it was firm and authoritative. 
 "Quick; don't pretend you can't swallow, for you 
 can." 
 
 He tipped the glass, and something wet and 
 cold ran over her chin: anything was better than 
 that, and she tried to drink. As she did so she 
 
 81
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 realised she was thirsty, drank it all eagerly and 
 gasped. 
 
 "Have you had anything to eat all day?" the 
 dominating voice went on; it sounded much 
 nearer now. 
 
 "I can't remember," she said, feebly. "Oh, 
 why did you give me all that brandy, it's made 
 me so muzzy and confused, and there's so much 
 I ought to see to." 
 
 "You rest a bit first you'll be all right pres- 
 ently." 
 
 Someone lifted her by the knees and 1 put the 
 whole of her on the sofa. It was very comfort- 
 able; she was not so cold now. She lay quite 
 still and closed her eyes. She had not had a real 
 night's sleep since she reached Bombay. Fay 
 was always restless and nervous, and Jan had not 
 had her clothes off for forty-eight hours. The 
 long strain was over, there was nothing to watch 
 and wait for now. She would do as that voice 
 said, rest for a few minutes. 
 
 There was a white chuddah shawl folded on 
 the end of the sofa. Fay had liked it spread 
 over her knees, for she was nearly always chilly. 
 
 Peter opened it and laid it very lightly over 
 Jan, who never stirred. 
 
 Then he sat down in a comfortable chair some 
 distance off, where she would see him if she woke, 
 and reviewed the situation, which was uncon- 
 ventional, certainly. 
 
 He had sent his car away when he arrived, as 
 it was but a step to the Yacht Club where he 
 slept. Now, he felt he couldn't leave, for if Jan 
 
 82
 
 The Human Touch 
 
 woke suddenly she would feel confused and prob- 
 ably frightened. 
 
 "I never thought so little brandy could have 
 had such an effect," Peter reflected half ruefully. 
 "I suppose it's because she'd had nothing to eat. 
 It's about the best thing that could have hap- 
 pened, but I never meant to hocus her like this." 
 
 There she lay, a long white mound under the 
 shawl. She had slipped her hand under her 
 cheek and looked pathetically young and help- 
 less. 
 
 "I wonder what I'd better do," thought Peter. 
 
 Mrs. Grundy commanded him to go at once. 
 Common humanity bade him stay. 
 
 Peter was very human, and he stayed. 
 
 About half-past five Jan woke. She was cer- 
 tainly confused, but not in the least frightened. 
 It was light, not brilliantly light as it would be a 
 little later on, but clear and opalescent, as though 
 the sun were shining through fold upon fold of 
 grey-blue gauze. 
 
 The electric light in the verandah and the one 
 over Peter's head were still burning and looked 
 garish and wan, and Jan's first coherent thought 
 was, "How dreadfully wasteful to have had them 
 on all night Peter's electric light, too" and 
 then she saw him. 
 
 His body was crumpled up in the big chair; his 
 legs were thrust out stiffly in front of him. He 
 looked a heartrending interpretation of discom- 
 fort in his evening clothes, for he hadn't even 
 loosened the collar. He had thought of it, but 
 felt it might be disrespectful to Jan. Besides, 
 
 83
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 there was something of the chaperon about that 
 collar. 
 
 Jan's tears that had refused to soften sorrow 
 during the anguish of the night came now, hot 
 and springing, to blur that absurd, pathetic figure 
 looped sideways in the big chair. 
 
 It was so plain why he was there. 
 
 She sniffed helplessly (of course, she had lost 
 her handkerchief), and thrust her knuckles into 
 her eyes like any schoolboy. 
 
 When she could see again she noticed how thin 
 was the queer, irregular face, with dark hollows 
 round the eyes. 
 
 "I wonder if they feed him properly at that 
 Yacht Club," thought Jan. "And here are we 
 using his house and his cook and everything." 
 
 She swung her feet off the sofa and disentan- 
 gled them from the shawl, folded it neatly and 
 sat looking at Peter, who opened his eyes. 
 
 For a full minute they stared at each other in 
 silence, then he stretched himself and rose. 
 
 "I say, have you slept?" he asked. 
 
 "Till a minute ago . . . Mr. Ledgard . . . 
 why did you stay? It was angelic of you, but 
 you must be so dreadfully tired. I feel abso- 
 lutely rested and, oh, so grateful but so 
 ashamed . . ." 
 
 "Then you must have some tea," said Peter, 
 inconsequently. "I'll go and rouse up Lalkhan 
 and the cook. We can't get any ourselves, for 
 he locks up the whole show every blessed night." 
 
 In the East burial follows death with the great- 
 est possible speed. Peter and the doctor and 
 
 84
 
 The Human Touch 
 
 the nurse arranged everything. A friend of 
 Peter's who had little children sent for Ayah and 
 Tony and little Fay to spend the day, and Jan 
 was grateful. 
 
 Fay and her baby were laid in the English cem- 
 etery, and Jan was left to face the children as 
 best she could. 
 
 They had been happy, Ayah said, with the kind 
 lady and her children. Tony went straight to 
 his mother's room, the room that had been closed 
 to him for three whole days. 
 
 He came back to Jan and stood in front of her, 
 searching her face with his grave, judging gaze. 
 
 "What have you done with my Mummy?" he 
 asked. "Have you carried her away and put her 
 somewhere like you do Fay when she's naughty? 
 You're strong enough." 
 
 "Oh, Tony!" Jan whispered piteously. "I 
 would have kept her if I could, but I wasn't 
 strong enough for that." 
 
 "Who has taken her, then?" Tony persisted. 
 "Where is she? I've been everywhere, and she 
 isn't in the bungalow." 
 
 "God has taken her, Tony." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "I think," Jan said, timidly, "it was because 
 she was very tired and ill and unhappy 
 
 "But is she happier now and better?" 
 
 "I hope so, I believe she is ... quite happy 
 and well." 
 
 "You're sure?" And Tony's eyes searched 
 Jan's face. "You're sure you haven't put her 
 somewhere?" 
 
 "Tony, I want Mummy every bit as much as 
 85
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 you do. Be a little good to me, sonny, for I'm 
 dreadfully sad." 
 
 Jan held out her hand and Tony took it doubt- 
 fully. She drew him nearer. 
 
 "Try to be good to me, Tony, and love me a 
 little . . . it's all so hard." 
 
 "I'll be good," he said, gravely, "because I 
 promised Mummy . . . but I can't love you yet 
 because " here Tony sighed deeply, "I don't 
 seem to feel like it." 
 
 "Never mind," said Jan, lifting him on to her 
 knee. "Never mind. I'll love you an extra lot 
 to make up." 
 
 "And Fay? "he asked. 
 
 "And Fay we must both love Fay more than 
 ever now." 
 
 "I do love Fay," Tony said, "because I'm used 
 to her. She's been here a long time ..." 
 
 Suddenly his mouth went down at the corners 
 and he leant against Jan's shoulder to hide his 
 face. "I do want Mummy so," he whispered, 
 as the slow, difficult tears welled over and fell. 
 "I like so much to look at her." 
 
 It was early afternoon, the hot part of the day. 
 The children were asleep and Jan sat on the big 
 sofa, finishing a warm jersey for little Fay to 
 wear towards the end of the voyage. Peter, by 
 means of every scrap of interest he possessed, 
 had managed to secure her a three-berth cabin 
 in a mail boat due to leave within the next fort- 
 night. He insisted that she must take Ayah, 
 who was more than eager to go, and that Ayah 
 
 86
 
 The Human Touch 
 
 could easily get a passage back almost directly 
 with people he knew who were coming out soon 
 after Jan got home. He had written to them, 
 and they would write to meet the boat at Aden. 
 
 There was nothing Peter did not seem able to 
 arrange. 
 
 In the flat below a lady was singing the " In- 
 dian Love Lyrics" from the "Garden of Khama." 
 She had a powerful voice and sang with consider- 
 able passion. 
 
 Less than the dust beneath thy chariot wheel, 
 Less than the rust that never stained thy sword. 
 
 Jan frowned and fidgeted. 
 
 The song went on, finished, and then the lady 
 sang it all over again. Jan turned on the electric 
 fan, for it was extremely hot, and the strong con- 
 tralto voice made her feel even hotter. The 
 whirr of the fan in no way drowned the voice, 
 which now went on to proclaim with much brio 
 that the temple bells were ringing and the month 
 of marriages was drawing near. And then, very 
 slowly and solemnly, but quite as loudly as be- 
 fore, came "When I am dying, lean over me ten- 
 derly " 
 
 Jan got up and stamped. Then she went 
 swiftly for her topee and gloves and parasol, and 
 fled from the bungalow. 
 
 Lalkhan rushed after her to ask if she wanted 
 a "tikka-gharri." He strongly disapproved of 
 her walking in the streets alone, but Jan shook 
 her head. The lift-man was equally eager to 
 procure one, but again Jan defeated his desire 
 
 87
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 and walked out into the hot street. Somehow 
 she couldn't bear "The Garden of Khama" just 
 then. It was Hugo Tancred's favourite verse, 
 and was among the few books Fay appeared to 
 possess, Fay who was lying in the English ceme- 
 tery, and so glad to be there ... at twenty-five. 
 
 What was the good of life and love, if that was 
 all it led to? In spite of the heat Jan walked 
 feverishly and fast, down the shady side of the 
 Mayo Road into Esplanade Road, where the big 
 shops were, and, just then, no shade at all. 
 
 The hot dust seemed to rise straight out of the 
 pavement and strike her in the face, and all the 
 air was full of the fat yellow smell that prevails 
 in India when its own inhabitants have taken 
 their mid-day meal. 
 
 Each bare-legged gharri-man slumbered on 
 the little box of his carriage, hanging on in that 
 amazingly precarious fashion in which natives 
 of the East seem able to sleep anywhere. 
 
 On Jan went, anywhere, anywhere away from 
 the garden of Khama and that travesty of love, 
 as she conceived it. She remembered the day 
 when she thought them such charming songs and 
 thrilled in sympathy with Fay when Hugo sang 
 them. Oh, why did that woman sing them to- 
 day? Would she ever get the sound out of her 
 ears? 
 
 She had reached Churchgate Street, which was 
 deserted and deep in shade. She turned down 
 and presently came to the Cathedral standing in 
 its trim garden bright with English flowers. The 
 main door was open and Jan went in. 
 
 88
 
 The Human Touch 
 
 Here the haunting love-lyrics were hushed. It 
 was so still, not even a sweeper to break the 
 blessed peace. 
 
 Restlessly, Jan walked round the outer aisles, 
 reading the inscriptions on marble tablets and 
 brasses, many of them dating back to the later 
 eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Men 
 died young out in India in those days; hardly any 
 seemed to live beyond forty-two, many died in 
 the twenties. On nearly all the tablets the 
 words "zeal" or " zealous" regularly appeared. 
 With regard to their performance of their duties 
 these dead and gone men who had helped to 
 make the India of to-day had evidently had a 
 very definite notion as to their own purpose in 
 life. The remarks were guarded and remarkably 
 free from exaggerated tributes to the virtues they 
 celebrated. One Major-General Bellasis was de- 
 scribed as "that very respectable Officer who 
 departed this life while he was in the meritorious 
 discharge of his duty presiding at the Military 
 Board." Others died "from exposure to the 
 sun"; nearly all seemed to have displayed "un- 
 remitting" or "characteristic zeal" in the dis- 
 charge of their duties. 
 
 Jan sat down, and gradually it seemed as 
 though the spirits and souls of those departed 
 men, those ordinary everyday men whose de- 
 scendants might probably be met any day in the 
 Yacht Club now seemed to surround her in a 
 great company, all pointing in one direction and 
 with one voice declaring, "This is the WAY." 
 
 Jan fell on her knees and prayed that her 
 89
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 stumbling feet might be guided upon it, that she 
 should in no wise turn aside, however steep and 
 stony it might prove. 
 
 And as she knelt there came upon her the con- 
 viction that here was the true meaning of life as 
 lived upon the earth; just this, that each should 
 do his job. 
 
 90
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE END OF THE DREAM 
 
 SHE walked back rather slowly. It was a little 
 cooler, but dusty, and the hot pavements 
 made her feet ache. She was just wondering 
 whether she would take a gharri when a motor 
 stopped at the curb and Peter got out. 
 
 "What are you doing?" he asked crossly. 
 "Why are you walking in all this heat? You 
 can't play these games in India. Get in." 
 
 He held the door open for her. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Mr. Ledgard," Jan said, 
 sweetly. "Is it worth while for such a little 
 way?" 
 
 "Get in," Peter said again, and Jan meekly 
 got in. 
 
 "I was just coming to see you, and I could 
 have taken you anywhere you wanted to go, if 
 only you'd waited. Why didn't you take a 
 gharri?" 
 
 "Since you must know," Jan said, smiling at 
 the angry Peter, "I went out because I wanted 
 to go out. And I walked because I wanted to 
 walk." 
 
 "You can't do things just because you want 
 to do 'em in this infernal country you must con- 
 sider whether it's a suitable time." 
 
 Jan made no answer, and silence reigned till 
 they reached the bungalow. 
 
 91
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Peter followed her in. 
 
 1 ' Where did you go ? " he asked. " And why ? " 
 
 "I went to the Cathedral, and my reason was 
 that I simply couldn't stay in the bungalow be- 
 cause the lady below was singing 'Less than the 
 dust." 1 
 
 "I know," Peter said grimly. "Just the sort 
 of thing she would sing." 
 
 "She sang very well," Jan owned honestly, 
 "but when Fay was first engaged she and Hugo 
 used to sing those songs to each other it seemed 
 all day long and this afternoon I couldn't bear 
 it. It seemed such a sham somehow so false 
 and unreal, if it only led to this." 
 
 "It's real enough while it lasts, you know," 
 Peter remarked in the detached, elderly tone he 
 sometimes adopted. "That sort of thing's all 
 right for an episode, but it's a bit too thin for 
 marriage." 
 
 "But surely episodes often end in marriage?" 
 
 "Not that sort, and if they do it's generally 
 pretty disastrous. A woman who felt she was 
 less than the dust and rust and weeds and all 
 that rot wouldn't be much good to a man who 
 had to do his job, for she wouldn't do hers, you 
 know." 
 
 "Then you, too, think that's the main thing 
 to do your job?" 
 
 "It seems to me it's the only thing that jus- 
 tifies one's existence. Anyway, to try to do it 
 decently." 
 
 "And you don't think one ought to expect to 
 be happy and have things go smoothly?" 
 
 92
 
 The End of the Dream 
 
 "Well, they won't always, you know, whether 
 you expect it or not; but the job remains, so it's 
 just as well to make up your mind to it." 
 
 "I suppose," Jan said thoughtfully, "that's a 
 religion." 
 
 "It pans out as well as most," said Peter. 
 
 The days that had gone so slowly went quickly 
 enough now. Jan had much to arrange and no 
 word came from Hugo. She succeeded in getting 
 the monthly bills from the cook, and paid them, 
 and very timidly she asked Peter if she might 
 pay the wages for the tune his servants had 
 waited upon them; but Peter was so huffy and 
 cross she never dared to mention it again. 
 
 The night before they all sailed Peter dined 
 with her, and, after dinner, took her for one last 
 drive over Malabar Hill. The moon was full, 
 and when they reached Ridge Road he stopped 
 the car and they got out and stood on the cliff, 
 looking over the city just as they had done on 
 her first evening in Bombay. 
 
 Some scented tree was in bloom and the ah* 
 was full of its soft fragrance. 
 
 For some minutes they stood in silence, then 
 Jan broke it by asking: "Mr. Ledgard, could 
 Hugo take the children from me?" 
 
 "He could, of course, legally but I don't for 
 a minute imagine he will, for he couldn't keep 
 them. What about his people? Will they want 
 to interfere?" 
 
 "I don't think so; from the little he told us 
 they are not very well off. They live in Guernsey. 
 His father was something in salt, I think, out 
 
 93
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 here. We've none of us seen them. They didn't 
 come to Fay's wedding. I gather they are very 
 strict in their views both his father and mother 
 and there are two sisters. But Fay said Hugo 
 hardly ever wrote or heard from them." 
 
 " There's just one thing you must face, Miss 
 Ross," and Peter felt a brute as he looked at 
 Jan pale and startled in the bright moonlight. 
 "Hugo Tancred might marry again." 
 
 "Oh, surely no one would marry him after all 
 this!" 
 
 "Whoever did would probably know nothing 
 of 'all this.' Remember Hugo Tancred has a 
 way with women; he's a fascinating chap when 
 he likes, he's good-looking and plausible, and al- 
 ways has an excellent reason for all his misfor- 
 tunes. If he does marry again he'll marry money, 
 and then he might demand the children." 
 
 "Perhaps she wouldn't want them." 
 
 "We'll hope not." 
 
 "And I can do nothing nothing to make 
 them safe?" 
 
 "I fear nothing only your best for them." 
 
 "I'll do that," said Jan. 
 
 They stood shoulder to shoulder in the scented 
 stillness of the night. The shadows were black 
 and sharp in the bright moonlight and the tom- 
 toms throbbed in the city below. 
 
 "I wonder," Jan said presently, "if I shall ever 
 be able to do anything for you, Mr. Ledgard. 
 You have done everything for us out here." 
 
 "Would you really like to do something?" 
 Peter asked eagerly. "I wouldn't have men- 
 
 94
 
 The End of the Dream 
 
 tioned it if you hadn't said that just now. Would 
 you write pretty often? You see, I've no people 
 of my very own. Aunts and uncles and cousins 
 don't keep in touch with one out here. They're 
 kind, awfully kind when I go home on leave, but 
 it takes a man's own folk to remember to write 
 every mail." 
 
 "I'll write every mail," Jan promised eagerly, 
 "and when you take your next leave, remember 
 we expect you at Wren's End." 
 
 "I'll remember," said Peter, "and it may be 
 sooner than you think." 
 
 They sailed next day. Jan had spent six weeks 
 in Bombay, and the whole thing seemed a dream. 
 
 The voyage back was very different from the 
 voyage out. The boat was crowded, and nearly 
 all were Service people going home on leave. 
 Jan found them very kind and friendly, and the 
 children, with plenty of others to play with, 
 were for the most part happy and good. 
 
 The journey across France was rather horrid. 
 Little Fay was as obstreperous as Tony was dis- 
 agreeably silent and aloof. Jan thanked heaven 
 when the crowded train steamed into Charing 
 Cross. 
 
 There, at the very door of then- compartment, 
 a girl was waiting. A girl so small, she might 
 have been a child except for a certain decision 
 and capability about everything she did. She 
 seized Jan, kissed her hurriedly and announced 
 that she had got a nice little furnished flat for 
 them till they should go to the country, and that 
 Hannah had tea ready; this young person, her- 
 
 95
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 self, helped to carry their smaller baggage to a 
 taxi, packed them in, demanded Jan's keys and 
 announced that she would bring the luggage in 
 another taxi. She gave the address to the man, 
 and a written slip to Jan, and vanished to collect 
 their cabin baggage. 
 
 It was all done so briskly and efficiently that 
 it left Ayah and the children quite breathless, 
 accustomed as they were to the leisurely methods 
 of the East. 
 
 "Who is vat mem?" asked little Fay, as the 
 taxi door was slammed by this energetic young 
 person. 
 
 "Is she quite a mem?" suggested the accurate 
 Tony. "Is she old enough or big enough?" 
 
 "Who is vat mem?" little Fay repeated. 
 
 "That," said Jan with considerable satisfaction 
 in her voice, "is Meg." 
 
 96
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 MEG 
 
 IT was inevitable as the refrain of a rondeau 
 that when Jan said "that's Meg" little Fay 
 should demand "What nelse?" 
 
 Now there was a good deal of "nelse" about 
 Meg, and she requires some explanation, going 
 back several years. 
 
 Like most Scots, Anthony Ross had been 
 faithful to his relations whether he felt affection 
 for them or not; sometimes even when they had 
 not a thought in common with him and he rather 
 disliked them than otherwise. 
 
 And this was so in the case of one Amelia 
 Ross, his first cousin, who was head-mistress of 
 a flourishing and well-established school for 
 "young ladies," in the Regent's Park district. 
 
 She had been a head-mistress for many years, 
 and was well over fifty when she married a meek, 
 small, nothingly man who had what Thackeray 
 calls "a little patent place." And it appeared 
 that she added the husband to the school in much 
 the same spirit as she would have increased the 
 number of chairs in her dining-room, and with 
 no more appreciable result in her life. On her 
 marriage she became Mrs. Ross-Morton, and 
 Mr. Morton went in and out of the front door, 
 breakfasted and dined at Ribston Hall, caught 
 
 97
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 his bus at the North Gate and went daily to his 
 meek little work. It is presumed that he lived 
 on terms of affectionate intimacy with his wife, 
 but no one who saw them together could have 
 gathered this. 
 
 Now Anthony Ross disliked his cousin Amelia. 
 He detested her school, which he considered was 
 one of the worst examples of a bad old period. 
 He suspected her of being hard and grasping, 
 he knew she was dull, and her husband bored 
 him not to tears, but to profanity. Yet since 
 she was his cousin and a hard-working, upright 
 woman, and since they had played together as 
 children in Scotland and her father and mother 
 had been kind to him then, he could never bring 
 himself to drop Amelia. Not for worlds would 
 he have allowed Jan or Fay to go to her school, 
 but he did allow them, or rather he humbly en- 
 treated them, to visit it occasionally when in- 
 vited to some function or other. Jan's education 
 after her mother's death had been the thinnest 
 scrape sandwiched between many household cares 
 and much attendance upon her father's whims. 
 Fay was allowed classes and visiting governesses, 
 but their father could never bring himself to 
 spare either of them to the regular discipline of 
 school, and Cousin Amelia bewailed the desul- 
 tory training of Anthony's children. 
 
 In 1905, Jan and Fay had been to a party at 
 Ribston Hall: tea in the garden followed by a 
 pastoral play. Anthony was sitting in the bal- 
 cony, smoking, when the girls came back. He 
 saw then 1 hansom and ran downstairs to meet
 
 Meg 
 
 them, as he always did. They were a family who 
 went in for affectionate greetings. 
 
 "Daddie," cried Fay, seizing her father by the 
 arm, "one of the seven wonders of the world has 
 happened. We have found an interesting person 
 at Ribston Hall." 
 
 Jan took the other arm. "We can't possibly 
 tell you all about it under an hour, so we'd better 
 go and sit in the balcony." And they gently 
 propelled him towards the staircase. 
 
 "Not if you're going to discuss Cousin Amelia," 
 Anthony protested. "You have carrying voices, 
 both of you." 
 
 "Cousin Amelia is only incidental," Jan said, 
 when they were all three seated in the balcony. 
 "The main theme is concerned with a queer 
 little pixie creature called Meg Morton. She's 
 a pupil-governess, and she's sixteen and a half 
 just the same age as Fay." 
 
 "She doesn't reach up to Jan's elbow," Fay 
 added, "and she chaperons the girls for music 
 and singing, and sits in the drawing-class because 
 the master can't be quite seventy yet." 
 
 "She's the wee-est thing you ever saw, and 
 they dress her in Cousin Amelia's discarded Sun- 
 day frocks." 
 
 "That's impossible," Anthony interrupted. 
 "Amelia is so massive and square; if the girl's 
 so small she'd look like 'the Marchioness.' ' 
 
 "She does, she does!" Jan cried delightedly. 
 "Of course the garments are 'made down/ but 
 in the most elderly way possible. Daddie, can 
 you picture a Botticelli angel of sixteen, with 
 
 99
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 masses of Titian-red hair, clad in a queer plush 
 garment once worn by Cousin Amelia, that re- 
 tains all its ancient frumpiness of line. And it's 
 not only her appearance that's so quaint, she is 
 quaint inside." 
 
 "We were attracted by her hair," Fay went 
 on "(You'll go down like a ninepin before that 
 hair), and we got her in a corner and hemmed 
 her hi and declared it was her duty to attend to 
 us because we were strangers and shy, and in 
 three minutes we were friends. Sixteen, Daddie ! 
 And a governess-pupil in Cousin Amelia's school. 
 She's a niece of the little husband, and Cousin 
 Amelia is preening herself like anything because 
 she takes her for nothing and makes her work 
 like ten people." 
 
 "Did the little girl say so?" 
 
 "Of course not," Jan answered indignantly, 
 "but Cousin Amelia did. Oh, how thankful I 
 am she is your cousin, dear, and once-removed 
 from us!" 
 
 "How many generations will it take to remove 
 her altogether?" Fay asked. "However," she 
 added, "if we can have the pixie out and give 
 her a good time I shan't mind the relationship so 
 much. We must do something, Daddie. What 
 shall it be?" 
 
 Anthony Ross smoked thoughtfully and said 
 very little. Perhaps he did not even listen with 
 marked attention, because he was enjoying his 
 girls. Just to see them healthy and happy; to 
 know that they were naturally kind and gay; 
 to hear them frank and eager and loquacious 
 
 100
 
 Meg 
 
 sometimes gave him a sensation of almost physical 
 pleasure. He was like an idler basking in the 
 sun, conscious of nothing but just the warmth 
 and comfort of it. 
 
 Whatever those girls wanted they always got. 
 Anthony's diplomacy was requisitioned and was, 
 as usual, successful; for, hi spite of her disap- 
 proval, Mrs. Ross-Morton could never resist 
 her cousin's charm. This time the result was 
 that one Saturday afternoon in the middle of 
 June little Meg Morton, bearing a battered 
 leather portmanteau and clad hi the most-re- 
 cently-converted plush abomination, appeared at 
 the tall house hi St. George's Square to stay over 
 the week-end. 
 
 It was the mid-term holiday, and from the 
 first moment to the last the visit was one almost 
 delirious orgy of pleasure to the little pupil- 
 governess. 
 
 It was also a revelation. 
 
 It would be hard to conceive of anything 
 odder than the appearance of Meg Morton at 
 this time. She just touched five feet in height, 
 and was very slenderly and delicately made, 
 with absurd, tiny hands and feet. Yet there 
 was a finish about the thin little body that pro- 
 claimed her fully grown. Her eyes, with their 
 thick, dark lashes, looked overlarge in the pale 
 little pointed face; strange eyes and sombre, 
 with big, bright pupil, and curious dark-blue iris 
 flecked with brown. Her features were regular, 
 and her mouth would have been pretty had the 
 lips not lacked colour. As it was, all the colour 
 
 101
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 about Meg seemed concentrated in her hair; 
 red as a flame and rippled as a river under a 
 fresh breeze. There was so much of it, too, the 
 little head seemed bowed hi apology beneath 
 its weight. 
 
 Yet for the time being Meg forgot to be apolo- 
 getic about her hah*, for Anthony and his girls 
 frankly admired it. 
 
 These adorable, kind, amusing people actually 
 admired it, and said so. Hitherto Meg's experi- 
 ence had been that it was a thing to be slurred 
 over, like a deformity. If mentioned, it was to 
 be deprecated. In the strictly Evangelical circles 
 where hitherto her lot had been cast, they even 
 tried vainly to explain it away. 
 
 She had, of course, heard of artists, but she 
 never expected to meet any. That sort of thing 
 lay outside the lives of those who had to make 
 their living as quickly as possible in beaten 
 tracks; tracks so well-beaten, hi fact, that all 
 the flowers had been trodden underfoot and 
 exterminated. 
 
 Meg, at sixteen, had received so little from 
 life that her expectations were of the humblest. 
 And as she stood before the glass in a pretty 
 bedroom, fastening her one evening dress (of 
 shiny black silk that crackled, made with the 
 narrow V in front affected by Mrs. Ross-Morton), 
 preparatory to going to the play for the first 
 time in her life, she could have exclaimed, like the 
 little old woman of the story, "This be never I !" 
 
 Anthony Ross was wholly surprising to Meg. 
 
 This handsome, merry gentleman with thick, 
 102
 
 Meg 
 
 brown hair as crinkly as her own; who was 
 domineered over and palpably adored by these 
 two, to her, equally amazing girls seemed so 
 very, very young to be anybody's father. 
 
 He frankly owned to enjoying things. 
 
 Now, according to Meg's experience, grown- 
 up people elderly people seldom enjoyed any- 
 thing; above all, never alluded to their enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 Life was a thing to be endured with fortitude, 
 its sorrows borne with Christian resignation; 
 its joys, if there were any joys, discreetly slurred 
 over. Joys were insidious, dangerous things 
 that might lead to the leaving undone of obvious 
 duties. To seek joy and insure its being shared 
 by others, bravely and honestly believing it to 
 be an excellent thing, was to Meg an entirely 
 unknown frame of mind. 
 
 After the play, in Meg's room the three girls 
 were brushing their hah* together; to be ac- 
 curate, Jan was brushing Fay's and Meg ad- 
 miring the process. 
 
 "Have you any sisters?" Jan asked. She 
 was always interested in people's relations. 
 
 "No," said Meg. "There are, mercifully, only 
 three of us, my two brothers and me. If there 
 had been any more I don't know what my poor 
 little Papa would have done." 
 
 "Why do you call him your 'poor little papa'?" 
 Fay asked curiously. 
 
 "Because he is poor dreadfully and little, 
 and very melancholy. He suffers so from de- 
 pression." 
 
 103
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "Why?" asked the downright Jan. 
 
 "Partly because he has indigestion, constant 
 indigestion, and then there's us, and boys are 
 so expensive, they will grow so. It upsets him 
 dreadfully." 
 
 "But they can't help growing," Fay objected. 
 
 "It wouldn't matter so much if they didn't 
 both do it at once. But you see, there's only a 
 year between them, and they're just about the 
 same size. If only one had been smaller, he 
 could have worn the outgrown things. As it is, 
 it's always new clothes for both of them. Papa's 
 are no sort of use, and even the cheapest suits 
 cost a lot, and boots are perfectly awful." 
 
 Meg looked so serious that Fay and Jan, who 
 were like the lilies of the field, and expected new 
 and pretty frocks at reasonable intervals as a 
 matter of course, looked serious too; for the 
 first tune confronted by a problem whose pos- 
 sibility they had never even considered be- 
 fore. 
 
 "He must be pleased with you," Jan said, 
 encouragingly. " You're not too big." 
 
 "Yes, but then I'm not a boy. Papa's clothes 
 would have made down for me beautifully if 
 I'd been a boy; as it is, they're no use." Meg 
 sighed, then added more cheerfully. "But I 
 cost less in other ways, and several relations 
 send old clothes to me. They are never too 
 small." 
 
 "Do you like the relations' clothes?" Fay 
 asked. 
 
 "Of course not," said Meg, simply. "They
 
 Meg 
 
 are generally hideous; but, after all, they cover 
 me and save expense." 
 
 The spoiled daughters of Anthony Ross gazed 
 at Meg with horror-stricken eyes. To them 
 this seemed a most tragic state of things. 
 
 "Do they all," Fay asked timidly, "wear 
 such . . . rich materials like Cousin Amelia?" 
 
 "They're fond of plush, as a rule, but there's 
 velveteen as well, and sometimes a cloth dress. 
 One was mustard-coloured, and embittered my 
 life for a whole year." 
 
 Jan suddenly ceased to brush Fay's hair and 
 went and sat on the bed beside Meg and put her 
 arm round her. Fay's pretty face, framed in 
 fluffy masses of fair hair, was solemn in excess 
 of sympathy. 
 
 "I shouldn't care a bit if only the boys were 
 through Sandhurst and safely into the Indian 
 Army but I do hate them having to go with- 
 out nearly everything. Trevor's a King's Cadet, 
 but they wouldn't give us two cadetships . . . 
 Still," she added, more cheerfully, "it's cheaper 
 than anything else for a soldier's son." 
 
 "Is your father a soldier?" asked Jan. 
 
 "Oh, yes, a major hi the Westshires; but he 
 had to leave the Army because of his health, and 
 his pension is very small, and mother had so 
 little money. I sometimes think it killed her 
 trying to do everything on nothing." 
 
 "Were you quite small when she died?" Fay 
 asked in a sympathetic whisper. 
 
 "Oh, no; I was nearly twelve, and quite as big 
 as I am now. Then I kept house while the boys 
 
 105
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 were at Bedford, but when they went to Sand- 
 hurst poor little Papa thought I'd better get 
 some education, too, and Uncle John's wife 
 offered to take me for nothing, so here I am. 
 HERE, it's too wonderful. Who could have 
 dreamed that Ribston Hall would lead to this?" 
 And Meg snuggled down in Jan's kind embrace, 
 her red hair spread around her like a veil. 
 
 "Are some of the richly-dressed relations 
 nice?" Jan asked hopefully. 
 
 "I don't know if you'd think them nice you 
 seem to expect such a lot from people but 
 they're quite kind only it's a different sort of 
 kindness from yours here. They don't laugh 
 and expect you to enjoy yourself, like your father. 
 My brothers say they are dull . . . they call 
 them I'm afraid it's very ungrateful the weari- 
 ful rich. But I expect we're weariful to them 
 too. I suppose poor relations are boring if you're 
 well-off yourself. But we get pretty tired, too, 
 when they talk us over." 
 
 "But do you mean to say they talk you over 
 to you?" 
 
 "Always," Meg said firmly. "How badly we 
 manage, how improvident we are, how Papa 
 ought to rouse himself and I ought to manage 
 better, and how foolish it is to let the boys go 
 into the Army instead of banks and things . . . 
 And yet, you know, it hasn't cost much for 
 Trevor, and once he's in he'll be able to manage, 
 and Jo said he'd enlist if there was any more 
 talk of banks, and poor little Papa had to give 
 in so there it is." 
 
 106
 
 Meg 
 
 "How much older are they than you?" Jan 
 asked. 
 
 " Trevor's nineteen and Jo's eighteen, and they 
 are the greatest darlings in the world. They 
 always lifted the heavy saucepans for me at 
 Bedford, and filled the buckets and did the out- 
 sides of the windows, and carried up the coals to 
 Papa's sitting-room before they went to school 
 in the morning, and they very seldom grumbled 
 at my cooking ..." 
 
 "But where were the servants?" Fay asked 
 innocently. 
 
 Meg laughed. "Oh, we couldn't have any 
 servants. A woman came in the morning. Papa 
 dined at his club, and I managed for the boys 
 and me. But, oh dear, they do eat a lot, and 
 joints are so dear. Sheep's heads and things 
 pall if you have them more than once a week. 
 They're such a mixty sort of meat, so gummy." 
 
 "/ can cook," Jan announced, then added 
 humbly, "at least, I've been to classes, but I 
 don't get much practice. Cook isn't at all fond 
 of having me messing in her kitchen." 
 
 "It isn't the cooking that's so difficult," said 
 Meg; "it's getting things to cook. It's all very 
 well for the books to say 'Take' this and that. 
 My experience is that you can never 'take' any- 
 thing. You have to buy every single ingredient, 
 and there's never anything like enough. We 
 tried being fruitarians and living on dates and 
 figs and nuts all squashed together, but it didn't 
 seem to come a bit cheaper, for the boys were 
 hungry again directly and said it was hog- wash." 
 
 107
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "Was your papa a fruitarian too?" Fay asked. 
 
 "Oh, no, he can't play those tricks; he has to 
 be most careful. He never had his meals with 
 us. Our meals would have been too rough for 
 him. I got him breakfast and afternoon tea. 
 He generally went out for the others." 
 
 Jan and Fay looked thoughtful. 
 
 Amelia Ross-Morton was a fan' judge of char- 
 acter. When she consented to take her husband's 
 niece as a governess-pupil she had been dubious 
 as to the result. She very soon discovered, how- 
 ever, that the small red-haired girl was absolutely 
 trustworthy, that she had a power of keeping 
 order quite disproportionate to her size, that she 
 got through a perfectly amazing amount of work, 
 and did whatever she was asked as a matter of 
 course. Thus she became a valuable factor in 
 the school, receiving nothing hi return save her 
 food and such clothes as Mrs. Ross-Morton con- 
 sidered too shabby for her own wear. 
 
 At the end of the first year Meg ceased to 
 receive any lessons. Her day was fully occupied 
 in teaching the younger and chaperoning the 
 elder girls. Only one stipulation ciid she make 
 at the beginning of each term that she should 
 be allowed to accept, on all reasonable occasions, 
 the invitations of Anthony Ross and his daugh- 
 ters, and she made this condition with so much 
 firmness that Anthony's cousin knew better than 
 to be unreasonably domineering, as was her usual 
 habit. Moreover, though it was against her 
 principles to do anything to further the enjoy- 
 
 108
 
 Meg 
 
 ment of persons in a subordinate position, she 
 was, in a way, flattered that Anthony and his 
 girls should thus single out her "niece by mar- 
 riage" and appear to enjoy her society. 
 
 Thus it came about that Meg went a good deal 
 to St. George's Square and nearly always spent 
 part of each holiday with Fay and Jan wherever 
 they happened to be. 
 
 The queer clothes were kept for wear at Rib- 
 ston Hall, and by degrees although she never 
 had any money she became possessed of gar- 
 ments more suitable to her age and colouring. 
 
 Again and again Anthony painted her. She 
 sat for him with untiring patience and devotion. 
 She was always entirely at her ease with him, 
 and prattled away quite simply of the life that 
 seemed to him so inexpressibly hard and dreary. 
 
 Only once had he interfered on her behalf at 
 Ribston Hall, and then sorely against Meg's will. 
 She was sitting for him one day, with her veil of 
 flaming hair spread round her, when she said, 
 suddenly, "I wonder why it is incorrect to send 
 invitations by post to people living in the same 
 town?" 
 
 "But it isn't," Anthony objected. "Every- 
 body does it." 
 
 "Not in schools," Meg said firmly. "Mrs. 
 Ross-Morton will never send invitations to people 
 living in London through the post she says it 
 isn't polite. They must go by hand." 
 
 "I never heard such nonsense," Anthony ex- 
 claimed crossly. "If she doesn't send 'em by 
 post, how does she send them?" 
 
 109
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "I take them generally, in the evening, after 
 school, and deliver them at all the houses. Some 
 are fairly near, of course a lot of her friends 
 live in Regent's Park but sometimes I have to 
 go quite a long way by bus. I don't mind that 
 in summer, when it's light, but in winter it's hor- 
 rid going about the lonely roads . . . People 
 speak to one ..." 
 
 Anthony Ross stepped from behind his easel. 
 
 "And what do you do?" he asked. 
 
 "I run," Meg said simply, "and I can gener- 
 ally run much faster than they do ... but it's 
 a little bit frightening." 
 
 "It's infernal," Anthony said furiously. "I 
 shall speak to Amelia at once. You are never to 
 do it again." 
 
 In vain did Meg plead, almost with tears, that 
 he would do nothing of the kind. He was roused 
 and firm. 
 
 He did "speak to Amelia." He astonished 
 that good lady as much as he annoyed her. Nev- 
 ertheless Mrs. Ross-Morton used the penny post 
 for her invitations as long as Meg remained at 
 Ribston Hall. 
 
 At the end of two years Major Morton, who 
 had removed from Bedford to Cheltenham, wrote 
 a long, querulous letter to his sister-in-law to the 
 effect that if like the majority of girls nowadays 
 his daughter chose to spend her life far from 
 his sheltering care, it was time she earned some- 
 thing. 
 
 Mrs. Ross-Morton replied that only now was 
 Meg beginning to repay all the expense incurred 
 
 110
 
 Meg 
 
 on her behalf in the way of board, clothing and 
 tuition; and it was most unreasonable to expect 
 any salary for quite another year. 
 
 Major Morton decided to remove Meg from 
 Ribston Hall. 
 
 Many acrimonious letters passed between her 
 aunt and her father before this was finally accom- 
 plished, and Meg left " under a cloud." 
 
 To her great astonishment, her meek little 
 uncle appeared at Paddington to see her off. 
 Just as the train was starting he thrust an en- 
 velope into her hand. 
 
 "It hasn't been fair," he almost shouted for 
 the train was already beginning to move. "You 
 worked hard, you deserved some pay ... a 
 little present . . . but please don't mention it 
 to your aunt . . . She is so decided hi her 
 views . . ." 
 
 When Meg opened the envelope she found 
 three ten-pound notes. She had never seen so 
 much money before, and burst into tears; but it 
 was not because of the magnitude of the gift. 
 She felt she had never properly appreciated her 
 poor little uncle, and her conscience smote her. 
 
 This was at Christmas. 
 
 The weariful rich sat in conclave over Meg, 
 and it was decided that she should in March 
 go as companion and secretary to a certain Mrs. 
 Trent slightly known to one of them. 
 
 Mrs. Trent was kindly, careless, and quite 
 generous as regards money. She had grown-up 
 daughters, and they lived in one of the Home 
 Counties where there are many country-houses 
 
 111
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 and plenty of sport. Meg proved to be exceed- 
 ingly useful, did whatever she was asked to do, 
 and a great many things no one had ever done 
 before. She shared in the fun, and for the first 
 time since her mother died was not overworked. 
 
 Her employer was as keen on every form of 
 pleasure as her own daughters. She exercised 
 the very smallest supervision over them and 
 none at all over the "quite useful" little com- 
 panion. 
 
 Many men came to the easy-going, lavish 
 house, and Meg, with pretty frocks, abundant 
 leisure and deliciously prim Ribston-Hallish 
 manners, came in for her full share of admira- 
 tion. 
 
 It happened that at the end of July Anthony 
 Ross came up to London in the afternoon to 
 attend and speak at a dinner in aid of some 
 artists' charity. He and Jan were staying with 
 friends at Teddington; Fay, an aunt and the 
 servants were already at Wren's End all but 
 Hannah, the severe Scottish housemaid, who 
 remained in charge. She was grim and gaunt 
 and plain, with a thick, black moustache, and 
 Anthony liked her less than he could have wished. 
 But she had been Jan's nurse, and was faithful 
 and trustworthy beyond words. He would never 
 let Jan go to the country ahead of him, for with- 
 out her he always left behind everything most 
 vital to his happiness, so she was to join him 
 next day and see that his painting-tackle was 
 all packed. 
 
 The house in St. George's Square was nominally 
 112
 
 Meg 
 
 shut up and shrouded in dust-sheets, but Hannah 
 had "opened up" the dining-room on Anthony's 
 behalf, and there he sat and slumbered till she 
 should choose to bring him some tea. 
 
 He was awakened by an opening door and 
 Hannah's voice announcing, not tea, but: 
 
 "Miss Morton to see you, sir." 
 
 There seemed a thousand "r's" in both the 
 Morton and the sir, and Anthony, who felt that 
 there was something ominous and arresting in 
 Hannah's voice, was wide-awake before she 
 could shut the door again. 
 
 Sure enough it was Meg, clad in a log grey 
 dust-cloak and motor bonnet, the grey veil flung 
 back from a very pale face. 
 
 Meg, looking a wispy little shadow of woe. 
 
 Anthony came froward with outstretched 
 hands. 
 
 "Meg, my child, what good wind has blown 
 you here this afternoon? I thought you were 
 having ever such a gay time down in the coun- 
 try." 
 
 But Meg made no effort to grasp the greeting 
 hands. On the contrary, she moved so that the 
 whole width of the dining-room table was be- 
 tween them. 
 
 "Wait," she said, "you mustn't shake hands 
 with me till I tell you what I've done . . . per- 
 haps you won't want to then." 
 
 And Anthony saw that she was trembling. 
 
 "Come and sit down," he said. "Something's 
 wrong, I can see. What is it?" 
 
 But she stood where she was, looking at him 
 113
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 with large, tragic eyes; laid down a leather 
 despatch-case she was carrying, and seized the 
 edge of the table as if for support. 
 
 "I'd rather not sit down yet," she said. "Per- 
 haps when you've heard what I've got to tell 
 you, you'll never want me to sit down in your 
 house again . . . and yet ... I did pray so 
 you'd be here ... I knew it was most unlikely 
 . . . but I did pray so ... And you are here." 
 
 Anthony was puzzled. Meg was not given to 
 making scenes or going into heroics. 
 
 It was evident that something had happened 
 to shake her out of her usual almost cynical 
 calm. 
 
 "You'd be much better to sit down," he said, 
 soothingly. "You see, if you stand, so must I, 
 and it's such an uncomfortable way of talking." 
 
 She pulled out a chair and sat down at the 
 table, took off her gloves, and two absurd small 
 thumbs appeared above its edge, the knuckles 
 white and tense with the strength of her grip. 
 
 Anthony seated himself in a deep chair be- 
 side the fireplace. He was in shadow. Meg 
 faced the light, and he was shocked at the ap- 
 pearance of the little smitten face. 
 
 "Now tell me," he said gently, "just as little 
 or as much as you like." 
 
 "This morning," she said hoarsely, "I ran 
 away with a man ... in a motor-car." 
 
 Anthony was certainly startled, but all he said 
 was, "That being the case, why are you here, 
 my dear, and what have you done with him?" 
 
 "He was married . . ." 
 114
 
 Meg 
 
 "Have you only just found that out?" 
 
 "No, I knew it all along. His wife is hard 
 and disagreeable and older than he is ... and 
 he's thirty-five . . . and they can't live together, 
 and she won't divorce him and he can't divorce 
 her . . . and I loved him so much and thought 
 how beautiful it would be to give up everything 
 and make it up to him." 
 
 "Yes?" said Anthony, for Meg paused as 
 though unable to go on. 
 
 "And it seemed very wonderful and noble to 
 do this, and I forgot my poor little Papa and 
 those boys hi India, and you and Jan and Fay 
 and ... I was very mad and very happy . . . 
 till this morning, when we actually went off in 
 his car." 
 
 "But where," Anthony asked in a voice stu- 
 diously even and quiet, "are he and his car?" 
 
 "I don't know," Meg said hopelessly, "unless 
 they're still at the place where we had lunch . . . 
 and I don't suppose he'd stay there all this 
 time . . ." 
 
 Anthony felt a great desire to laugh, but Meg 
 looked so woebegone and desperately serious 
 that he restrained the impulse and said very 
 kindly: "I don't yet understand how, having 
 embarked upon such an enterprise, you happen 
 to be here . . . alone. Did you quarrel at lunch, 
 or what?" 
 
 "We didn't have lunch," Meg exclaimed with 
 a sob. "At least, I didn't ... it was the lunch 
 that did it." 
 
 "Did what?" 
 
 115
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "Made me realise what I had done, and go 
 away." 
 
 "Meg dear," said Anthony, striving desperately 
 to keep his voice steady, "was it a very bad 
 lunch?" 
 
 "I don't know," she answered with the utmost 
 seriousness. "We hadn't begun; we were just 
 going to, when I noticed his hands, and his nails 
 were dirty, and they looked horrid, and suddenly 
 it came over me that if I stayed . . . those 
 hands ..." 
 
 She let go of the table, put her elbows upon it 
 and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 Anthony made no sound, and presently, still 
 with hidden face, she went on again: 
 
 "And in that minute I saw what I was doing, 
 and that I could never be the same again, and I 
 remembered my poor little dyspeptic Papa, and 
 my dear, dear brothers so far away in India . . . 
 and you and Jan and Fay all the special people 
 I pray for every single night and morning and 
 I felt that if I didn't get away that minute I 
 should die . . ." 
 
 "And how did you get away?" 
 
 "It was quite simple. There was something 
 wrong with the car (that's how he got his hands 
 so dirty), and he'd sent for a mechanic, and just 
 as we were sitting down to lunch, the waiter said 
 the motor-man had come . . . and he went out 
 to the garage to speak to him . . ." 
 
 "Yes?" Anthony remarked, for again Meg 
 paused. 
 
 "So I just walked out of the front door. No 
 116
 
 Meg 
 
 one saw me, and the station was across the road, 
 and I went right in and asked when there was a 
 train to London, and there was one going in five 
 minutes; so I took a ticket and came straight 
 here, for I knew somehow, even if you were all 
 away, Hannah would let me stay . . . just to- 
 night. I knew she would ..." and Meg began 
 to sob feebly. 
 
 And, as if hi response to the mention of her 
 name, Hannah appeared, bearing a tray with 
 tea upon it. Hannah was short and square; she 
 stumped as she walked, and she carried a tray 
 very high and stately, as though it were a sacrifice. 
 As she came in Meg rose and hastily moved to 
 the window, standing there with her back to the 
 room. 
 
 "I thocht," said Hannah, as though challeng- 
 ing somebody to contradict her, "that Miss 
 Morton would be the better for an egg to her 
 tea. She looks just like a bit soap after a hard 
 day's washing." 
 
 "I had no lunch," said a muffled, apologetic 
 voice from the window. 
 
 "Come away, then, and take yer tea," Hannah 
 said sharply. "Young leddies should have more 
 sense than go fasting so many hours." 
 
 As it was evident that Hannah had no inten- 
 tion of leaving the room till she saw Meg sit- 
 ting at the table, the girl came back and sat 
 down. 
 
 "See that she gets her tea, sir," she said in a 
 low, admonitory voice to Anthony. "She's 
 pretty far through." 
 
 117
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 The tray was set at the end of the table. An- 
 thony came and sat down behind it. 
 
 "I'll pour out," he said, "and until you've 
 drunk one cup of tea, eaten one piece of bread- 
 and-butter and one egg, you're not to speak one 
 word. / will talk." 
 
 He tried to, disjointedly and for the most part 
 nonsense. Meg drank her tea, and to her own 
 amazement ate up her egg and several pieces of 
 bread-an-butter with the utmost relish. 
 
 As the meal proceeded, Anthony noted that 
 she grew less haggard. The tears still hung on 
 her eyelashes, but the eyes themselves were a 
 thought less tragic. 
 
 When Hannah came for the tray she gave a 
 grunt of satisfaction at the sight of the egg-shell 
 and the empty plates. 
 
 "Now," said Anthony, "we must thresh this 
 subject out and settle what's to be done. I sup- 
 pose you left a message for the Trents. What 
 did you tell them?" 
 
 "Lies," said Meg. "He said we must have a 
 good start. His yacht was at Southampton. 
 And I left a note that I'd been suddenly sum- 
 moned to Papa, and would write from there. 
 They'd all gone for a picnic, you know and it 
 was arranged I was to have a headache that 
 morning . . . I've got it now with a vengeance 
 ... It seemed rather fun when we were plan- 
 ning it. Now it all looks so mean and horrid . . . 
 Besides, lots of people saw us in his motor . . . 
 and people always know me again because of 
 my hair. Everyone knew him . . . the whole 
 
 118
 
 Meg 
 
 county made a fuss of him, and it seemed so 
 wonderful . . . that he should care like that for 
 me . . ." 
 
 "Doubtless it did," said Anthony drily. "But 
 we must consider what is to be done now. If you 
 said you were going to your father, perhaps the 
 best thing you can do is to go to him, and write 
 to the Trents from there. I hope you didn't in- 
 form him of your intention?" 
 
 "No," she faltered. "I was to write to him 
 just before we sailed . . . But you may be per- 
 fectly sure the Trents will find out . . . He will 
 probably go back there to look for me ... I 
 expect he is awfully puzzled." 
 
 "I expect he is, and I hope," Anthony added 
 vindictively, "the fellow is terrified out of his 
 life as well. He ought to be horsewhipped, and 
 I'd like to do it. A babe like you !" 
 
 "No," said Meg, firmly; "there you're wrong. 
 I'm not a babe ... I knew what I was doing; 
 but up to to-day it seemed worth it ... I never 
 seemed to see till to-day how it would hurt other 
 people. Even if he grew tired of me and I had 
 faced that there would have been some awfully 
 happy months . . . and so long as it was only 
 me, it didn't seem to matter. And when you've 
 had rather a mouldy life . . ." 
 
 " It can never be a case of ' only me.' As society 
 is constituted, other people are always involved." 
 
 "Yet there was Marian Evans ... he told 
 me about her . . . she did it, and everyone came 
 round to think it was very fine of her really. She 
 wrote, or something, didn't she?" 
 
 119
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "She did," said Anthony, "and in several other 
 respects her case was not at all analogous to 
 yours. She was a middle-aged woman you are 
 a child . . ." 
 
 "Perhaps, but I'm not an ignorant child . . ." 
 
 "Oh, Meg!" Anthony protested. 
 
 "I daresay about books and things I am, but 
 I mean I haven't been wrapped in cotton-wool, 
 and taken care of all my life, like Jan and Fay 
 ... I know about things. Oh dear, oh dear, 
 will you forbid Jan ever to speak to me again?" 
 
 "Jan!" Anthony repeated. "Jan! Why, 
 she's the person of all others we want. We'll 
 do nothing till she's here. Let's get her." And 
 he pushed back his chair and rushed to the bell. 
 
 Meg rushed after him: "You'll let her see me? 
 You'll let her talk to me? Oh, are you sure?" 
 
 The little hands clutched his arm, her ravaged, 
 wistful face was raised imploringly to his. 
 
 Anthony stooped and kissed the little face. 
 
 "It's just people like Jan who are put into the 
 world to straighten things out for the rest of us. 
 We've wasted three-quarters of an hour already. 
 Now we'll get her." 
 
 "Is she on the telephone?" asked the prac- 
 tical Meg. "Not far off?" 
 
 Jan was quite used to being summoned to her 
 father in a tremendous hurry. She was back in 
 St. George's Square before he started for the 
 dinner. Meg was lying down in one of the dis- 
 mantled bedrooms, and when Jan arrived she 
 went straight to her father in his dressing-room. 
 
 120
 
 Meg 
 
 She found him on his knees, pursuing a refrac- 
 tory collar-stud under the wash-stand. 
 
 "It's well you've come," he said as he got up. 
 "I can't fasten my collar or my tie. I've had a 
 devil of a time. My fingers are all thumbs and 
 I'm most detestably sticky." 
 
 He told Jan about Meg. She fastened his 
 collar and arranged his tie in the neatest of bows. 
 Then she kissed him on both cheeks and told 
 him not to worry. 
 
 "How can one refrain from worrying when 
 the works of the devil and the selfishness of man 
 are made manifest as they have been to-day? 
 But for the infinite mercy of God, where would 
 that poor silly child have been?" 
 
 "It's just because the infinite mercy of God 
 is so much stronger than the works of the devil 
 or the selfishness of man, that you needn't worry," 
 said Jan. 
 
 Anthony put his hands on Jan's shoulders and 
 held her away from him. 
 
 "Do you know," he said, "I shall always like 
 Hannah better after this. In spite of her 
 moustache and her grimness, that child was 
 sure Hannah would take her in, whether any 
 of us were here or not. Now, how did she 
 know?" 
 
 "Because," said Jan, "things are revealed to 
 babes like Meg that are hidden from men of 
 the world like you. Hannah is all right you 
 don't appreciate Hannah, and you are rather 
 jealous of her moustache." 
 
 Anthony leant forward and kissed his tall 
 121
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 young daughter: "You are a great comfort, 
 Jan," he said. "How do you do it?" 
 
 Jan nodded at him. "It will all straighten 
 out don't you worry," she said. 
 
 All the same, there was plenty of worry for 
 everybody. The man, after his fashion, was 
 very much in love with Meg. He was horribly 
 alarmed by her sudden and mysterious disap- 
 pearance. No one had seen her go, no one had 
 noticed her. 
 
 He. got into a panic, and motored back to the 
 Trents', arriving there just before dinner. Mrs. 
 Trent, tired and cross after a wet picnic, had, of 
 course, read Meg's note, thought it very casual 
 of the girl and was justly incensed. 
 
 On finding they knew no more of Meg's move- 
 ments than he did himself, the man one Walter 
 Brooke lost his head and confessed the truth 
 to Mrs. Trent, who was much shocked and not 
 a little frightened. 
 
 Later in the evening she received a telegram 
 from Jan announcing Meg's whereabouts. 
 
 Jan had insisted on this, lest the Trents should 
 suspect anything and wire to Major Morton. 
 
 Mrs. Trent, quite naturally, refused to have 
 anything further to do with Meg. She talked 
 of serpents, and was very much upset. She wrote 
 a dignified letter to Major Morton, explaining 
 her reasons for Meg's dismissal. She also wrote 
 to their relative among the weariful rich, through 
 whom she had heard of Meg. 
 
 Meg was more under a cloud than when she 
 left Ribston Hall. 
 
 122
 
 Meg 
 
 But for Jan and Anthony she might have gone 
 under altogether; but they took her down to 
 Wren's End and kept guard over her. Anthony 
 Ross dealt faithfully with the man, who went 
 yachting at once. 
 
 Meg recovered her poise, searched the ad- 
 vertisements of the scholastic papers indus- 
 triously, and secured a post in a school for little 
 boys, as Anthony forced his cousin Amelia to 
 give her a testimonial. 
 
 Here she worked hard and was a great success, 
 for she could keep order, and that quality, where 
 small boys are concerned, is much more valuable 
 than learning. She stayed there for some years, 
 and then her frail little ill-nourished body gave 
 out, and she was gravely ill. 
 
 When she recovered, she went as English 
 governess to a rich German family hi Bremen. 
 The arrangement was only for one year, and at 
 its termination she was free to offer to meet Jan 
 and her charges. 
 
 123
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 PLANS 
 
 chicks, this is London, the friendly 
 town," Jan announced, as the taxi drove 
 away from Charing Cross station. 
 
 "Flendly little London, dirty little London," 
 her niece rejoined, as she bounced up and down 
 on Jan's knee. She had slept during the very 
 good crossing and was full of conversation and 
 ready to be pleased with all she saw. 
 
 Tony was very quiet. He had suffered far 
 more in the swift journey across France than 
 during the whole of the voyage, and it was diffi- 
 cult to decide whether he or Ayah were the more 
 extraordinary colour. Greenish-white and mis- 
 erable he sat beside his aunt, silent and observing. 
 
 "Here's dear old Piccadilly," Jan exclaimed, 
 as the taxi turned out of St. James's Street. 
 "Doesn't it look jolly in the sunshine?" 
 
 Tony turned even greener than before, and 
 gasped: 
 
 "This! Piccadilly!" 
 
 This not very wide street with shops and great 
 houses towering above them, the endless streams 
 of traffic in the road and on the crowded pave- 
 ments ! 
 
 "Did Mrs. Bond live in one of those houses?" 
 he wondered, "and if so, where did she keep her 
 
 124
 
 Plans 
 
 ducks? And where, oh, where, were the tulips 
 and the lilies of his dream?" 
 
 He uttered no sound, but his mind kept ex- 
 claiming, "This! Piccadilly?" 
 
 "See," said Jan, oblivious of Tony and intent 
 on keeping her lively niece upon her knee. 
 "There's the Green Park." 
 
 Tony breathed more freely. 
 
 After all, there were trees and grass; good grass, 
 and more of it than hi the Resident's garden. 
 He took heart a little and summoned up courage 
 to inquire: "But where are the tulips?" 
 
 "It's too early for tulips yet," Jan answered. 
 "By and by there will be quantities. How did 
 you know about them? Did dear Mummy tell 
 you? But they're in Hyde Park, not here." 
 
 Tony made no answer. He was, as usual, 
 weighing and considering and making up his mind. 
 
 Presently he spoke. "It's different," he said, 
 slowly, "but I rather like to look at it." 
 
 Tony never said whether he thought things 
 were pretty or ugly. All he knew was that cer- 
 tain people and places, pictures and words, some- 
 tunes filled him with an exquisite sense of plea- 
 sure, while others merely bored or exasperated or 
 were positively painful. 
 
 His highest praise was "I like to look at it." 
 When he didn't like to look at it, he had found it 
 wiser to express no opinion at all, except hi mo- 
 ments of confidential expansion, and these were 
 rare with Tony. 
 
 Meg had found them a nice little furnished flat 
 on the fifth floor in one of the blocks behind Ken- 
 
 125
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 sington High Street, and Hannah must surely 
 have been waiting behind the door, so instanta- 
 neously was it opened, when Jan and her party 
 left the lift. 
 
 There were tears in Hannah's eyes and her 
 nose was red as she welcomed "Miss Fay's moth- 
 erless bairns." She was rather shocked that 
 there was no sign of mourning about any of them 
 except Jan, who wore mainly as a concession to 
 Hannah's prejudices a thin black coat and 
 skirt she had got just before she left Bombay. 
 
 Tony stared stonily at Hannah and decided he 
 did not like to look at her. She was as surprising 
 as the newly-found Piccadilly, but she gratified 
 no sensuous perception whatsoever. 
 
 Ayah might not be exactly beautiful, but she 
 was harmonious. Her body was well propor- 
 tioned, her sari fell in gracious flowing lines, and 
 she moved with dignity. Without knowing why, 
 Tony felt that there was something pleasing to 
 the eye in Ayah. Hannah, on the contrary, was 
 the reverse of graceful; stumpy and heavy-footed, 
 she gave an impression of abrupt terminations. 
 Everything about her seemed too short except 
 her caps, which were unusually tall and white 
 and starchy. Her afternoon aprons, too, were 
 stiffer and whiter and more voluminous than 
 those of other folk. She did not regard these 
 things as vain adornings of her person, rather 
 were they the outward and visible sign of her 
 office as housekeeper to Miss Ross. They were a 
 partial expression of the dignity of that office, 
 just as a minister's gown is the badge of his. 
 
 126
 
 Plans 
 
 By the time everyone was washed and brushed 
 Meg returned with the luggage and Hannah 
 brought hi tea. 
 
 "I thought you'd like to give the bairns their 
 tea yourself the first day, Miss Jan. Will that 
 Hindu body have hers in the nursery?" 
 
 "That would be best," Jan said hastily. "And 
 Hannah, you mustn't be surprised if she sits on 
 the floor. Indian servants always do." 
 
 "Nothing she can do will surprise me," Hannah 
 announced loftily. "I've not forgotten the body 
 that came back with Mrs. Tancred, with a ring 
 through her nose and a red wafer on her fore- 
 head." 
 
 Jan, herself, went with Ayah to the nursery, 
 where she found that in spite of her disparaging 
 sniffs, Hannah had put out everything poor Ayah 
 could possibly want. 
 
 The children were hungry and tea was a lengthy 
 meal. It was not until they had departed with 
 Ayah for more washings that Jan found tune to 
 say: "Why don't you take off your hat, Meg 
 dear? I can't see you properly in that extin- 
 guisher. Is it the latest fashion?" 
 
 "The very latest." 
 
 Meg looked queerly at Jan as she slowly took 
 off her hat. 
 
 "There!" she said. 
 
 Her hair was cropped as short as a boy's, ex- 
 cept for the soft, tawny rings that framed her 
 face. 
 
 "Meg!" Jan cried. "Why on earth have you 
 cut off your hair?" 
 
 127
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "Chill penury's the cause. I've turned it into 
 good hard cash. It happens to be the fashion- 
 able colour just now." 
 
 "Did you really need to? I thought you were 
 getting quite a good salary with those Hoffmeyers." 
 
 "No English governess gets a good salary in 
 Bremen, and mine was but a modest remunera- 
 tion, so I wanted more. Do you remember Lady 
 Penelope Pottinger?" 
 
 "Hazily. She was pretty, wasn't she . . . 
 and very smart?" 
 
 "She was and is ... smarter than ever now 
 mind, I put you on your honour never to men- 
 tion it she's got my hair." 
 
 "Do you mean she asked you to sell it?" 
 
 "No, my child. I offered it for sale and she 
 was all over me with eagerness to purchase. 
 Hair's the defective wire in her lighting appar- 
 atus. Her own, at the best, is skimpy and 
 straight, though very much my colour, and what 
 with permanent waving and instantaneous hair 
 colouring it was positively dwindling away." 
 
 "I wish you had let it dwindle." 
 
 "No, I rather like her so I suggested she 
 should give her own poor locks a rest and have 
 an artistic postiche made with mine; it made two, 
 one to come and one to go to the hairdresser. 
 She looks perfectly charming. I'd no idea my 
 hair was so decent till I saw it on her head." 
 
 "I hope 7 never shall," Jan said gloomily. "I 
 think it was silly of you, for it makes you look 
 younger and more irresponsible than ever; and 
 what about posts?" 
 
 128
 
 Plans 
 
 "I've got a post in view where it won't matter 
 if only I can run things my own way." 
 
 "Will you have to go at once? I thought, 
 perhaps " 
 
 "I wish to take this post at once," Meg inter- 
 posed quickly, "but it depends on you whether I 
 get it." 
 
 "On me?" 
 
 "On no one else. Look here, Jan, will you 
 take me on as nurse to Fay's children? A real 
 nurse, mind, none of your fine lady arrangements; 
 only you must pay me forty pounds a year. I 
 can't manage with less if I'm to give my poor 
 little Papa any chirps ... I suppose that's a 
 frightful lot for a nurse?" 
 
 "Not for a good nurse . . . But, Meg, you 
 got eighty when you taught the little boys, and 
 I know they'd jump at you again in that school, 
 hah* or no hah-." 
 
 "Listen, Jan." Meg put her elbows on the 
 table and leaned her sharp little chin on her two 
 hands while she held Jan's eyes with hers. "For 
 nine long years, except that tune with the Trents, 
 I've been teaching, teaching, teaching, and I'm 
 sick of teaching. I'd rather sweep a crossing." 
 
 "Yet you teach so well; you know the little 
 boys adored you." 
 
 "I love children and they usually like me. If 
 you take me to look after Tony and little Fay, I'll 
 do it thoroughly, I can promise you. I won't 
 teach them, mind, not a thing I'll make them 
 happy and well-mannered; and, Jan, listen, do 
 you suppose there's anybody, even the most 
 
 129
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 superior of elderly nurses, who would take the 
 trouble for Fay's children that I should? If you 
 let me come you won't regret it, I promise you." 
 
 Meg's eyes, those curious eyes with the large 
 pupil and blue iris flecked with brown, were very 
 bright, her voice was earnest, and when it ceased 
 it left a sense of tension in the very air. 
 
 Jan put out her hand across the table, and 
 Meg, releasing her sharp little chin, clasped it 
 with hers. 
 
 11 So that's settled," Meg announced trium- 
 phantly. 
 
 "No." Jan's voice was husky but firm. "It's 
 not settled. I don't think you're strong enough; 
 but, even so, if I could pay you the salary you 
 ought to have, I'd jump at you . . . but, my 
 dear, I can't at present. I haven't the least idea 
 what it will all cost, but the fares and things 
 have made such a hole in this year's money I'll 
 need to be awfully careful." 
 
 "That's exactly why I want to come; you've 
 no idea of being careful and doing things in a 
 small way. I've done it all my life. You'll be 
 far more economical with me than without me." 
 
 "Don't tempt me," Jan besought her. "I see 
 all that, but why should I be comfortable at your 
 expense? I want you more than I can say. 
 Fay wanted it too she said so." 
 
 ' ' Did Fay actually say so ? Did she ? " 
 
 "Yes, she did not that you should be their 
 nurse, we neither of us ever thought of that; but 
 she did want you to be there to help me with the 
 children. We used to talk about it." 
 
 130
 
 Plans 
 
 "Then I'm coming. I must. Don't you see 
 how it is, Jan? Don't you realise that nearly all 
 the happiness in my life all the happiness since 
 the boys left has come to me through Mr. Ross 
 and Fay and you? And now when there's a 
 chance for me to do perhaps a little something 
 in return ... If you don't let me, it's you who 
 are mean and grudging. I shall be perfectly 
 strong, if I haven't got to teach mind, I won't 
 do that, not so much as A.B.C." 
 
 "I know it's wrong," Jan sighed, "just because 
 it would be so heavenly to have you." 
 
 Meg loosed the hand she held and stood up. 
 She lifted her thin arms above her head, as 
 though invoking some invisible power, stretched 
 herself, and ran round the table to kiss Jan. 
 
 "And do you never think, you dear, slow- 
 witted thing, that it will be rather lovely for me 
 to be with you? To be with somebody who is 
 kind without being patronising, who treats one 
 as a human being and not a machine, who sees 
 the funny side of things and isn't condescending 
 or improving if she doesn't happen to be cross?" 
 
 "I'm often cross," Jan said. 
 
 "Well, and what if you are? Can't I be cross 
 back? I'm not afraid of your crossness. You 
 never hit below the belt. Now, promise me 
 you'll give me a trial. Promise!" 
 
 Meg's arms were round her neck, Meg's absurd 
 cropped head was rubbing against hers. Jan was 
 very lonely and hungry for affection just then, 
 timid and anxious about the future. Even in 
 that moment of time it flashed upon her what a 
 
 131
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 tower of strength this small, determined creature 
 would be, and how infinitely hard it was to turn 
 Meg from any course she had determined on. 
 
 "For a little while, then," so Jan salved her 
 conscience. "Just till we all shake down . . . 
 and your hair begins to grow." 
 
 Meg stood up very straight and shook her 
 finger at Jan. "Remember, I'm to be a real, 
 proper nurse with authority, and a clinical ther- 
 mometer . . . and a uniform." 
 
 "If you like, and it's a pretty uniform." 
 
 Meg danced gleefully round the table. 
 
 "It will be lovely, it is lovely. I've got it all 
 ready; green linen frocks, big well-fitting aprons, 
 and such beautiful caps." 
 
 "Not caps, Meg!" Jan expostulated. "Please 
 not caps." 
 
 "Certainly caps. How otherwise am I to 
 cover up my head? I can't wear hats all the 
 time. And how could I ever inspire those chil- 
 dren with respect with a head like this? When 
 I get into my uniform you'll see what a very 
 superior nurse I look." 
 
 "You'll look much more like musical comedy 
 than sober service." 
 
 "You mistake the situation altogether," Meg 
 said loftily. "I take my position very seriously." 
 
 "But you can't go about Wren's End in caps. 
 Everybody knows you down there." 
 
 "They'll find out they don't know me as well 
 as they thought, that's all." 
 
 "Meg, tell me, what did Hannah say when she 
 saw your poor shorn head?" 
 
 132
 
 Plans 
 
 " Hannah, as usual, referred to my Maker, and 
 said that had He intended me to have short hair 
 He would either have caused it not to grow or 
 afflicted me with some disease which necessitated 
 shearing; and she added that such havers are just 
 flying in the face of Providence." 
 
 "So they are." 
 
 "All the more reason to cover them up, and I 
 wish to impress the children." 
 
 "Those children will be sadly browbeaten, I 
 can see, and as for their poor aunt, she won't be 
 able to call her soul her own." 
 
 "That," Meg said, triumphantly, "is precisely 
 why I'm so eager to come. When you've been 
 an underling all your life you can't imagine what 
 a joy it is to be top dog occasionally." 
 
 "In that respect," Jan said firmly, "it must 
 be turn and turn about. I won't let you come 
 unless you promise swear, here and now that 
 when I consider you are looking fagged 'a 
 wispy wraith,' as Daddie used to say if I com- 
 mand you to take a day in bed, in bed you will 
 stay till I give you leave to get up. Unless you 
 promise me this, the contract is off." 
 
 "I'll promise anything you like. The idea of 
 being pressed to remain in bed strikes me as 
 merely comic. You have evidently no notion 
 how persons in a subordinate position ought to 
 be treated. Bed, indeed!" 
 
 "I think you might have waited till I got back 
 before you parted with your hair." Jan's tone 
 was decidedly huffy. 
 
 "Now don't nag. That subject is closed. 
 133
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 What about your hair. Do you know it is almost 
 white?" 
 
 "And what more suitable for a maiden aunt? 
 As that is to be my role for the future I may as 
 well look the part." 
 
 "But you don't that's what I complain of. 
 The whiter your hair grows the younger your 
 face gets. You're a contradiction, a paradox, 
 you provoke conjecture, you're indecently no- 
 ticeable. Mr. Ross would have loved to paint 
 you." 
 
 Jan shook her head. "No, Daddie never 
 wanted to paint anything about me except my 
 arms." 
 
 "He'd want to paint you now," Meg insisted 
 obstinately. "/ know the sort of person he liked 
 to paint." 
 
 "He never would paint people unless he did 
 like them," Jan said, smiling as at some recollec- 
 tion. "Do you remember how he utterly refused 
 to paint that rich Mr. Withells down at Amber 
 Guiting?" 
 
 "I remember," and Meg laughed. "He said 
 Mr. Withells was puffy and stippled." 
 
 Tony had been cold ever since he reached the 
 Gulf of Lyons, and he wondered what could be 
 the matter with him, for he never remembered 
 to have felt like this before. He wondered mis- 
 erably what could be the reason why he felt so 
 torpid and shivery, disinclined to move, and yet 
 so uncomfortable when he sat still. 
 
 After his bath, on that first night in London, 
 134
 
 Plans 
 
 tucked into a little bed with a nice warm eider- 
 down over him, he still felt that horrid little 
 trickle of ice-cold water down his spine and could 
 not sleep. 
 
 His cot was in Auntie Jan's room with a tall 
 screen round it. The rooms in the flat were 
 small, tiny they seemed to Tony, after the lofty 
 spaciousness of the bungalow hi Bombay, but 
 that didn't seem to make it any warmer, because 
 Auntie Jan's window was wide open as it would 
 go top and bottom and chilly gusts seemed to 
 blow round his head in spite of the screen. Ayah 
 and little Fay were in the nursery across the pas- 
 sage, where there was a fire. There was no fire 
 in this wind-swept chamber of Auntie Jan's. 
 
 Tony dozed and woke and woke and dozed, 
 getting colder and more forlorn and miserable 
 with each change of position. The sheets seemed 
 made of ice, so slippery were they, so unkind and 
 unyielding and unembracing. 
 
 Presently he saw a dim light. Auntie Jan had 
 come to bed, carrying a candle. He heard her 
 say good night to the little mem who had met 
 them at the station, and the door was shut. 
 
 In spite of her passion for fresh air, Jan shiv- 
 ered herself as she undressed. She made a some- 
 what hasty toilet, said her prayers, peeped round 
 the screen to see that Tony was all right, and 
 hopped into bed, where a hot-water bottle put hi 
 by the thoughtful Hannah was most comforting. 
 
 Presently she heard a faint, attenuated sniff. 
 Again it came, this tune accompanied by the 
 ghost of something like a groan. 
 
 135
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Jan sat up in bed and listened. Immediately 
 all was perfectly still. 
 
 She lay down again, and again came that sad 
 little sniff, and undoubtedly it was from behind 
 the screen that it came. 
 
 Had Tony got cold? 
 
 Jan leapt out of bed, switched on the light and 
 tore away the screen from around his bed. 
 
 Yes; his doleful little face was tear-stained. 
 
 "Tony, Tony darling, what is the matter?" 
 
 "I don't know," he sobbed. "I feel so funny." 
 
 Jan put her hand on his forehead far from 
 being hot, the little face was stone-cold. In a 
 moment she had him out of bed and in her warm 
 arms. As she took him she felt the chill of the 
 stiff, unyielding small body. 
 
 "My precious boy, you're cold as charity! 
 Why didn't you call me long ago? Why didn't 
 you tell Auntie Jan?" 
 
 "I didn't . . . know . . . what it was," he 
 sobbed. 
 
 In no time Tony was put into the big bed, the 
 bed so warm from Auntie Jan's body, with a 
 lovely podgy magic something at his feet that 
 radiated heat. Auntie Jan slammed down the 
 window at the bottom, and then more fairness! 
 She struck a match, there was a curious sort of 
 "plop," and a little fire started in the grate, an 
 amazing little fire that grew redder and redder 
 every minute. Auntie Jan put on a blue dressing- 
 gown over the long white garment that she wore, 
 and bustled about. Tony decided that he "liked 
 to look at her" in this blue robe, with her hair 
 
 136
 
 Plans 
 
 in a great rope hanging down. She was very 
 quick; she fetched a little saucepan and he heard 
 talking in the passage outside, but no one else 
 came in, only Auntie Jan. 
 
 Presently she gave him milk, warm and sweet, 
 in a blue cup. He drank it and began to feel 
 much happier, drowsy too, and contented. Pres- 
 ently there was no light save the red glow of the 
 fairy fire, and Auntie Jan got into bed beside 
 him. 
 
 She put her arm about him and drew him so 
 that his head rested against her warm shoulder. 
 He did not repulse her, he did not speak, but 
 lay stiff and straight with his feet glued against 
 that genial podgy something that was so infinitely 
 comforting. 
 
 "You are kind," Tony said suddenly. "I 
 believe you." 
 
 The stiff little body relaxed and lay against 
 hers in confiding abandonment, and soon he 
 was sound asleep. 
 
 What a curious thing to say! Jan lay awake 
 puzzling. Tragedy lay behind it. Only five 
 years old, and yet, to Tony, belief was a more 
 important thing than love. She thought of 
 Fay, hectic and haggard, and again she seemed 
 to hear her say in her tired voice, trying to ex- 
 plain Tony: "He's not a cuddly child; he's queer 
 and reserved and silent, but if he once trusts you 
 it's for always; he'll love you then and never 
 change." 
 
 Jan could just see, in the red glow from the 
 fire, the little head that lay so confidingly against 
 
 137
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 her shoulder, the wide forehead, the peacefully 
 closed eyes. And suddenly she realised that the 
 elusive resemblance to somebody that had al- 
 ways evaded her was a likeness to that face she 
 saw in the glass every time she did her hair. She 
 kissed him very softly, praying the while that 
 she might never fail him; that he might always 
 have reason to trust her. 
 
 138
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE STATE OF PETER 
 
 MEANWHILE Peter was making discoveries 
 about himself. He went back to his flat 
 on the evening of the day Jan and the children 
 sailed. Swept and garnished and exceedingly 
 tidy, it appeared to have grown larger during 
 his absence and seemed rather empty. There 
 was a sense of unfilled spaces that .caused him 
 to feel lonely. 
 
 That very evening he decided he must get a 
 friend to chum with him. The bungalow was 
 much too big for one person. 
 
 This had never struck him before. 
 
 In spite of their excessive neatness there re- 
 mained traces of Jan and the children in the 
 rooms. The flowers on the dinner-table pro- 
 claimed that they had been arranged by another 
 hand than Lalkhan's. He was certain of that 
 without Lalkhan's assurance that the Miss- 
 Sahib had done them herself before she sailed 
 that very morning. 
 
 When he went to his desk after dinner never 
 before or after did Peter possess such an orderly 
 bureau he found a letter lying on the blotting- 
 pad, and on each side of the heavy brass ink- 
 stand were placed a leaden member of a camel- 
 corps and an India-rubber ball with a face painted 
 
 139
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 upon it, which, when squeezed, expressed every 
 variety of emotion. These, Lalkhan explained, 
 were parting gifts from the young sahib and 
 little Fay respectively, and had been so arranged 
 by them just before they sailed. 
 
 The day before Jan had told the children that 
 all this tune they had been living in Peter's house 
 and that she was sure Mummy would want them 
 to be very grateful (she was careful to talk a 
 great deal about Mummy to the children lest 
 they should forget her); that he had been very 
 kind to them all, and she asked if there was any- 
 thing of their very own they would like to leave 
 for Peter as a remembrance. 
 
 Tony instantly fetched the camel-corps soldier 
 that kept guard on a chair by his cot every night; 
 that Ayah had not been permitted to pack be- 
 cause it must accompany him on the voyage. It 
 was, Jan knew, his most precious possession, and 
 she assured him that Peter would be particularly 
 gratified by such a gift. 
 
 Not to be outdone by her brother, little Fay 
 demanded her beloved ball, which was already 
 packed for the voyage in Jan's suit-case. 
 
 Peter sat at his desk staring at the absurd 
 little toys with very kind eyes. He understood. 
 Then he opened Jan's letter and read it through 
 quite a number of tunes. 
 
 "Dear Mr. Ledgard," it ran. 
 
 "Whatever Mr. Kipling may say of the Celt, 
 the lowland Scot finds it very difficult to express 
 strong feeling in words. If I had tried to tell 
 you, face to face, how sensible I am of your kind- 
 
 140
 
 The State of Peter 
 
 ness and consideration for us during the last sad 
 weeks I should have cried. You would have 
 been desperately uncomfortable and I miserably 
 ashamed of myself. So I can only try to write 
 something of my gratitude. 
 
 "We have been your guests so long and your 
 hospitality has been so untiring in circumstances 
 sad and strange enough to try the patience of the 
 kindest host, that I simply cannot express my 
 sense of obligation; an obligation in no wise bur- 
 densome because you have always contrived to 
 make me feel that you took pleasure in doing all 
 you have done. 
 
 "I wish there had been something belonging to 
 my sister that I could have begged you to accept 
 as a remembrance of her; but everything she had 
 of the smallest value has disappeared even her 
 books. When I get home I hope to give you one 
 of my father's many portraits of her, but I will 
 not send it till I know whether you are coming 
 home this summer. Please remember, should 
 you do so, as I sincerely hope you will, that no- 
 where can there be a warmer welcome for you 
 than at Wren's End. It would be the greatest 
 possible pleasure for the children and me to see 
 you there, and it is a good place to slack in and 
 get strong. And there I hope to challenge you to 
 the round of golf we never managed during my 
 time in India. 
 
 "Please try to realise, dear Mr. Ledgard, that 
 my sense of your kindness is deep and abiding, 
 and, believe me, yours, in most true gratitude, 
 
 "JANET Ross." 
 141
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 For a long time Peter sat very still, staring at 
 the cheerful, highly-coloured face painted on Fay's 
 ball. Cigarette after cigarette did he smoke as he 
 reviewed the experience of the last six weeks. 
 
 For the first time since he became a man he 
 had been constantly in the society of a woman 
 younger than himself who appeared too busy and 
 too absorbed in other things to remember that 
 she was a woman and he a man. 
 
 Peter was ordinarily susceptible, and he was 
 rather a favourite with women because of his 
 good manners; and his real good-nature made 
 him ready to help either in any social project that 
 happened to be towards or in tunes of domestic 
 stress. Yet never until lately had he seen so 
 much of any woman not frankly middle-aged 
 without being conscious that he was a man and 
 she a woman, and this added, at all events, a 
 certain piquancy to the situation. 
 
 Yet he had never felt this with Jan. 
 
 Quite a number of times in the course of his 
 thirty years he had fallen in love in an agreeably 
 surface sort of way without ever being deeply 
 stirred. Love-making was the pleasantest game 
 in the world, but he had not yet felt the smallest 
 desire to marry. He was a shrewd young man, 
 and knew that marriage, even in the twentieth 
 century, at all events starts with the idea of per- 
 manence; and, like many others who show no 
 inclination to judge the matrimonial complica- 
 tions of their acquaintance, he would greatly 
 have disliked any sort of scandal that involved 
 himself or his belongings. 
 
 142
 
 The State of Peter 
 
 He was quite as sensitive to criticism as other 
 men in his service, and he knew that he challenged 
 it in lending his flat to Mrs. Tancred. But here 
 he felt that the necessities of the case far out- 
 weighed the possibilities of misconception, and 
 after Jan came he thought no more about it. 
 
 Yet in a young man with his somewhat cynical 
 knowledge of the world, it was surprising that 
 the thought of his name being coupled with Jan's 
 never crossed his mind. He forgot that none of 
 his friends knew Jan at all, but that almost every 
 evening they did see her with him in the car 
 sometimes, it is true, accompanied by the chil- 
 dren, but quite as often alone and that during 
 her visit his spare time was so much occupied in 
 looking after the Tancred household that his 
 friends saw comparatively little of him, and 
 Peter was, as a rule, a very sociable person. 
 
 Therefore it came upon him as a real shock 
 when people began to ask him point-blank 
 whether he was engaged to Jan, and if so, what 
 they were going to do about Tancred's children. 
 Rightly or wrongly, he discerned hi the question 
 some veiled reflection upon Jan, some implied 
 slur upon her conduct. He was consequently 
 very short and huffy with these inquisitive ones, 
 and when he was no longer present they would 
 shake then* heads and declare that "poor old 
 Peter had got it in the neck." 
 
 If so, poor old Peter was, as yet, quite uncon- 
 scious of anything of the kind. 
 
 Nevertheless he found himself constantly think- 
 ing about her. Everything, even the familiar 
 
 143
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 streets and roads, served to remind him of her, 
 and when he went to bed he nearly always 
 dreamed about her. Absurd, inconsequent, un- 
 satisfactory dreams they were; for in them she 
 was always too busy to pay any attention to him 
 at all; she was wholly absorbed by what it is to 
 be feared Peter sometimes called " those con- 
 founded children." Though even in his dream 
 world he was careful to keep his opinion to him- 
 self. 
 
 Why on earth should he always dream of Jan 
 during the first part of the night? 
 
 Lalkhan could have thrown some light upon 
 the subject. But naturally Peter did not confide 
 his obsession to Lalkhan. 
 
 Just before she left Jan asked Lalkhan where 
 the sahib's linen was kept, and on being shown 
 the cupboard which contained the rather untidy 
 little piles of sheets, pillow-cases, and towels that 
 formed Peter's modest store of house linen, she re- 
 arranged it and brought sundry flat, square muslin 
 bags filled with dried lavender. Lace-edged bags 
 with lavender-coloured ribbon run through inser- 
 tion and tied in bows at the two corners. These 
 bags she placed among the sheets, much to the 
 wonder of Lalkhan, who, however, decided that it 
 was kindly meant and therefore did not interfere. 
 
 The odour was not one that commended itself 
 to him. It was far too faint and elusive. He 
 could understand a liking for attar of roses, of 
 jessamine, of musk, or of any of the strong scents 
 beloved by the native of India. Yet had she 
 proposed to sprinkle the sheets with any of these 
 
 144
 
 The State of Peter 
 
 essences he would have felt obliged to interfere, as 
 the sahib swore violently and became exceedingly 
 hot and angry did any member of his household 
 venture into his presence thus perfumed. Even 
 as it was he fully expected that his master would 
 irritably demand the cause of the infernal smell 
 that pervaded his bed; so keen are the noses of 
 the sahibs. Whereupon Lalkhan, strong in rec- 
 titude, would relate exactly what had happened, 
 produce one of the Jan-incriminating muslin bags, 
 escape further censure, and doubtless be com- 
 manded to burn it and its fellows in the kitchen 
 stove. But nothing of the kind occurred, and, 
 as it is always easier to leave a thing where it has 
 been placed than to remove it, the lavender re- 
 mained among the sheets in humble obscurity. 
 
 The old garden at Wren's End abounded in 
 great lavender bushes, and every year since it 
 became her property Jan made lavender sachets 
 which she kept in every possible place. Her own 
 clothes always held a fault savour of lavender, 
 and she had packed these bags as much as a 
 matter of course as she packed her stockings. 
 It seemed a shame, though, to take them home 
 again when she could get plenty more next sum- 
 mer, so she left them in the bungalow linen cup- 
 board. They reproduced her atmosphere; there- 
 fore did Peter dream of Jan. 
 
 A fortnight passed, and on their way to catch 
 the homeward mail came Thomas Crosbie and 
 his wife from Dariawarpur to stay the night. 
 Next morning at breakfast Mrs. Crosbie, young, 
 pretty and enthusiastic, expatiated on the com- 
 
 145
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 fort of her room, finally exclaiming: "And how, 
 Mr. Ledgard, do you manage to have your sheets 
 so deliciously scented with lavender d'you get 
 it sent out from home every year?" 
 
 "Lavender?" Peter repeated. "I've got no 
 lavender. My people never sent me any, and 
 I've certainly never come across any in India." 
 
 "But I'm convinced everything smelt of laven- 
 der. It made me think of home so. If I hadn't 
 been just going I'd have been too homesick for 
 words. I'm certain of it. Think! You must 
 have got some from somewhere and forgotten 
 it." 
 
 Peter shook his head. "I've never noticed it 
 myself you really must be mistaken. What 
 would I be doing with lavender?" 
 
 "It was there all the same," Mrs. Crosbie con- 
 tinued. "I'm certain of it. You must have got 
 some from somewhere. Do find out I'm sure 
 I'm not wrong. Ask your boy." 
 
 Peter said something to Lalkhan, who explained 
 volubly. Tom Crosbie grinned; he understood 
 even fluent Hindustani. His wife did not. Peter 
 looked a little uncomfortable. Lalkhan salaamed 
 and left the room. 
 
 "Well?" Mrs. Crosbie asked. 
 
 "It seems," Peter said slowly, "there is some- 
 thing among the sheets. I've sent Lalkhan to 
 get it." 
 
 Lalkhan returned, bearing a salver, and laid on 
 the salver was one of Jan's lavender bags. He 
 presented it solemnly to his master, who with 
 almost equal solemnity handed it to Mrs. Crosbie. 
 
 146
 
 The State of Peter 
 
 "There!" she said. "Of course I knew I 
 couldn't be mistaken. Now where did you get 
 it?" 
 
 "It was, I suppose, put among the things 
 when poor Mrs. Tancred had the flat. I never 
 noticed, of course it's such an unobtrusive sort 
 of smell . . ." 
 
 "Hadn't she a sister?" Mrs. Crosbie asked, 
 curiously, holding the little sachet against her 
 soft cheek and looking very hard at Peter. 
 
 "She had. It was she who took the children 
 home, you know." 
 
 "Older or younger than Mrs. Tancred?" 
 
 "Older." 
 
 "How much older?" 
 
 "I really don't know," said the mendacious 
 Peter. 
 
 "Was she awfully pretty, too?" 
 
 "Again, I really don't know. I never thought 
 about her looks . . . she had grey hair . . ." 
 
 "Oh!" Mrs. Crosbie exclaimed a deeply dis- 
 appointed "Oh." "Probably much older, then. 
 That explains the lavender bags." 
 
 Silent Thomas Crosbie looked from his wife to 
 Peter with considerable amusement. He realised, 
 if she didn't, that Peter was most successfully 
 putting her off the scent of more than lavender; 
 but men are generally loyal to each other in these 
 matters, and he suddenly took his part in the 
 conversation and changed the subject. 
 
 Among Peter's orders to his butler that morn- 
 ing was one to the effect that nothing the Miss- 
 Sahib had arranged in the bungalow was to be 
 
 147
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 disturbed, and the lavender bag was returned to 
 rejoin its fellows in the cupboard. 
 
 It was four years since Peter had had any 
 leave, and it appeared that the lavender had the 
 same effect upon him as upon Mrs. Crosbie. He 
 felt homesick and applied for leave in May. 
 
 148
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 "THE BEST-LAID SCHEMES" 
 
 pETER had been as good as his word, and 
 *- had found a family returning to India who 
 were glad to take Ayah back to Bombay. And 
 she, though sorry to leave Jan and the children, 
 acquiesced in all arrangements made for her with 
 the philosophic patience of the East. March 
 was a cold month, and she was often rather mis- 
 erable, in spite of her pride in her shoes and 
 stockings and the warm clothes Jan had provided 
 for her. 
 
 Before she left Jan interviewed her new mis- 
 tress and found her kind and sensible, and an 
 old campaigner who had made the voyage in- 
 numerable times. 
 
 It certainly occurred to Jan that Peter had 
 been extraordinarily quick in making this ar- 
 rangement, but she concluded that he had writ- 
 ten on the subject before they left India. She 
 had no idea that he had sent a long and costly 
 cable on the subject. His friend thought him 
 very solicitous for her comfort, but set it down 
 entirely to her own merits and Peter's discrim- 
 inating good sense. 
 
 When the day came Jan took Ayah to her new 
 quarters in a taxi. Of course Ayah wept, and 
 
 149
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Jan felt like weeping herself, as she would like 
 to have kept her on for the summer months. 
 But she knew it wouldn't do; that apart from 
 the question of expense, Hannah could never 
 overcome her prejudices against "that heathen 
 buddy," and that to have explained that poor 
 Ayah was a Roman Catholic would only have 
 made matters worse. Hannah was too valuable 
 in every way to upset her with impunity, and the 
 chance of sending Ayah back to India in such 
 kind custody was too good to lose. 
 
 Meg had deferred the adoption of the musical- 
 comedy costume until such time as she took over 
 Ayah's duties. She in no way interfered, but was 
 helpful in so many unobtrusive ways that Jan, 
 while she still felt guilty in allowing her to stay 
 at all, acknowledged she could never have got 
 through this tune without her. 
 
 Fortunately the day of Ayah's departure was 
 fine, so that while Jan took her to her destination 
 Meg took the children to spend the afternoon at 
 the Zoo. To escort little Fay about London was 
 always rather an ordeal to anyone of a retiring 
 disposition. She was so fearless, so interested in 
 her fellow-creatures, and so ready at all times and 
 in all places to enter into conversation with abso- 
 lute strangers, preferably men, that embarrassing 
 situations were almost inevitable; and her speech, 
 high and clear and carrying in spite of the miss- 
 ing "r" rendered it rarely possible to hope 
 people did not understand what she said. 
 
 They went by the Metropolitan to Baker 
 Street and sat on one of the small seats at right 
 
 150
 
 "The Best-Laid Schemes" 
 
 angles to the windows, and a gentleman wearing 
 a very shiny top-hat sat down opposite to them. 
 
 He looked at little Fay; little Fay looked at 
 him and, smiling her adorable, confident smile, 
 leant forward, remarking: "Sahib, you wear a 
 very high hat." 
 
 Instantly the eyes of all the neighbouring pas- 
 sengers were fixed upon the hat and its owner. 
 His, however, were only for the very small lady 
 that faced him; the small lady in a close white 
 bonnet and bewitching curls that bobbed and 
 fluttered in the swaying of the train. 
 
 He took off the immaculate topper and held it 
 out towards her. "There," he said, "would you 
 like to look at it?" 
 
 Fay carefully rubbed it the wrong way with a 
 tentative woolly-gloved finger. "Plitty, high 
 hat," she cooed. "Can plitty little Fay have it 
 to keep?" 
 
 But the gentleman's admiration did not carry 
 him as far as this. Somewhat hastily he with- 
 drew his hat, smoothed it (it had just been ironed) 
 and placed it on his head again. Then he be- 
 came aware of the smiling faces and concentrated 
 gaze of his neighbours; also, that the attractive 
 round face that had given him so much pleasure 
 had exchanged its captivating smile for a pathetic 
 melancholy that even promised tears. He turned 
 extremely red and escaped at the next station. 
 Whereupon ungrateful little Fay, who had never 
 had the slightest intention of crying, remarked 
 loftily: "Tahsome man dawn." 
 
 When at last they reached the Zoo Meg took 
 151
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 it upon herself to remonstrate with her younger 
 charge. 
 
 "You mustn't ask strangers for things, dear; 
 you really mustn't not in the street or in the 
 train." 
 
 "What for?" asked Fay. She nearly always 
 said, "What for" when she meant "Why"; and 
 it was as hard-worked a phrase as "What nelse?" 
 
 "Because people don't do it, you know." 
 
 "They do I've heard 'em." 
 
 "Well, beggars perhaps, but not nice little 
 girls." 
 
 " Do nasty little girls?" 
 
 " Only nasty little girls would do it, I think." 
 
 Fay pondered this for a minunte, then in a 
 regretfully reflective voice she said sadly: "Vat 
 was a nasty, gleedy sahib in a tlain." 
 
 "Not at all," Meg argued, struggling with her 
 mirth. "How would you have liked it if he'd 
 asked you to give him your bonnet ' to keep ' ? " 
 
 Little Fay hastily put up her hands to her 
 head to be sure her bonnet was in its place, then 
 she inquired with great interest: "What's 'is 
 place, deah Med?" 
 
 "Deah Med" soon found herself followed round 
 by a small crowd of other sight-seers who waited 
 for and greeted little Fay's unceasing comments 
 with joyful appreciation. Such popular publicity 
 was not at all to Meg's taste, and although the 
 afternoon was extremely cold her cheeks never 
 ceased to burn till she got the children safely 
 back to the flat again. Tony was gloomy and 
 taciturn. Nobody took the slightest notice of 
 
 152
 
 "The Best-Laid Schemes" 
 
 him. Weather that seemed to brace his sister to 
 the most energetic gaiety only made him feel 
 torpid and miserable. He was not naughty, 
 merely apathetic, uninterested, and consequently 
 uninteresting. Meg thought he might be home- 
 sick and sad about Ayah, and was very kind and 
 gentle, but her advances met with no response. 
 
 By this time Tony was sure of his aunt, but he 
 had by no means made up his mind about Meg. 
 
 When they got back to Kensington Meg joy- 
 ously handed over the children to Jan while she 
 retired to her room to array herself in her uni- 
 form. She was to "take over" from that mo- 
 ment, and approached her new sphere with high 
 seriousness and an intense desire to be, as she 
 put it, "a wild success." 
 
 For weeks she had been reading the publica- 
 tions of the P. N. E. U. and the "Child-Study 
 Society," to say nothing of Manuals upon "In- 
 fant Hygiene," "The Montessori Method" and 
 "The Formation of Character." Sympathy and 
 Insight, Duty and Discipline, Self-Control and 
 Obedience, Regularity and Concentration of Ef- 
 fort all with the largest capitals were to be 
 her watchwords. And she buttoned on her well- 
 fitting white linen apron (newest and most ap- 
 proved hospital pattern, which she had been 
 obliged to make herself, for she could buy noth- 
 ing small enough) in a spirit of dedication as sin- 
 cere as that imbuing any candidate for Holy Or- 
 ders. Then, almost breathlessly, she put her 
 cap upon her flaming head and surveyed the gen- 
 eral effect in the long glass. 
 
 153
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Yes, it was all very satisfactory. Well-hung, 
 short, green linen frock was it a trifle short? 
 Yet the little feet in the low-heeled shoes were 
 neat as the ankles above them were slim, and one 
 needed a short skirt for "working about." 
 
 Perhaps there was a touch of musical comedy 
 about her appearance, but that was merely be- 
 cause she was so small and the cap, a muslin cap 
 of a Quakerish shape, distinctly becoming. Well, 
 there was no reason why she should want to look 
 hideous. She would not be less capable because 
 she was pleasing to the eye. 
 
 She seized her flannel apron from the bed 
 where she had placed it ready before she went 
 out, and with one last lingering look at herself 
 went swiftly to her new duties. 
 
 Tea passed peacefully enough, though Fay 
 asked embarrassing questions, such as "Why you 
 wear suts a funny hat?" 
 
 "Because I'm an ayah," Meg answered quickly. 
 
 "Ayahs don't wear zose kind of hats." 
 
 "English ayahs do, and I'm going to be your 
 ayah, you know." 
 
 Fay considered Meg for a minute. "No," she 
 said, shaking her head. "No." 
 
 "Have another sponge-finger," Jan suggested 
 diplomatically, handing the dish to her niece, 
 and the danger was averted. 
 
 They played games with the children after tea 
 and all went well till bed-time. Meg had begged 
 Jan to leave them entirely to her, and with con- 
 siderable misgiving she had seen Meg marshal 
 the children to the bathroom and shut the door. 
 
 154
 
 "The Best-Laid Schemes" 
 
 Tony was asked as a favour to go, too this first 
 evening without Ayah, lest little Fay should feel 
 lonely. It was queer, Jan reflected when left 
 alone hi the drawing-room, how she seemed to 
 turn to the taciturn Tony for help where her ob- 
 streperous niece was concerned. Over and over 
 again Tony had intervened and successfully pre- 
 vented a storm. 
 
 Meg turned on the bath and began to un- 
 dress little Fay. She bore this with comparative 
 meekness, but when all her garments had been 
 removed she slipped from Meg's knees and, stand- 
 ing squarely on the floor, announced: 
 
 "I want my own Ayah. Engliss Ayah not 
 wass me. Own Ayah muss come bat." 
 
 "She can't, my darling; she's gone to other 
 little girls, you know we told you many days 
 ago." 
 
 "She muss come bat 'jaldi,'" shouted Fay 
 "jaldi" being Hindustani for "quickly." 
 
 Meg sighed. "I'm afraid she can't do that. 
 Come, my precious, and let me bathe you; you'll 
 get cold standing there." 
 
 With a quick movement Meg seized the plump, 
 round body. She was muscular though so small, 
 and in spite of little Fay's opposition she lifted 
 her into the bath. She felt Tony pull at her 
 skirts and say something, but was too busy to 
 pay attention. 
 
 Little Fay was in the bath sure enough, but to 
 wash her was quite another matter. You may 
 lead a sturdy infant of three to the water in a 
 fixed bath, but no power on earth can wash that 
 
 155
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 infant if it doesn't choose. Fay screamed and 
 struggled and wriggled and kicked, finally slipping 
 right under the water, which frightened her 
 dreadfully; she lost her breath for one second, 
 only to give forth ear-splitting yells the next. 
 She was slippery as a trout and strong as a leap- 
 ing salmon. 
 
 Jan could bear it no longer and came in. Meg 
 had succeeded in lifting the terrified baby out of 
 the bath, and she stood on the square of cork de- 
 fying the "Engliss Ayah," wet from her topmost 
 curl to her pink toes, but wholly unwashed. 
 
 Tony ran to Jan and under all the din con- 
 trived to say: "It's the big bath; she's frightened. 
 Ayah never put her in the big bath." 
 
 Meg had forgotten this. The little tin bath 
 they had brought from India for the voyage 
 stood hi a corner. 
 
 It was filled, while Fay, wrapped in a Turkish 
 towel, sobbed more quietly, ejaculating between 
 the gurgles: "Nasty hat, nasty Engliss Ayah. I 
 want my own deah Ayah ! " 
 
 When the bath was ready poor Meg again ap- 
 proached little Fay, but Fay would have none 
 of her. 
 
 "No," she wailed, "Engliss Ayah in nasty hat 
 not wass me. Tony wass me, deah Tony." 
 
 She held out her arms to her brother, who 
 promptly received her hi his. 
 
 "You'd better let me," he said to the anxious 
 young women. " We'll never get her finished else." 
 
 So it ended hi Tony's being arrayed hi the 
 flannel apron which, tied under his arm-pits, was 
 
 156
 
 He washed his small sister with thoroughness and despatch, 
 pointing out . . . that he " went into all the corners."
 
 "The Best-Laid Schemes" 
 
 not so greatly too long. With his sleeves turned 
 up he washed his small sister with thoroughness 
 and despatch, pointing out somewhat proudly that 
 he "went into all the corners." 
 
 The washing-glove was very large on Tony's 
 little hand, and he used a tremendous lot of soap 
 but Fay became all smiles and amiability dur- 
 ing the process. Meg and Jan had tears in their 
 eyes as they watched the quaint spectacle. There 
 was something poignantly pathetic hi the cling- 
 ing together of these two small wayfarers in a 
 strange country, so far from all they had known 
 and shared in their short experience. 
 
 Meg's "nasty hat" was rakishly askew upon 
 her red curls, for Fay had frequently grabbed at 
 it in her rage, and the beautiful green linen gown 
 was sopping wet. 
 
 "Engliss Ayah dying!" Fay remarked surpris- 
 edly. "What for?" 
 
 "Because you wouldn't let me bathe you," said 
 Meg dismally. Her voice broke. She really was 
 most upset. As it happened, she did the only 
 thing that would have appealed to little Fay. 
 
 "Don't cly, deah Med," she said sweetly. 
 "You sail dly me." 
 
 And Meg, student of so many manuals, hum- 
 bly and gratefully accepted the task. 
 
 It had taken exactly an hour and a quarter to 
 get Fay ready for bed. Indian Ayah used to do 
 it in fifteen minutes. 
 
 Consistently and cheerfully gracious, Fay per- 
 mitted Meg to carry her to her cot and tuck her 
 in. 
 
 157
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Meg lit the night-light and switched off the 
 light, when a melancholy voice began to chant: 
 
 " My Ayah always dave me a choccly." 
 
 Now there was no infant hi London less de- 
 serving of a choccly at that moment than trouble- 
 some little Fay. "Nursery Hygiene" proclaimed 
 the undeniable fact that sweetmeats last thing 
 at night are most injurious. Duty and Discipline 
 and Self-Control should all have pointed out the 
 evil of any indulgence of the sort. Yet Meg, 
 with all her theories quite fresh and new, and 
 with this excellent opportunity of putting them 
 into practice, extracted a choccly from a box on 
 the chest of drawers; and when the voice, "like 
 broken music," announced for the third tune, 
 " My Ayah always dave me a choccly," "So will 
 this Ayah," said Meg, and popped it into the 
 mouth whence the voice issued. 
 
 There was a satisfied smacking and munching 
 for a space, when the voice took up the tale: 
 
 "Once Tony had thlee 
 
 But what it was Tony once had "thlee" of Meg 
 was not to know that night, for naughty little 
 Fay fell fast asleep. 
 
 For a week Tony bathed his sister every night. 
 Neither Jan nor Meg felt equal to facing and 
 going through again the terrors of that first night 
 without Ayah. Little Fay was quite good she 
 permitted Meg to undress her and even to put 
 her in the little bath, but once there she always 
 said firmly, "Tony wass me," and Tony did. 
 
 Then he burned his hand. 
 158
 
 "The Best-Laid Schemes" 
 
 He was never openly and obstreperously dis- 
 obedient like little Fay. On the whole he pre- 
 ferred a quiet life free from contention. But very 
 early in their acquaintance Jan had discovered 
 that what Tony determined upon that he did, 
 and in this he resembled her so strongly that she 
 felt a secret sympathy with him, even when such 
 tenacity of purpose was most inconvenient. 
 
 He liked to find things out for himself, and no 
 amount of warning or prohibition could prevent 
 his investigations. Thus it came about that, 
 carefully guarded as the children were from any 
 contact with the fires, Tony simply didn't be- 
 lieve what was told him of their dangers. 
 
 Fires were new to him. They were so pretty, 
 with their dancing flames, it seemed a pity to 
 shut them in behind those latticed guards Auntie 
 Jan was so fond of. Never did Tony see the 
 fires without those tiresome guards and he wanted 
 to very much. 
 
 One afternoon just before tea, while Meg was 
 changing little Fay's frock, he slipped across to 
 the drawing-room where Auntie Jan was busy 
 writing a letter. Joy ! the guard was off the fire; 
 he could sit on the rug and watch it undisturbed. 
 He made no noise, but knelt down softly in front 
 of it and stretched out his hands to the pleasant 
 warmth. It was the sort of fire Tony liked to 
 watch, red at the heart, with little curling flames 
 that were mirrored in the tiled hearth. 
 
 Jan looked up from her writing and saw him 
 there, saw also that there was no guard, but, as 
 little Fay had not yet come, thought Tony far 
 
 159
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 too sensible to interfere with the fire in any way. 
 She went on with her writing; then when she 
 looked again something in the intentness of his 
 attitude caused her to say: "Be sure you don't 
 get too near the fire, Tony; it hurts badly to be 
 burned." 
 
 "Yes, Auntie Jan," Tony said meekly. 
 
 She wrote a few lines more, looked up, and 
 held her breath. It would have been an easy 
 matter even then to dash across and put on the 
 guard; but in a flash Jan realised that to let Tony 
 burn himself a little at that moment might save 
 a very bad accident later on. There was nothing 
 in his clothes to catch alight. His woollen jer- 
 sey fitted closely. 
 
 Exactly as though he were going to pick a 
 flower, with curved hand outstretched Tony 
 tried to capture and hold one of the dancing 
 flames. He drew his hand back very quickly, 
 and Jan expected a loud outcry, but none came. 
 He sat back on the hearth-rug and rocked his 
 body to and fro, holding the burnt right hand 
 with his left, but he did not utter a sound. 
 
 "It does hurt, doesn't it?" said Jan. 
 
 He started at the quiet voice and turned a lit- 
 tle puckered face towards her. "Yes," he said, 
 with a big sigh; "but I know now." 
 
 "Come with me and I'll put something on it 
 to make it hurt less," said Jan, and crossed to the 
 door. 
 
 "Hadn't we better," he said, rather breath- 
 lessly, "put that thing on for fear of Fay?" 
 
 Jan carefully replaced the "thing" and took 
 160
 
 "The Best-Laid Schemes" 
 
 him to her room, where she bandaged the poor 
 little hand with carron-oil and cotton-wool. The 
 outer edge was scorched from little finger to 
 wrist. She made no remark while she did it, 
 and Tony leaned confidingly against her the 
 while. 
 
 "Is that better?" she asked, when she had fas- 
 tened the final safety-pin in the bandage. There 
 was one big tear on Tony's cheek. 
 
 "It's nice and cool, that stuff. Why does it 
 hurt so, Auntie Jan? It looks so kind and 
 pretty." 
 
 "It is kind and pretty, only we mustn't go too 
 near. Will you be sure and tell Fay how it can 
 hurt?" 
 
 "I'll tell her," he promised, but he didn't seem 
 to have much hope of the news acting as a de- 
 terrent. 
 
 When at bed-time Jan announced that Tony 
 could not possibly bathe Fay because he mustn't 
 get his hand wet or disturb the dressing, she and 
 Meg tremblingly awaited the awful fuss that 
 seemed bound to follow. 
 
 But Fay was always unexpected. "Then Med 
 muss wass me," she remarked calmly. The good 
 custom was established and Meg began to perk 
 up again. 
 
 161
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE WHEELS OF CHANCE 
 
 MEG was out walking with the children in 
 Kensington Gardens, and Hannah was pay- 
 ing the tradesmen's books. It was the only way 
 to make Hannah take the air, to send her, as she 
 put it, "to do the messages." She liked paying 
 the books herself, for she always suspected Jan of 
 not counting the change. 
 
 Jan was alone in the flat and was laying tea 
 for the children in the dining-room when "ting" 
 went the electric bell. She opened the door to 
 find upon the threshold an exceedingly tall young 
 man; a well-set-up, smart young man with square 
 shoulders, who held out his hand to her, saying 
 hi a friendly voice: "You may just happen to 
 remember me, Miss Ross, but probably not. 
 Colonel Walcote's my uncle, and he's living in 
 your house, you know. My name's Middleton 
 ... I hope you remember me, for I've come to 
 ask a favour." 
 
 As he spoke he gave Jan his card, and on it 
 was "Captain Miles Middleton, R. H. A.," and 
 the addresses of two clubs. 
 
 She led him to the little drawing-room, bracing 
 herself the while to be firm in her refusal if the 
 Walcotes wanted the house any longer, good ten- 
 ants though they were. 
 
 162
 
 The Wheels of Chance 
 
 She was hopelessly vague about her guest, but 
 felt she had met him somewhere. She didn't like 
 to confess how slight her recollection was, for he 
 looked so big and brown and friendly it seemed 
 unkind. 
 
 He sat down, smoothed his hat, and then with 
 an engaging smile that showed his excellent teeth, 
 began: "I've come it sounds rather farcical, 
 doesn't it about a dog?" 
 
 "A dog?" Jan repeated vaguely. "What 
 dog?" 
 
 "Well, he's my dog at present, but I want him 
 to be your dog if you'll have him." 
 
 "You want to give me a dog but why? Or 
 do you only want me to keep him a bit for you?" 
 
 "Well, it's like this, Miss Ross; it would be 
 cheek to ask you to keep a young dog, and when 
 you'd had all the trouble of him and got fond of 
 him and you'll get awfully fond of him, if you 
 have him to take him away again. It wouldn't 
 be fair, it really wouldn't ... so ..." 
 
 "Wait a bit," said the cautious Jan. "What 
 sort of a dog is he ... if it is a he .. ." 
 
 "He's a bull-terrier . . ." 
 
 "Oh, but I don't think I'm very fond of bull- 
 terriers . . . aren't they fierce and doesn't one 
 always associate them with public-houses? I 
 couldn't have a fierce dog, you know, because of 
 the two children." 
 
 "They're always nice with children," Captain 
 Middleton said firmly. "And as for the pot- 
 house idea that's quite played out. I suppose 
 it was that picture with the mug and the clay 
 
 163
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 pipe. He'd love the children; he's only a child 
 himself, you know." 
 
 "A puppy! Oh, Captain Middleton, wouldn't 
 he eat all our shoes and things and tear up all the 
 rugs?" 
 
 "I think he's past that, I do really he'll be a 
 year old on Monday. He'll be a splendid watch- 
 dog, and he's not a bit deaf lots of 'em are, you 
 know and he's frightfully well-bred. Just you 
 look at the pedigree ..." and Captain Middle- 
 ton produced from his breast-pocket a folded 
 foolscap document which he handed to Jan. 
 
 She gazed at it with polite interest, though it 
 conveyed but little to her mind. The name 
 "Bloomsbury" seemed to come over and over 
 again. There were many dates and other names, 
 but "Bloomsbury" certainly prevailed, and it 
 was evident that Captain Middleton's dog had 
 a long pedigree; it was all quite clearly set down, 
 and, to Jan, very bewildering. 
 
 "His points are on the back page," Captain 
 Middleton said proudly, "and there isn't a single 
 one a perfect bull-terrier ought to have that 
 William Bloomsbury hasn't got." 
 
 "Is that his name?" 
 
 "Yes, but I call him William, only he is of the 
 famous Bloomsbury strain, you know, and one 
 can't help being a bit proud of it." 
 
 "But," Jan objected, "if he's so well-bred and 
 perfect, he must be valuable so why should you 
 want to give him to me?" 
 
 "I'll explain," said Captain Middleton. "You 
 see, ever since they've been down at Wren's End, 
 
 164
 
 The Wheels of Chance 
 
 my aunt kept him for me. He's been so happy 
 there, Miss Ross, and grown like anything. 
 We're stationed in St. John's Wood just now, 
 you know, and he'd be certain to be stolen if I 
 took him back there. And now my aunt's com- 
 ing to London to a flat in Buckingham Gate. 
 Now London's no life for a dog a young dog, 
 anyway he'd be miserable. I've been down to 
 Wren's End very often for a few days' hunting, 
 and I can see he's happy as a king there, and we 
 may be ordered anywhere any day . . . and I 
 don't want to sell him . . . You see, I know if 
 you take him you'll be good to him . . . and he 
 is such a nice beast." 
 
 "How do you know I'd be good to him? You 
 know nothing about me." 
 
 "Don't I just! Besides, I've seen you, I'm 
 seeing you now this minute ... I don't want to 
 force him on you, only ... a lady living alone 
 in the country ought to have a dog, and if you 
 take William you won't be sorry I can promise 
 you that. He's got the biggest heart, and he's 
 the nicest beast . . . and the most faithful . . ." 
 
 "Are you sure he'll be quite gentle with the 
 children?" 
 
 "He's gentle with everybody, and they're well 
 known to be particularly good with children . . . 
 you ask anyone who knows about dogs. He was 
 given me when he was three weeks old, and I 
 could put him in my pocket." 
 
 Captain Middleton was rather appealing just 
 then, so earnest and big and boyish. His face 
 was broad though lean, the features rather blunt, 
 
 165
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 the eyes set wide apart; clear, trustworthy, light- 
 blue eyes. He looked just what he was a 
 healthy, happy, prosperous young Englishman 
 without a real care in the world. After all, Jan 
 reflected, there was plenty of room at Wren's 
 End, and it was good for the children to grow up 
 with animals. 
 
 "I had thought of an Airedale," she said 
 thoughtfully, "but 
 
 "They're good dogs, but quarrelsome fight 
 all the other dogs round about. Now William 
 isn't a fighter unless he's unbearably provoked, 
 then, of course, he fights to kill." 
 
 "Oh dear!" sighed Jan, "that's an awful pros- 
 pect. Think of the trouble with one's neigh- 
 bours " 
 
 "But I assure you, it doesn't happen once in a 
 blue moon. I've never known him fight yet." 
 
 "I'll tell you what, Captain Middleton; let me 
 keep him for the present, till you know where 
 you're going to be stationed, and then, if you find 
 you can have him, he's there for you to take. I'll 
 do my best for him, but I want you to feel he's 
 still your dog ..." 
 
 "It's simply no end good of you, Miss Ross. 
 I'd like you to have him though . . . May I put 
 it this way? If you don't like him, find him a 
 nuisance or want to get rid of him, you send for 
 me and I'll fetch him away directly. But if you 
 like him, he's your dog. There may I leave it 
 at that?" 
 
 "We'll try to make him happy, but I expect 
 he'll miss you dreadfully. ... I know nothing 
 
 166
 
 The Wheels of Chance 
 
 about bull-terriers; do they need any special 
 treatment?" 
 
 "Oh dear, no. William's as strong as a young 
 calf. Just a bone occasionally and any scraps 
 there are. There's tons of his biscuits down 
 there . . . only two meals a day and no snacks 
 between, and as much exercise as is convenient 
 though, mind you, they're easy dogs in that way 
 they don't need you to be racing about all day 
 like some." 
 
 The present fate of William Bloomsbury with 
 the lengthy and exalted pedigree being settled, 
 Jan asked politely for her tenants, Colonel and 
 Mrs. Walcote, heard that it had been an excellent 
 and open season, and enjoyed her guest's real 
 enthusiasm about Wren's End. 
 
 After a few minutes of general conversation he 
 got up to go. She saw him out and rang up the 
 lift, but no lift came. She rang again and again. 
 Nothing happened. Evidently something had 
 gone wrong, and she saw people walking upstairs 
 to the flats below. Just as she was explaining the 
 mishap to her guest, the telephone bell sounded 
 loudly and persistently. 
 
 "Oh dear!" she cried. "Would you mind 
 very much stopping a young lady with two little 
 children, if you meet them at the bottom of the 
 stairs, and tell her she is on no account to carry 
 up little Fay. It's my friend, Miss Morton; she's 
 out with them, and she's not at all strong; tell her 
 to wait for me. I'll come the minute I've an- 
 swered this wretched 'phone." 
 
 "Don't you worry, Miss Ross, I'll stop 'em 
 167
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 and carry up the kiddies myself," Captain Mid- 
 dleton called as he started to run down, and Jan 
 went back to answer the telephone. 
 
 He ran fast, for Jan's voice had been anxious 
 and distressed. Five long flights did he descend, 
 and at the bottom he met Meg and the children 
 just arrived to hear the melancholy news from 
 the hall porter. 
 
 Meg always wheeled little Fay to and from 
 the gardens in the funny little folding "pram" 
 they had brought from India. The plump baby 
 was a tight fit, but the queer little carriage was 
 light and easily managed. The big policeman 
 outside the gate often held up the traffic to let 
 Meg and her charges get across the road safely, 
 and she would sail serenely through the avenue 
 of fiercely panting monsters with Tony holding 
 on to her coat, while little Fay waved delightedly 
 to the drivers. That afternoon she was very 
 tired, for it had started to rain, cold, gusty March 
 rain. She had hurried home in dread lest Tony 
 should take cold. It seemed the last straw, 
 somehow, that the lift should have gone wrong. 
 She left the pram with the porter and was just 
 bracing herself to carry heavy little Fay when 
 this very tall young man came dashing down the 
 staircase, saw them and raised his hat. "Miss 
 Morton? Miss Ross has just entrusted me with 
 a message . . . that I'm to carry her niece up- 
 stairs," and he took little Fay out of Meg's arms. 
 
 Meg looked up at him. She had to look up a 
 long way and he looked down into a very small 
 white face. 
 
 168
 
 The Wheels of Chance 
 
 The buffeting wind that had given little Fay 
 the loveliest colour, and Tony a very pink nose, 
 only left Meg pallid with fatigue; but she smiled 
 at Captain Middleton, and it was a smile of such 
 radiant happiness as wholly transfigured her face. 
 It came from the exquisite knowledge that Jan 
 had thought of her, had known she would be 
 tired. 
 
 To be loved, to be remembered, to be taken 
 care of was to Meg the most wonderful thing in 
 the world. It went to her head like wine. 
 
 Therefore did she smile at Captain Middleton 
 in this distracting fashion. It started trem- 
 blingly at the corners of her mouth, and then 
 quite suddenly her wan little face became dim- 
 pled and beseeching and triumphant all at once. 
 
 It had no connection whatsoever with Captain 
 Middleton, but how was he to know that ? 
 
 It fairly bowled him, middle stump, first ball. 
 
 No one had ever smiled at him like that be- 
 fore. It turned him hot and cold, and gave him 
 a lump in his throat with the sheer heartrending 
 pathos of it. And he felt an insane desire to lie 
 down and ask this tiny, tired girl to walk upon 
 him if it would give her the smallest satisfaction. 
 
 The whole thing passed in a flash, but for him 
 it was one of those illuminating beams that dis- 
 cover^ a hitherto undreamed-of panorama. 
 
 He caught up little Fay, who made no objec- 
 tion, and ran up all five flights about as fast as 
 he had run down. Jan was just coming out of 
 the flat. 
 
 "Here's one!" he cried breathlessly, depositing 
 169
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 little Fay. "And now I'll go down and give the 
 little chap a ride as well." 
 
 He met them half-way up. "Now it's your 
 turn," he said to Tony. "Would you like to 
 come on my back?" 
 
 Tony, though taciturn, was not unobservant. 
 "I think," he said solemnly, "Meg's more tired 
 nor me. P'raps you'd better take her." 
 
 Meg laughed, and what the rain and wind 
 could not do, Tony managed. Her cheeks grew 
 rosy. 
 
 "I'm afraid I should be rather heavy, Tony 
 dear, but it's kind of you to think of it." 
 
 She looked up at Captain Middleton and smiled 
 again. What a kind world it was! And really 
 that tall young man was rather a pleasant per- 
 son. So it fell out that Tony was carried the 
 rest of the way, and he had a longer ride than 
 little Fay; for his steed mounted the staircase 
 soberly, keeping pace with Meg; they even paused 
 to take breath on the landings. And it came 
 about that Captain Middleton went back into 
 the flat with the children, showing no disposition 
 to go away, and Jan could hardly do less than 
 ask him to share the tea she had laid in the 
 dining-room. 
 
 There he got a shock, for Meg came to tea in 
 her cap and apron. 
 
 Out of doors she wore a long, warm coat that 
 entirely covered the green linen frock, and a lit- 
 tle round fur hat. This last was a concession to 
 Jan, who hated the extinguisher. So Meg looked 
 very much like any other girl. A little younger, 
 
 170
 
 The Wheels of Chance 
 
 perhaps, than any young woman of twenty-five 
 has any business to look, but pretty in her queer, 
 compelling way. 
 
 That she looked even prettier in her uniform 
 Captain Middleton would have been the first to 
 allow; but he hated it nevertheless. There 
 seemed to him something incongruous and wrong 
 for a girl with a smile like that to be anybody's 
 nursemaid. 
 
 To be sure, Miss Ross was a brick, and this 
 queer little servant of hers called her by her 
 Christian name and contradicted her flatly twice 
 in the course of tea. Miss Morton certainly did 
 not seem to be downtrodden . . . but she wore 
 a cap and an apron a very becoming Quakerish 
 cap . . . without any strings . . . and "it's a 
 
 d d shame," was the outcome of all Captain 
 
 Middleton's reflections. 
 
 " Would the man never go?" Jan wondered, 
 when after a prolonged and hilarious tea he fol- 
 lowed the enraptured children back to the draw- 
 ing-room and did tricks with the fire-irons. 
 
 Meg had departed in order to get things ready 
 for the night, and he hung on in the hope that 
 she would return. Vain hope; there was no sign 
 of her. 
 
 He told the children all about William Blooms- 
 bury and exacted promises that they would love 
 him very much. He discussed, with many in- 
 terruptions from Fay, who wanted all his atten- 
 tion, the entire countryside round about Wren's 
 End; and, at last, as there seemed really no 
 chance of that extraordinary girl's return, he 
 
 171
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 heaved his great length out of his chair and bade 
 his hostess a reluctant farewell several times over. 
 
 In the passage he caught sight of Meg going 
 from one room to another with her arms full of 
 little garments. 
 
 "Ah," he cried, striding towards her. "Good 
 night, Miss Morton. I hope we shall meet again 
 soon," and he held out his hand. 
 
 Meg ignored the hand, her own arms were so 
 full of clothes: "I'm afraid that's not likely," she 
 said, with unfeeling cheerfulness. "We all go 
 down to the country on Monday." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know. Jolly part of the world it 
 is, too. I expect I shall be thereabouts a good 
 deal this summer, my relations positively swarm 
 in that county." 
 
 "Good-bye," said Meg, and turned to go. Jan 
 stood at the end of the passage, holding the door 
 open. 
 
 "I say, Miss Morton, you'll try and like my 
 William, won't you?" 
 
 "I like all sensible animals," was Meg's re- 
 sponse, and she vanished into a bedroom. 
 
 172
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 PERPLEXITIES 
 
 P\ON'T you think it is very extraordinary 
 
 -*--' that I have never had one line from Hugo 
 since the letter I got at Aden?" asked Jan. 
 
 It was Friday evening, the Indian mail was in, 
 and there was a letter from Peter the fourth 
 since her return. 
 
 "But you've heard of him from Mr. Ledgard," 
 Meg pointed out. 
 
 "Only that he had gone to Karachi from Bom- 
 bay just before Fay died surely he would see 
 papers there. It seems so heartless never to 
 have written me a line I can't believe it, some- 
 how, even of Hugo he must be ill or something." 
 
 "Perhaps he was ashamed to write. Perhaps 
 he felt you would simply loathe him for being 
 the cause of it all." 
 
 "I did, I do," Jan exclaimed; "but all the same 
 he is the children's father, and he was her hus- 
 band I don't want anything very bad to hap- 
 pen to him." 
 
 "It would simplify things very much," Meg 
 said dreamily. 
 
 Jan held up her hand as if to ward off a blow. 
 
 "Don't, Meg; sometimes I find myself wishing 
 something of the kind, and I know it's wrong and 
 
 173
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 horrible. I want as far as I can to keep in the 
 right with regard to Hugo, to give him no griev- 
 ance against me. I've written to that bank 
 where he left the money, and asked them to 
 forward the letters if he has left any address. 
 I've told him exactly where we are and what we 
 propose to do. Beyond the bare facts of Fay's 
 death I told him all about her illness as dis- 
 passionately as I could I've never reproached 
 him or said anything cruel. You see, the man is 
 down and out; though Mr. Ledgard always de- 
 clared he had any amount of mysterious wires to 
 pull. Yet, I can't help wondering whether he is 
 ill somewhere, with no money and no friends, in 
 some dreadful native quarter." 
 
 "What about the money in the bank, then? 
 Did you use it?" 
 
 Jan blushed. "No, I couldn't bear to touch 
 his money . . . Mr. Ledgard said it was idi- 
 otic . . ." 
 
 "So it was; it was Fay's money, not his. For 
 all your good sense, Jan, sometimes you're senti- 
 mental as a schoolgirl." 
 
 "I daresay it was stupid, and I didn't dare to 
 tell Mr. Ledgard I'd left it," Jan said humbly; 
 "but I felt that perhaps that money might help 
 him if things got very desperate; I left it in his 
 name and a letter telling him I had done so ... 
 I didn't give him any money . . ." 
 
 "It was precisely the same thing." 
 
 "And he may never have got the letter." 
 
 "I hope he hasn't." 
 
 "Oh, Meg, I do so hate uncertainty. I'd 
 174
 
 Perplexities 
 
 rather know the worst. I always have the fore- 
 boding that he will suddenly turn up at Wren's 
 End and threaten to take the children away . . . 
 and get money out of me that way . . . and 
 there's none to spare ..." 
 
 "Jan, you've got into a thoroughly nervous, 
 pessimistic state about Hugo. Why in the world 
 should he want the children? They'd be terribly 
 in his way, and wherever he put them he'd have 
 to pay something. You know very well his 
 people wouldn't keep them for nothing, even if 
 he were fool enough (for the sake of blackmailing 
 you) to threaten to place them there. His sisters 
 wouldn't not for nothing. What did Fay say 
 about his sisters? I remember one came to the 
 wedding, but she has left no impression on my 
 mind. He has two, hasn't he?" 
 
 "Yes, but only one came, the Blackpool one. 
 But Fay met both of them, for she spent a week- 
 end with each, with Hugo, after she was married." 
 
 "Well, and what did she say?" 
 
 Jan laughed and sighed: "She said you re- 
 member how Fay could say the severest things 
 in the softest, gentlest voice that 'for social 
 purposes they were impossible, but they were 
 doubtless excellent and worthy of all esteem and 
 that they were exactly suited to the milieu in 
 which they lived." ; 
 
 "And where do they live?" 
 
 "One lives at Blackpool she's married to ... 
 I forget exactly what he is but it's something to 
 do with letting houses. They're quite well off 
 and alt her towels had crochet lace at the ends. 
 
 175
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Fay was much impressed by this, as it scratched 
 her nose. They also gave you 'doylies' at after- 
 noon tea and no servant ever came into the room 
 without knocking." 
 
 "Any children?" 
 
 "Yes, three." 
 
 "And the other sister?" 
 
 "She lives at Poulton-le-Fylde, and her hus- 
 band had to do with a newspaper syndicate. 
 Quite amusing he was, Fay says, but very shaky 
 as to the letter <H." ] 
 
 "Would they like the children?" 
 
 "They might, for they've none of their own, 
 but they certainly wouldn't take them unless 
 they were paid for, as they were not well off. 
 They were rather down on the Blackpool sister, 
 Fay said, for extravagance and general swank." 
 
 "What about the grandparents?" 
 
 "In Guernsey? They're quite nice old peo- 
 ple, I believe, but curiously of course I'm quot- 
 ing Fay comatose and uninterested in things, 
 'behindhand with the world,' she said. They 
 thought Hugo very wonderful, and seemed rather 
 afraid of him. What he has told them lately I 
 don't know. He wrote very seldom, they said; 
 but I've written to them, saying I've got the 
 children and where we shall be. If they express 
 a wish to see the children I'll ask them to Wren's 
 End. If, as would be quite reasonable, they say 
 it's too far to come they're old people, you 
 know I suppose one of us would need to take 
 them over to Guernsey for a visit. I do so want 
 to do the right thing all round, and then they 
 
 176
 
 Perplexities 
 
 can't say I've kept the children away from their 
 father's relations." 
 
 "Scotch people always think such a lot about 
 relations," Meg grumbled. "I should leave them 
 to stew in their own juice. Why should you 
 bother about them if he doesn't?" 
 
 "They're all quite respectable, decent folk, you 
 know, though they mayn't be our kind. The 
 father, I fancy, failed in business after he came 
 back from India. Fay said he was very meek 
 and depressed always. I think she was glad none 
 of them came to the wedding except the Black- 
 pool sister, for she didn't want Daddie to see 
 them. He thought the Blackpool sister dreadful 
 (he told me afterwards that she 'exacerbated his 
 mind and offended his eye'), but he was charm- 
 ing to her and never said a word to Fay." 
 
 "I don't see much sign of Hugo and his people 
 in the children." 
 
 "We can't tell, they're so little. One thing 
 does comfort me, they show no disposition to tell 
 lies; but that, I think, is because they have never 
 been frightened. You see, everyone bowed down 
 before them; and whatever Indian servants may 
 be in other respects, they seem to me extraor- 
 dinarily kind and patient with children." 
 
 "Jan, what are your views about the bringing 
 up of children? . . . You've never said . . . and 
 I should like to know. You see, we're both"- 
 here Meg sighed deeply and looked portentously 
 grave "in a position of awful responsibility." 
 
 They were sitting on each side of the hearth, 
 with their toes on the fender. Meg had been 
 
 177
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 sewing at an overall for little Fay, but at that 
 moment she laid it on her knee and ran her hands 
 through her cropped hair, then about two inches 
 long all over her head, so that it stood on end 
 in broken spirals and feathery curls above her 
 bright eyes. In the evening the uniform was 
 discarded "by request." 
 
 Jan looked across at her and laughed. 
 
 So funny and so earnest; so small, and yet so 
 great with purpose. 
 
 " I don't think I've any views. R. L. S. summed 
 up the whole duty of children ages ago, and it's 
 our business to see that they do it that's all. 
 Don't you remember: 
 
 A child should always say what's true, 
 And speak when he is spoken to, 
 And behave mannerly at table: 
 At least as far as he is able. 
 
 It's no use to expect too much, is it?" 
 
 "If you expect to get the second injunction 
 carried out hi the case of your niece you're a most 
 optimistic person. For three weeks now I've 
 been perambulating Kensington Gardens with 
 those children, and I have never in the whole 
 course of my life entered into conversation with 
 so many strangers, and it's always she who be- 
 gins it. Then complications arise and I have to 
 intervene. I don't mind policemen and park- 
 keepers and roadmen, but I rather draw the line 
 at idly benevolent old gentlemen who join our 
 party and seem to spend the whole morning with 
 us . . ." 
 
 "But, Meg, that never happens when I'm with 
 178
 
 Perplexities 
 
 you. I confess I've left you to it this last 
 week . . ." 
 
 "And what am I here for except to be left to 
 it I don't mean that anyone's rude or pushing 
 but Miss Tancred is so friendly, and I'm not 
 dignified and awe-inspiring like you, you great 
 big Jan; and the poor men are encouraged, di- 
 rectly and deliberately encouraged, by your niece. 
 I never knew a child with such a continual flow 
 of conversation." 
 
 "Poor Meg," said Jan, "you won't have much 
 more of it. Little Fay is a handful, I confess; 
 but I always feel it must be a bit hard to be 
 hushed continually and just when one feels par- 
 ticularly bright and sparkling, to have all one's 
 remarks cut short ..." 
 
 "You needn't pity that child. No amount of 
 hushing has any effect; you might just as well 
 hush a blackbird or a thrush. Don't look so 
 worried, Jan. Did Mr. Ledgard say anything 
 about Hugo in that letter to-night?" 
 
 "Only that he was known to have left Karachi 
 in a small steamer going round the coast, but 
 after that nothing more. Mr. Ledgard has a 
 friend in the Police, and even there they've heard 
 nothing lately. I think myself the Indian Gov- 
 ernment wants to lose sight of Hugo. He's in- 
 convenient and disgraceful, and they'd like him 
 blotted out as soon as possible." 
 
 "What else does Mr. Ledgard say? He seems 
 to write good long letters." 
 
 "He is coming home at the end of April for 
 six months." 
 
 179
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "Oh ... then we shall see him, I suppose?" 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 Meg looked keenly at Jan, who was staring 
 into the fire, her eyes soft and dreamy; and al- 
 most as if she was unconsciously thinking aloud, 
 she said: "I do hope, if Hugo chooses to turn up, 
 he'll wait till Mr. Ledgard is back in England." 
 
 "You think he could manage him?" 
 
 "I know he could." 
 
 "Then let us pray for his return," said Meg. 
 
 The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven. 
 
 "Bed-time," said Meg, "but I must have just 
 one cigarette first. That's what's so lovely 
 about being with you, Jan you don't mind. Of 
 course I'd never do it before the children." 
 
 "You wouldn't shock them if you did. Fay 
 smoked constantly." 
 
 Meg lit her cigarette and clearly showed her 
 real enjoyment. She had taken to it first when 
 she was about fifteen, as she found it helped her 
 to feel less hungry. Now it had become as much 
 a necessity to her as to many men, and the long 
 abstinence of term-tune had always been a pen- 
 ance. 
 
 She made some good rings, and, leaning for- 
 ward to look through them at Jan, said: "By the 
 way, I must just tell you that for the last three 
 afternoons we've met that Captain Middleton in 
 the Gardens." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And he talks everlastingly about his dog 
 that William Bloomsbury creature. I know all 
 the points of a bull-terrier now 'Well-set head 
 
 180
 
 Perplexities 
 
 gradually tapering to muzzle, which is very pow- 
 erful and well-filled up in front of the eyes. Nose 
 large and black. Teeth dead-level and big' . . . 
 oh ! and reams more, every bit of him accurately 
 described." 
 
 "I'm a little afraid of those teeth so 'dead- 
 level and big' I foresee trouble." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Meg easily. "He's evidently a 
 most affectionate brute. That young man puz- 
 zles me. He's manifestly devoted to the dog, 
 but he's so sure he'd be stolen he'd rather have 
 him away from him down at Wren's End than 
 here with him, to run that risk." 
 
 "Surely," said Jan, "Kensington Gardens are 
 some distance from St. John's Wood." 
 
 "So one would think, but the rich and idle take 
 taxis, and he seems to think he can in some way 
 insure the welfare of his dog through the children 
 and me." 
 
 "And what about the old gentlemen? Do 
 they join the party as well?" 
 
 "Oh, dear no; no old gentlemen would dare to 
 come within miles of us with that young man hi 
 charge of little Fay. He's like your Mr. Ledgard 
 very protective." 
 
 "I like him for being anxious about his dog, 
 but I'm not quite so sure that I approve of the 
 means he takes to insure its happiness." 
 
 "I didn't encourage him in the least, I assure 
 you. I pointed out that he most certainly ought 
 not to be walking about with a nurse and two 
 children. That the children without the nurse 
 would be all right, but that my being there 
 
 181
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 made the whole thing highly inexpedient, and 
 infra dig." 
 
 "Meg! . . . you didn't!" 
 
 "I did, indeed. There was no use mincing 
 matters." 
 
 "And what did he say?" 
 
 "He said, 'Oh, that's all bindles' whatever 
 that may mean." 
 
 "You mustn't go to the Gardens alone any 
 more. I'll come with you to-morrow, or, better 
 still, we'll all go to Kew if it's fine." 
 
 "I should be glad, though I grudge the fares; 
 but you needn't come. I know how busy you 
 are, with Hannah away and so much to see to 
 and what earthly use am I if I can't look after 
 the children without you?" 
 
 "You do look after the children without me 
 for hours and hours on end. I could never trust 
 anyone else as I do you." 
 
 "I am getting to manage them," Meg said 
 proudly; "but just to-day I must tell you it 
 was rather horrid we came face to face with the 
 Trents in the Baby's Walk. Mrs. Trent and 
 Lotty, the second girl, the big, handsome one 
 and he evidently knows them ..." 
 
 "Who evidently knows them?" 
 
 "Captain Middleton, silly! (I told you he was 
 with us, talking about his everlasting dog) and 
 they greeted him with effusion, so he had to stop. 
 But you can imagine how they glared at me. Of 
 course I walked on with Tony, but little Fay 
 had his hand I was wheeling the go-cart thing 
 and she stuck firmly to him, and I heard her in- 
 
 182
 
 Perplexities 
 
 terrupting the conversation all the time. He 
 followed us directly, I'll say that for him, but it 
 was a bad moment . . . You see, they had a 
 right to glare . . ." 
 
 "They had nothing of the kind. I wish I got 
 the chance of glaring at them. Daddie saw Mrs. 
 Trent; he explained everything, and she said she 
 quite understood." 
 
 "She would, to him, he was so nice always; but 
 you see, Jan, I know what she believes and what 
 she has said, and what she will probably say to 
 Captain Middleton if she gets the chance." 
 
 Meg's voice broke. "Of course I don't 
 care 
 
 She held her tousled head very high and stuck 
 out her sharp little chin. 
 
 "My dear," said Jan, "what with my gregari- 
 ous niece and my too-attractive nurse, I think 
 it's a good thing we're all going down to Wren's 
 End, where the garden-walls are high and the 
 garden fairly large. Besides all that, there will 
 be that dog with the teeth 'dead-level and big." 1 
 
 "Remember," said Meg. "He treated me like 
 a princess always." 
 
 183
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 WREN'S END 
 
 TT stands just beyond the village of Amber 
 -- Guiting, on the side furthest from the station, 
 which is a mile from the village. 
 
 "C. C. S. 1819" is carved above the front door, 
 but the house was built a good fifty years pre- 
 vious to that date. 
 
 One Charles Considine Smith, who had been a 
 shipper of sherry in Billiter Street, in the City of 
 London, bought it in that year from a Quaker 
 called Solomon Page, who planted the yew hedge 
 that surrounds the smooth green lawn seen from 
 the windows of the morning-room. There was a 
 curious clause attached to the title-deeds, which 
 stipulated that no cats should be kept by the 
 owner of Wren's End, lest they should interfere 
 with the golden-crested wrens that built in the 
 said yew hedge, or the brown wrens building at 
 the foot of the hedges in the orchard. Appended 
 to this injunction were the following verses: 
 
 If aught disturb the wrens that build, 
 If ever little wren be killed 
 By dweller in Wren's End 
 
 Misfortunes whence he shall not know 
 Shall fall on him like noiseless snow, 
 And all his steps attend. 
 184
 
 Wren's End 
 
 Peace be upon this house; and all 
 That dwell therein good luck befall, 
 That do the wrens befriend. 
 
 Charles Considine Smith faithfully kept to his 
 agreement regarding the protection of the wrens, 
 and much later wrote a series of articles upon 
 their habits, which appeared in the North Cots- 
 wold Herald. He seems to have been on friendly 
 terms with Solomon Page, who, having inherited 
 a larger property in the next county, removed 
 thence when he sold Wren's End. 
 
 In 1824 Smith married Tranquil Page, daugh- 
 ter of Solomon. She was then thirty-seven years 
 old, and, according to one of her husband's dia- 
 ries, "a staid person like myself." She was 
 twenty years younger than her husband and 
 bore him one child, a daughter also named Tran- 
 quil. 
 
 She, however, appears to have been less staid 
 than her parents, for she ran away before she 
 was twenty with a Scottish advocate called James 
 Ross. 
 
 The Smiths evidently forgave the wilful Tran- 
 quil, for, on the death of Charles, she and her 
 husband left Scotland and settled with her mother 
 at Wren's End. She had two children, Janet, the 
 great-aunt who left Jan Wren's End, and James, 
 Jan's grandfather, who was sent to Edinburgh for 
 his education, and afterwards became a Writer to 
 the Signet. He married and settled in Edinburgh, 
 preferring Scotland to England, and it was with 
 his knowledge and consent that Wren's End was 
 left to his sister Janet. 
 
 185
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Janet never married. She was energetic, pru- 
 dent, and masterful, having an excellent head 
 for business. She was kind to her nephews and 
 nieces in a domineering sort of way, and had 
 always a soft place in her heart for Anthony, 
 though she regarded him as more or less of a 
 scatter-brain. When she was nearly eighty she 
 commanded his little girls to visit her. Jan was 
 then fourteen and Fay eleven. She liked them 
 because they had good manners and were neither 
 of them in the least afraid of her. And at her 
 death, six years later, she left Wren's End to 
 Jan absolutely as it stood; but she left her 
 money to Anthony's elder brother, who had a 
 large family and was not particularly well off. 
 
 That year was a good artistic year for Anthony, 
 and he spent over five hundred pounds in as he 
 put it "making Jan's house habitable." 
 
 This proved not a bad investment, for they 
 had let it every winter since to Colonel Walcote 
 for the hunting season, as three packs of hounds 
 met within easy reach of it; and although the 
 stabling accommodation at Wren's End was but 
 small, plenty of loose boxes were always obtain- 
 able from Farmer Burgess quite near. 
 
 Amber Guiting is a big village, almost a little 
 town. It possesses an imposing main street 
 wherein are several shops, among them a station- 
 er's with a lending library in connection with 
 Mudie's; a really beautiful old inn with a court- 
 yard; and grave-looking, dignified houses occu- 
 pied by the doctor, a solicitor, and several other 
 persons of acknowledged gentility. 
 
 186
 
 Wren's End 
 
 There were many "nice places" round about, 
 and altogether the inhabitants of Amber Guiting 
 prided themselves, with some reason, on the 
 social and aesthetic advantages of their neigh- 
 bourhood. Moreover, it is not quite three hours 
 from Paddington. You catch the express from 
 the junction. 
 
 Notwithstanding all these agreeable circum- 
 stances, William Bloomsbury was very lonely and 
 miserable. 
 
 All the friends he knew and loved had gone, 
 leaving him in the somewhat stepmotherly charge 
 of a caretaker from the village, who was supposed 
 to be getting the house ready for its owner. To 
 join her came Hannah having left her young 
 ladies with an "orra-buddy" in the flat. And 
 after Hannah came the caretaker-lady did not 
 stop long, for their ideas on the subject of cleanli- 
 ness were diametrically opposed. Hannah was 
 faithful and punctual as regarded William's meals; 
 but though his body was more comfortable than 
 during the caretaker's reign, his heart was empty 
 and hungry, and he longed ardently for social in- 
 tercourse and an occasional friendly pat. 
 
 Presently in Hannah's train came Anne Chitt, 
 a meek young assistant from the village, who 
 did occasionally gratify William's longing for a 
 little attention; but so soon as she began to pat 
 him and say he was a good dog, she was called 
 away by Hannah to sweep or dust or wash some- 
 thing. In William's opinion the whole house 
 was a howling wilderness where pails of water 
 easily upset, and brooms that fell upon the un- 
 
 187
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 suspecting with resounding blows lay ambushed 
 in unexpected places. 
 
 Men and dogs alike abhor "spring-cleaning," 
 and William's heart died within him. 
 
 There came a day, however, when things were 
 calmer. The echoing, draughty house grew still 
 and warm, and a fire was lit in the hall. William 
 lay in front of it unmolested; but he felt dejected 
 and lonely, and laid his head down on his crossed 
 paws in patient melancholy. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, there came a sound of 
 wheels in the drive. Hannah and Anne Chitt, 
 decorous in black dresses and clean aprons, came 
 into the hall and opened the front door, and in 
 three minutes William knew that happier times 
 were in store for him. The "station-fly" stopped 
 at the door, and regardless of Hannah's reprov- 
 ing voice he rushed out to welcome the strangers. 
 Two children, nice children, who appeared as 
 glad to see him as he was to see them, who wished 
 him many happy returns of his birthday Wil- 
 liam had forgotten it was his birthday and were 
 as lavish with pats and what little Fay called 
 "stlokes" as Hannah had been niggardly. There 
 were also two young ladies, who addressed him 
 kindly and seemed pleasantly aware of his exis- 
 tence, and William liked young ladies, for the 
 three Miss Walcotes had thoroughly spoiled him. 
 But he decided to attach himself most firmly to 
 the children and the very small young lady. 
 Perhaps they would stay. In his short experi- 
 ence grown people had a cruel way of disappear- 
 ing There was that tall young man . . . Wil- 
 
 188
 
 William rushed out to welcome the strangers. Two . . . 
 nice children.
 
 Wren's End 
 
 liam hardly dared let himself think about that 
 tall young man who had allowed him to lie upon 
 his bed and was so kind and jolly. " Master" 
 William had called him. Ah, where was he? 
 Perhaps he would come back some day. In the 
 meantime here were plenty of people to love. 
 William cheered up. 
 
 He wished to ingratiate himself, and proceeded 
 to show off his one accomplishment. With infi- 
 nite difficulty and patience the Miss Walcotes 
 had taught him to "give a paw"; so now, on this 
 first evening, William followed the children about 
 solemnly offering one paw and then the other; 
 a performance which was greeted with acclama- 
 tion. 
 
 When the children went to the bathroom he 
 somehow got shut outside. So he lay down and 
 breathed heavily through the bottom of the door 
 and varied this by thin, high-pitched yelps 
 which were really squeals, and very extraordinary 
 as proceeding from such a large and heavy dog. 
 
 "William wants to come in," Tony said. He 
 still always accompanied his sister to the bath. 
 
 Meg was seized with an inspiration. "I know 
 why," she exclaimed. "He expects to see little 
 Fay in the big bath." 
 
 Fay looked from Meg to her brother and from 
 her brother to Meg. 
 
 Another dismal squeal from under the door. 
 
 "Does he tluly espect it?" she asked anxiously. 
 
 "I think so," Meg said gravely, "and we can't 
 let him in if you're going to be washed in the 
 little bath; he'd be so disappointed." 
 
 189
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 The little bath stood ready on its stand. Fay 
 turned her back upon it and went and looked 
 over the edge of the big bath. It was a very big 
 bath, white and beautiful, with innumerable sil- 
 vered handles that produced sprays and showers 
 and waves and all sorts of wonders. An extrava- 
 gance of Anthony's. 
 
 "Will William come in, too?" she asked. 
 
 "No; he'd make such a mess; but he'd love 
 to see you. We'll all bathe William some other 
 time." 
 
 More squeals from outside, varied by dolorous 
 snores. 
 
 "Let him in," said little Fay. "I'll show him 
 me." 
 
 Quick as thought Meg lifted her in, opened the 
 door to the delighted William, who promptly 
 stood on his hind legs, with his front paws on the 
 bath, and looked over the edge at little Fay. 
 
 "See me swim," she exclaimed proudly, sitting 
 down in the water, while William, with his tongue 
 hanging out and a fond smile of admiration on 
 his foolish countenance, tried to lick the plump 
 pink shoulders presented to his view. "This is 
 a muts nicer baff than the nasty little one. I 
 can't think what you bringed it for, deah Med." 
 
 "Deah Med" and Tony nodded gaily to one 
 another. 
 
 Hannah had made William sleep in the scul- 
 lery, which he detested. She put his basket 
 there and his blanket, and he was warm enough, 
 but creature comforts matter little to the right 
 kind of dog. It's human fellowship he craves. 
 
 190
 
 Wren's End 
 
 That night she came to fetch him at bed-time, 
 and he refused point-blank to go. He put his 
 head on Meg's knee and gazed at her with be- 
 seeching eyes that said as plainly as possible: 
 "Don't banish me where you go I go don't 
 break my heart and send me away into the 
 cold." 
 
 Perhaps the cigarette smoke that hung about 
 Meg gave him confidence. His master smelt like 
 that. And William went to bed with his master. 
 
 "D'you think he might sleep in the dressing- 
 room?" Meg asked. "I know how young dogs 
 hate to be alone at night. Put his basket there, 
 Hannah I'll let him out and see to him, and you 
 could get him first thing in the morning." 
 
 Hannah gave a sniff of disapproval, but she 
 was always very careful to do whatever Meg 
 asked her at once and ungrudgingly. It was 
 partly an expression of her extreme disapproval of 
 the uniform. But Meg thought it was prompted 
 entirely by Hannah's fine feeling, and loved her 
 dearly in consequence. 
 
 Nearly all the bedrooms at Wren's End had 
 dressing-rooms. Tony slept in Jan's, with the 
 door between left open. Fay's little cot was 
 drawn up close to Meg's bed. William and his 
 basket occupied the dressing-room, and here, also, 
 the door was left open. 
 
 While Meg undressed, William was quite still 
 and quiet, but when she knelt down to say her 
 prayers he was overcome with curiosity, and, get- 
 ting out of his basket, lurched over to her to see 
 what she was abqut. Could she be crying that 
 
 191
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 she covered her face? William couldn't bear 
 people to cry. 
 
 He thrust his head under her elbow. She put 
 her arm round his neck and he sat perfectly still. 
 
 "Pray for your master, William," Meg whis- 
 pered. 
 
 ******** 
 
 "I like to look at it," said Tony. 
 
 "Oh, London may be very gay, but it's nothing 
 to the countryside," sang Meg. 
 
 "What nelse?" inquired little Fay, who could 
 never be content with a mere snatch of song. 
 
 "Oh, there's heaps and heaps of nelse," Jan 
 answered. "Come along, chicks, we'll go and 
 see everything. This is home, you know, where 
 dear Mummy wanted you to be." 
 
 It was their first day at Wren's End, and the 
 weather was kind. They were all four in the 
 drive, looking back at the comfortable stone- 
 fronted Georgian house. The sun was shining, a 
 cheerful April sun that had little warmth in it 
 but much tender light; and this showed how all 
 around the hedges were getting green ; that buds 
 were bursting from brown twigs, as if the kind 
 spring had covered the bare trees with a thin 
 green veil; and that all sorts of green spears were 
 thrusting up in the garden beds. 
 
 Down the drive they all four ran, accompanied 
 by a joyfully galumphing William, who was in 
 such good spirits that he occasionally gave vent 
 to a solemn deep-chested bark. 
 
 When they came to the squat grey lodge, there 
 was Mrs. Earley standing in her doorway to wel- 
 
 192
 
 Wren's End 
 
 come them. Mrs. Earley was Barley's mother, 
 and Earley was gardener and general factotum at 
 Wren's End. Mrs. Earley looked after the chick- 
 ens, and when she had exchanged the news with 
 Jan, and rather tearfully admired "poor Mrs. 
 Tancred's little 'uns," she escorted them all to 
 the orchard to see the cocks and hens and chick- 
 ens. Then they visited the stable, where Placid, 
 the pony, was sole occupant. In former years 
 Placid had been kept for the girls to drive in the 
 governess-cart and to pull the heavy lawn-mower 
 over the lawns. And Hannah had been wont to 
 drive him into Amesberrow every Sunday, that 
 she might attend the Presbyterian church there. 
 She put him up at a livery-stable near her church 
 and always paid for him herself. Anthony Ross 
 usually had hired a motor for the summer months. 
 Now they would depend entirely on Placid and a 
 couple of bicycles for getting about. All round 
 the walled garden did they go, and Meg played 
 horses with the children up and down the broad 
 paths white Jan discussed vegetables with Earley. 
 And last of all they went to the back door to 
 ask Hannah for milk and scones, for the keen, 
 fresh air had made them all hungry. 
 
 Refreshed and very crumby, they were starting 
 out again when Hannah laid a detaining hand on 
 Jan's arm: "Could you speak a minute, Miss 
 Jan?" 
 
 The children and Meg gone, Hannah led the 
 way into the kitchen with an air of great mys- 
 tery; but she did not shut the doors, as Anne 
 Chitt was busy upstairs. 
 
 193
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "What is it, Hannah?" Jan asked nervously, 
 for she saw that this summons portended some- 
 thing serious. 
 
 " It's about Miss Morton I want to speak, Miss 
 Jan. I was in hopes she'd never wear they play- 
 acting claes down here ..." (when Hannah was 
 deeply earnest she always became very Scotch), 
 "but it seems I hoped in vain. And what am I 
 to say to ither folk when they ask me about her?" 
 
 "What is there to say, Hannah, except that she 
 is my dear friend, and by her own wish is acting 
 as nurse to my sister's children?" 
 
 "I ken that; I'm no sayin' a word against that; 
 but first of all she goes and crops her hair fine 
 hah* she had too, though an awfu-like colour 
 and not content with flying in the face of Provi- 
 dence that way, she must needs dress like a ser- 
 vant. And no a weiss-like servant, either, but 
 one o' they besoms ye see on the hoardings in 
 London wha act in plays. Haven't I seen the 
 pictures mysel'? 'The Quaker Gerrl,' or some 
 such buddy." 
 
 "Oh, I assure you, Hannah, Miss Morton hi 
 no way resembles those ladies, and I can't see 
 that it's any business of ours what she wears. 
 You know that she certainly does what she has 
 undertaken to do in the best way possible." 
 
 " I'm no saying a word against her wi' the chil- 
 dren, and there never was a young lady who gave 
 less trouble, save in the way o' tobacco ash, and 
 was more ready to help but yon haverals is very 
 difficult to explain. You may understand, Miss 
 Jan. I may say I understand though I don't 
 
 194
 
 Wren's End 
 
 but who's to make the like o' that Anne Chitt 
 understand? Only this morning she keeps on at 
 me wi' her questions like the clapper o' a bell. 
 'Is she a servant? If she's no, why does she 
 wear servants' claes? Why does she have hair 
 like a boy? Has she had a fever or something 
 wrong wi' her heid? Is she one of they suffra- 
 gette buddies and been in prison?' till I was 
 fair deeved and bade the lassie hold her tongue. 
 But so it will be wherever Miss Morton goes in 
 they fantastic claes. Now, Miss Jan, tell me the 
 honest truth did you ever see a self-respecting, 
 respectable servant hi the like o' yon? Does she 
 look like any servant you've ever heard tell of 
 out of a stage-play?" 
 
 "Not a bit, Hannah; she looks exactly like her- 
 self, and therefore not in the least like any other 
 person. Don't you worry. Miss Morton re- 
 quires no explanation. All we must do is to see 
 that she doesn't overwork herself." 
 
 "Then ye' 11 no speak to her, Miss Jan?" 
 
 "Not I, Hannah. Why should I dictate to her 
 as to what she wears ? She doesn't dictate to me." 
 
 This was not strictly true, for Meg was most 
 interfering in the matter of Jan's clothes. Han- 
 nah shook her head. "I thocht it my duty to 
 speak, Miss Jan, and I'll say no more. But it's 
 sheer defiance o' her Maker to crop her heid and 
 to clothe herself in whim-whams, when she could 
 be dressed like a lady; and I'm real vexed she 
 should make such an object of herself when she 
 might just be quite unnoticeable, sae wee and 
 shelpit as she is." 
 
 195
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "I'm afraid," said Jan, "that Miss Morton will 
 never be quite unnoticeable, whatever she may 
 wear. But don't let us talk about it any more. 
 You understand, don't you, Hannah?" 
 
 When Jan's voice took that tone Hannah knew 
 that further argument was unavailing. 
 
 Jan turned to go, and saw Tony waiting for 
 her in the open doorway. Neither of them had 
 either heard or seen him come. 
 
 Quite silently he took her hand and did not 
 speak till they were well away from the house. 
 Meg and little Fay were nowhere in sight. Jan 
 wondered how much he had heard. 
 
 "She's a very proud cook, isn't she?" he said 
 presently. 
 
 "She's a very old servant," Jan explained, 
 "who has known me all my life." 
 
 "If," said Tony, as though after deep thought, 
 "she gets very chubbelsome, you send for me. 
 Then I will go to her and say ( Jao!" Tony 
 followed this up by some fluent Hindustani which, 
 had Jan but known it, seriously reflected on the 
 character of Hannah's female ancestry. "I'll say 
 'Jod,'" he went on. "I'll say it several times 
 very loud, and point to the door. Then she'll 
 roll up her bedding, and you'll give her money 
 and her chits, and she will depart." 
 
 They had reached a seat. On this Jan sank, 
 for the vision of Tony pointing majestically down 
 the drive while little Hannah staggered into the 
 distance under a rolled-up mattress, was too much 
 for her. 
 
 "But I don't want her to go," she gasped. "I 
 love her dearly." 
 
 196
 
 Wren's End 
 
 "She should not speak to you like that; she 
 scolded you," he said firmly. "She is a ser- 
 vant . . . She is a servant?" he added doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 "How much did you hear of what she said? 
 Did you understand?" 
 
 "I came back directly to fetch you, I thought 
 she sounded cross. Mummy was afraid when 
 people were cross; she liked me to be with her. I 
 thought you would like me to be with you. If 
 she was very rude I could beat her. I beat the 
 boy not Peter's boy, our boy he was rude to 
 Mummy. He did not dare to touch me because 
 I am a sahib ... I will beat Hannah if you like." 
 
 Tony stood in front of Jan, very earnest, with 
 an exceedingly pink nose, for the wind was keen. 
 He had never before said so much at one tune. 
 
 "Shall I go back and beat her?" he asked 
 again. 
 
 "Certainly not," Jan cried, clutching Tony 
 lest he should fly off there and then. "We don't 
 do such things here at home. Nobody is beaten, 
 ever. I'm sure Peter never beats his servants." 
 
 "No," Tony allowed. "A big sahib must not 
 strike a servant, but I can, and I do if they are 
 rude. She was rude about Meg." 
 
 "She didn't mean to be rude." 
 
 "She found fault with her clothes and her hah*. 
 She is a very proud and impudent cook." 
 
 "Tony dear, you really don't understand. She 
 wasn't a bit rude. She was afraid other people 
 might mistake Meg for a servant. She was all 
 for Meg truly she was." 
 
 "She scolded you," he rejoined obstinately. 
 197
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "Not really, Tony; she didn't mean to scold." 
 
 Tony looked very hard at Jan. 
 
 In silence they stared at one another for quite 
 a minute. Jan got up off the seat. 
 
 "Let's go and find the others," she said. 
 
 "She is a very proud cook," Tony remarked 
 once more. 
 
 Jan sighed. 
 
 That night while she was getting ready for bed 
 Tony woke up. His cot was placed so that he 
 could see into Jan's room, and the door between 
 was always left open. She was standing before 
 the dressing-table, taking down her hah*. 
 
 Unlike the bedrooms at the flat, the room was 
 not cold though both the windows were open. 
 Wren's End was never cold, though always fresh, 
 for one of Anthony's earliest improvements had 
 been a boiler-house and central heating, with 
 radiators set under the windows, so that they 
 could always stand open. 
 
 Jan had not put on her dressing-gown, and her 
 night-dress had rather short, loose sleeves that 
 fell back from her arms as she raised them. 
 
 He watched the white arm wielding the brush 
 with great pleasure; he decided he liked to look 
 at it. 
 
 "Auntie Jan!" 
 
 She turned and flung her hah 1 back from her 
 face in a great silver cloud. 
 
 "You awake, sonny! Did I make a noise?" 
 
 "No, I just woke. Auntie Jan, will Daddie 
 ever come here?" 
 
 198
 
 Wren's End 
 
 "I expect so." 
 
 "Well, listen. If he does, he shan't take your 
 things, your pretty twinkly things. I won't let 
 him." 
 
 Jan stood as if turned to stone. 
 
 "He took Mummy's. I saw him; I couldn't 
 stop him, I was so little. But she said she said 
 it twice before she went away from that last bun- 
 galow she said: 'Take care of Auntie Jan, Tony; 
 don't let Daddie take her things.' So I won't." 
 
 Tony was sitting up. His room was all in 
 darkness; two candles were lit on Jan's dressing- 
 table. He could see her, but she couldn't see 
 him. 
 
 She came to him, stooped over him, and laid 
 her cheek against his so that they were both 
 veiled with her hair. "Darling, I don't think 
 poor Daddie would want to take my things. You 
 must try not to think hardly of Daddie." 
 
 Tony parted the veil of hair with a gentle hand 
 so that they could both see the candles. 
 
 "You don't know my Daddie . . . much," he 
 said, "do you?" 
 
 Jan shuddered. 
 
 "I saw him," he went on in his queer little 
 unemotional voice. "I saw him take all her 
 pretty twinkly things; and her silver boxes. I'm 
 glad I sleep here." 
 
 "Did she mind much?" Jan whispered. 
 
 "I don't know. She didn't see him take them, 
 only me. She hadn't come to bed. She never 
 said nothing to me only about you." 
 
 "I don't expect," Jan made a great effort to 
 199
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 speak naturally, "that Daddie would care about 
 my things . . . It's different, you see." 
 
 "I'm glad I sleep here," Tony repeated, "and 
 there's William only just across the passage." 
 
 200
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 > 
 "THE BLUDGEONINGS OF CHANCE" 
 
 '"PHEY had been at Wren's End nearly three 
 -- weeks, and sometimes Jan wondered if she 
 appeared to Tony as unlike her own conception 
 of herself as Tony's of his father was unlike what 
 she had pictured him. 
 
 She knew Hugo Tancred to be dishonest, 
 shifty, and wholly devoid of a sense of honour, 
 but she had up till quite lately always thought 
 of him as possessing a lazy sort of good-nature. 
 
 Tony was changing this view. 
 
 He was not yet at all talkative, but every now 
 and then when he was alone with her he became 
 frank and communicative, as reserved people 
 often will when suddenly they let themselves go. 
 And his very simplicity gave force to his revela- 
 tions. 
 
 During their last year together hi India it was 
 evident that downright antagonism had existed 
 between Hugo Tancred and his little son. Tony 
 had weighed his father and found him wanting; 
 and it was clear that he had tried to insert his 
 small personality as a buffer between his father 
 and mother. 
 
 Jan talked constantly to the children of their 
 mother. Her portraits, Anthony's paintings and 
 
 201
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 sketches, were all over the house, in every variety 
 of happy pose. One of the best was hung at the 
 foot of Tony's cot. The gentle blue eyes seemed 
 to follow him in wistful benediction, and alone in 
 bed at night he often thought of her, and of his 
 home in India. It was, then, quite natural that 
 he should talk of them to this Auntie Jan who 
 had evidently loved his mother well; and from 
 Tony Jan learned a good deal more about her 
 brother-in-law than she had ever heard from his 
 wife. 
 
 Tony loved to potter about with his aunt in 
 the garden. She worked really hard, for there 
 was much to do, and he tried his best to assist, 
 often being a very great hindrance; but she nevef 
 sent him away, for she desired above all things 
 to gam his confidence. 
 
 One day after a hard half-hour's weeding, when 
 Tony had wasted much tune by pulling up sev- 
 eral sorts of the wrong thing, Jan felt her temper 
 getting edgy, so they sat down to rest upon one 
 of the many convenient seats to be found at 
 Wren's End. Anthony hated a garden where 
 you couldn't sit comfortably and smoke, where- 
 soever the prospect was pleasing. 
 
 Tony sat down too, looking almost rosy after 
 his labours. 
 
 He didn't sit close and cuddly, as little Fay 
 would have done, but right at the other end of 
 the seat, where he could stare at her. Every day 
 was bringing Tony more surely to the conclusion 
 that "he liked to look at" his aunt. 
 
 "You like Meg, don't you?" he said. 
 202
 
 "The Bludgeonings of Chance" 
 
 "No," Jan shook her head. "I don't like her. 
 I love her; which is quite a different thing." 
 
 "Do you like people and love them?" 
 
 "I like some people a great many people 
 then there are others, not so many, that I love 
 you're one of them." 
 
 "Is Fay?" 
 
 "Certainly, dear little Fay." 
 
 "And Peter?" 
 
 For a moment Jan hesitated. With heightened 
 colour she met Tony's grave, searching eyes. 
 Above everything she desired to be always true 
 and sincere with him, that he might, as on that 
 first night in England, feel that he "believed" 
 her. "I have every reason to love Mr. Ledgard," 
 she said slowly: "he was so wonderfully kind to 
 all of us." She was determined to be loyal to 
 Peter with poor Fay's children. Jan hated in- 
 gratitude. To have said she only liked Peter 
 must have given Tony the impression that she 
 was both forgetful and ungrateful. She would 
 not risk that even though she might risk misun- 
 derstanding of another kind if he ever repeated 
 her words to anybody else. 
 
 Her heart beat rather faster than was comfort- 
 able, and she was thankful that she and Tony 
 were alone. 
 
 "Who do you like?" he asked. 
 
 "Nearly everybody; the people in the village, 
 our good neighbours . . . Can't you see the dif- 
 ference yourself? Now, you love your dear 
 Mummy and you like . . . say, William " 
 
 "No," Tony said firmly, "I love William. I 
 203
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 don't think," he went on, "I like people . . . 
 much. Either I love them like you said, or I 
 don't care about them at all ... or I hate them." 
 
 "That," said Jan, "is a mistake. It's no use 
 to hate people." 
 
 "But if you feel like it ... I hate people if 
 they cheat me." 
 
 "But who on earth would cheat you? What 
 do you mean?" 
 
 "Once," said Tony, and by the monotonous, 
 detached tone of his voice Jan knew he was going 
 to talk about his father, "my Daddie asked me 
 if I'd like to see smoke come out of his ears . . . 
 an' he said: 'Put your hand here on me and 
 watch very careful." 1 Tony pointed to Jan's 
 chest. "I put my hand there and I watched and 
 watched an' he hurt me with the end of his cigar. 
 There's the mark !" He held out a grubby little 
 hand, back uppermost, for Jan's inspection, and 
 there, sure enough, was the little round white 
 scar. 
 
 "And what did you do?" she asked. 
 
 "I bit him." 
 
 "Oh, Tony, how dreadful!" 
 
 "I shouldn't of minded so much if he'd really 
 done it the smoke out of his ears, I mean; but 
 not one teeniest little puff came. I watched so 
 careful . . . He cheated me." 
 
 Jan said nothing. What could she say? Hot 
 anger burned hi her heart against Hugo. She 
 could have bitten him herself. 
 
 "Peter was there," Tony went on, "and Peter 
 said it served him right." 
 
 204
 
 "The Bludgeonings of Chance" 
 
 "Yes," said Jan, grasping at this straw, "but 
 what did Peter say to you?" 
 
 "He said, 'Sahibs don't cry and sahibs don't 
 bite/ and if I was a sahib I mustn't do it, so I 
 don't. I don't bite people often." 
 
 "I should hope not; besides, you know, some- 
 times quite good-natured people will do things in 
 fun, never thinking it will hurt." 
 
 Tony gazed gloomily at Jan. "He cheated 
 me," he repeated. "He said he would make it 
 come out of his ears, and it didn't. He didn't 
 like me that's why." 
 
 "I don't think you ought to say that, and be 
 so unforgiving. I expect Daddie forgot all about 
 your biting him directly, and yet you remember 
 what he did after this long tune." 
 
 Poor Jan did try so hard to be fair. 
 
 "I wasn't afraid of him," Tony went on, as 
 though he hadn't heard, "not really. Mummy 
 was. She was drefully afraid. He said he'd 
 whip me because I was so surly, and she was 
 afraid he would ... I knew he wouldn't, not un- 
 less he could do it some cheaty way, and you 
 can't whip people that way. But it frightened 
 Mummy. She used to send me away when he 
 came . . ." 
 
 Tony paused and knitted his brows, then sud- 
 denly he smiled. "But I always came back very 
 quick, because I knew she wanted me, and I 
 liked to look at him. He liked Fay, I suppose 
 he liked to look at her, so do I. Nobody wants 
 to look at me . . . much . . . except Mummy." 
 
 "I do," Jan said hastily. "I like to look at 
 205
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 you just every bit as much as I like to look at 
 Fay. I think you care rather too much what 
 people look tike, Tony." 
 
 "It does matter a lot," Tony said obstinately. 
 
 "Other things matter much more. Courage 
 and kindness and truth and honesty. Look at 
 Mr. Ledgard he's not what you'd call a beauti- 
 ful person, and yet I'm sure we all like to look 
 at him." 
 
 "Sometimes you say Peter, and sometimes Mr. 
 Ledgard. Why?" 
 
 Again Jan's heart gave that queer, uncomfort- 
 able jump. She certainly always thought of him 
 as Peter. Quite unconsciously she occasionally 
 spoke of him as Peter. Meg had observed this, 
 but, unlike Tony, made no remark. 
 
 ' ' Why ? ' ' Tony repeated. 
 
 "I suppose," Jan mumbled feebly, "it's because 
 I hear the rest of you do it. I've no sort of right 
 to." 
 
 "Auntie Jan," Tony said earnestly. "What is 
 a devil?" 
 
 "I haven't the remotest idea, Tony," Jan re- 
 plied, with the utmost sincerity. 
 
 "It isn't anything very nice, is it, or nice to 
 look at?" 
 
 "It might be," said Jan, with Scottish cau- 
 tion. 
 
 "Daddie used to call me a surly little devil- 
 when I used to come back because Mummy was 
 frightened . . . she was always frightened when 
 he talked about money, and he did it a lot ... 
 When he saw me, he would say: 'Wot you do- 
 
 206
 
 "The Bludgeonings of Chance" 
 
 ing here, you surly little devil listening, eh?" 
 Tony's youthful voice took on such a snarl that 
 Jan positively jumped, and put out her hand 
 to stop him. "'Ill give you somefin to listen 
 to . . ." 
 
 "Tony, Tony, couldn't you try to forget all 
 that?" 
 
 Tony shook his head. "No! I shall never 
 forget it, because, you see, it's all mixed up with 
 Mummy so, and you said" here Tony held up 
 an accusing small finger at Jan "you said I was 
 never to forget her, not the least little bit." 
 
 "I know I did," Jan owned, and fell to ponder- 
 ing what was best to be done about these mem- 
 ories. Absently she dug her hoe into the ground, 
 making ruts in the gravel, while Tony watched 
 her solemnly. 
 
 "Then why," he went on, "do you not want 
 me to remember Daddie?" 
 
 "Because," said Jan, "everything you seem to 
 remember sounds so unkind." 
 
 "Well, I can't help that," Tony answered. 
 
 Jan arose from the seat. "If we sit idling here 
 all afternoon," she remarked severely, "we shall 
 never get that border weeded for Earley." 
 
 The afternoon post came in at four, and when 
 Jan went hi there were several letters for her on 
 the hall-table, spread out by Hannah in a neat 
 row, one above the other. It was Saturday, and 
 the Indian mail was in. There was one from 
 Peter, but it was another letter that Jan seized 
 first, turning it over and looking at the post- 
 mark, which was remarkably clear. She knew 
 
 207
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 the excellent handwriting well, though she had 
 seen it comparatively seldom. 
 
 It was Hugo Tancred's; and the post-mark 
 was Port Said. She opened it with hands that 
 trembled, and it said: 
 
 "Mr DEAR JAN, 
 
 "In case other letters have miscarried, which 
 is quite possible while I was up country, let me 
 assure you how grateful I am for all you did for 
 my poor wife and the children and for me in 
 letting me know so faithfully what your move- 
 ments have been. I sent to the bank for your 
 letters while passing tbiough Bombay recently, 
 and but for your kindness in allowing the money 
 I had left for my wife's use to remain to my 
 credit, I should have been unable to leave India, 
 for things have gone sadly against me, and the 
 world is only too ready to turn its back upon a 
 broken man. 
 
 "When I saw by the notice in the papers that 
 my beloved wife was no more, I realised that for 
 me the lamp is shattered and the light of my life 
 extinguished. All that remains to me is to make 
 the best of my poor remnant of existence for the 
 sake of my children. 
 
 "We will talk over plans when we meet. I 
 hope to be in England in about another month, 
 perhaps sooner, and we will consult together as 
 to what is best to be done. 
 
 "I have no doubt it will be possible to find a 
 good and cheap preparatory school where Tony 
 can be safely bestowed for the present, and one 
 
 208
 
 "The Bludgeonings of Chance" 
 
 of my sisters would probably take my precious 
 little Fay, if you find it inconvenient to have her 
 with you. A boy is always better at school as 
 soon as possible, and I have strong views as to 
 the best methods of education. I never for a 
 moment forget my responsibilities towards my 
 children and the necessity for a father's supreme 
 authority. 
 
 "You may be sure that, in so far as you make 
 it possible for me to do so, I will fall in with 
 your wishes regarding them hi every way. 
 
 "It will not be worth your while writing to 
 me here, as my plans are uncertain. I will try 
 to give you notice of my arrival, but may reach 
 you before my next letter. 
 
 "Yours affectionately, 
 
 "HUGO TANCKED." 
 
 Still as a statue sat Jan. From the garden 
 came the cheerful chirruping of birds and con- 
 stant, eager questioning of Earley by the children. 
 Earley's slow Gloucestershire speech rumbled on 
 in muffled obbligato to the higher, carrying, little 
 voices. 
 
 The whirr of a sewing-machine came from the 
 morning-room, now the day-nursery, where Meg 
 was 1 busy with frocks for little Fay. 
 
 In a distant pantry somebody was clinking tea- 
 cups. Jan shivered, though the air from the 
 open window was only fresh, not cold. At that 
 moment she knew exactly how an animal feels 
 when caught in a trap. Hugo Tancred's letter 
 was the trap, and she was in it. With the ex- 
 
 209
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 ception of the lie about other letters Jan was 
 perfectly sure he had written no other letters 
 and the stereotyped phrases about shattered 
 lamps and the wife who was "no more/' the let- 
 ter was one long menace scarcely veiled. That 
 sentence, "in so far as you make it possible for 
 me to do so, I will fall in with your wishes regard- 
 ing them hi every way," simply meant that if 
 Jan was to keep the children she must let Hugo 
 make ducks and drakes of her money; and if he 
 took her money, how could she do what she 
 ought for the children? 
 
 And he was at Port Said; only a week's journey. 
 
 Why had she left that money in Bombay? 
 Why had she not listened to Peter? Sometimes 
 she had thought that Peter held rather a cyni- 
 cally low view of his fellow-creatures some of 
 his fellow-creatures. Surely no one could be all 
 bad? Jan had hoped great things of adversity 
 for Hugo Tancred. Peter indulged in no such 
 pleasant illusions, and said so. "Schoolgirl sen- 
 timentality" Meg had called it, and so it was. 
 "No doubt it will be possible to find some cheap 
 preparatory school for Tony." 
 
 Would he try to steal Tony? 
 
 From the charitable mood that hopeth all 
 things Jan suddenly veered to a belief in all 
 things evil of her brother-in-law. At that mo- 
 ment she felt him capable of murdering the child 
 and throwing his little body down a well, as they 
 do in India. 
 
 Again she shivered. 
 
 What was she to do? 
 
 210
 
 "The Bludgeonings of Chance" 
 
 So helpless, so unprotected; so absolutely at 
 his mercy because she loved the children. "Never 
 let him blackmail you," Peter had said. "Stand 
 up to him always, and he'll probably crumple 
 up." 
 
 Suddenly, as though someone had opened shut- 
 ters in a pitch-dark room, letting in the blessed 
 light, Jan remembered there was also a letter 
 from Peter. 
 
 She crossed the hall to get it, though her legs 
 shook under her and her knees were as water. 
 
 She felt she couldn't get back to the window- 
 seat, so she sat on the edge of the gate-table and 
 opened the letter. 
 
 A very short letter, only one side of a page. 
 
 "DEAR Miss Ross, 
 
 "This is the last mail for a bit, for I come 
 myself by the next, the Macedonia. You may 
 catch me at Aden, but certainly a note will get 
 me at Marseilles, if you are kind enough to write. 
 Tancred has been back in Bombay and gone 
 again in one of the smaller home-going boats. 
 Where he got the money to go I can't think, for 
 from many sources lately I've heard that his vari- 
 ous ventures have been far from prosperous, and 
 no one will trust him with a rupee. 
 
 "So look out for blackmail, and be firm, mind. 
 
 "I go to my aunt in Artillery Mansions on 
 arrival. When may I run down to see you all? 
 "Yours always sincerely, 
 
 "PETER LEDGARD." 
 
 211
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 THOUGH AN HOST SHOULD ENCAMP AGAINST ME 
 
 flap of the gate-leg table creaked under 
 Jan's weight, but she dug her heels into 
 the rug and balanced, for she felt incapable of 
 moving. 
 
 Peter was coming home; if the worst came to 
 the worst he would deal with Hugo, and a respite 
 would be gained. But Peter would go out to 
 India again and Hugo would not. The whole 
 miserable business would be repeated and how 
 could she continue to worry Peter with her affairs ? 
 What claim had she upon him? As though she 
 were some stranger seeing it for the first time, 
 Jan looked round the square, comfortable hall. 
 She saw it with new eyes sharpened by apprehen- 
 sion; yet everything was solidly the same. 
 
 The floor with its draught-board pattern of 
 large, square, black and white stones; the old 
 dark chairs; the high bookcases at each side of 
 the hearth; the wide staircase with its spacious, 
 windowed turning and shallow steps, so easily 
 traversed by little feet; the whole steeped in that 
 atmosphere of friendly comfort that kind old 
 houses get and keep. 
 
 Such a good place to be young in. 
 
 Such a happy place, so safe and sheltered and 
 pleasant. 
 
 212
 
 "Though an Host Should Encamp" 
 
 Outside the window a wren was calling to his 
 mate with a note that sounded just like a faint 
 kiss; such a tender little song. 
 
 The swing door was opened noisily and Anne 
 Chitt appeared bearing the nursery tea-tray, de- 
 posited it in the nursery, opened the front door, 
 thumped on the gong and vanished again. Meg 
 came out from the nursery with two pairs of 
 small slippers in her hand: " Where are my chil- 
 dren? I left little Fay with Earley while I fin- 
 ished the overalls; he's a most efficient under- 
 nurse I suppose you left Tony with him too. 
 Such a lot of letters for you. Did you get your 
 mail? I heard from both the boys. Ah, sensi- 
 ble Earley's taking them round to the back door. 
 Where's William's duster? Hannah does make 
 such a fuss about paw-marks." And Meg, too, 
 vanished through the swing door. 
 
 Slowly Jan dragged herself off the table, gath- 
 ered up her unread letters, and went into the 
 nursery. She felt as though she were dreadfully 
 asleep and couldn't awake to realise the whole- 
 some everyday world around her. 
 
 Vaguely she stared round the room, the most 
 charming room in Wren's End. Panelled in 
 wood long since painted white, with two delight- 
 ful rounded corner cupboards, it gave straight 
 on to the wrens' sunk lawn from a big French 
 window with steps, an anachronism added by 
 Miss Janet Ross. Five years ago Anthony had 
 brought a beautiful iron gate from Venice that 
 fitted into the archway, cut through the yew 
 hedge and leading to the drive. Jan had given 
 
 213
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 this room to the children because in summer they 
 could spend the whole day in its green-walled 
 garden, quite safe and shut in from every possi- 
 bility of mischief. A sun-dial was in the centre, 
 and in one corner a fat stone cherub upheld a 
 bath for the birds. Daffodils were in bloom on 
 the banks, and one small single tulip of brilliant 
 red. Jan went out and stood on the top step. 
 
 Long immunity from menace of any kind had 
 made all sorts of little birds extraordinarily bold 
 and friendly. Even the usually shy and furtive 
 golden-crested wrens fussed in and out under the 
 yew hedge quite regardless of Jan. 
 
 Through an open window overhead came the 
 sound of cheerful high voices, and little Fay 
 started to sing at the top of her strong treble: 
 
 Thlee mice went into a hole to spin, 
 Puss came by, and puss peeped in; 
 What are you doing, my littoo old men? 
 We're weaving coats for gentoomen. 
 
 "Is that what I've been doing?" thought Jan. 
 "Weaving coats of many colours out of happy 
 dreams?" Were she and the children the mice, 
 she wondered. 
 
 Marauding cats had been kept away from 
 Wren's End for over a hundred years. "The 
 little wrens that build" had been safe enough. 
 But what of these poor human nestlings ? 
 
 "Shall I come and help loo to wind up loo 
 thleds?" sang little Fay. "Oh, no, Missis Pussy, 
 you'd bite off our heads!" And Tony joined in 
 with a shout: "Oh, no, Missis Pussy, you'd bite 
 off our heads." 
 
 214
 
 The voices died away, the children were com- 
 ing downstairs. 
 
 Jan drank three cups of tea and crumbled one 
 piece of bread and butter on her plate. The rest 
 of the party were hungry and full of adventures. 
 Before she joined Earley little Fay had been to 
 the village with Meg to buy tape, and she had a 
 great deal to say about this expedition. Meg 
 saw that something was troubling Jan, and won- 
 dered if Mr. Ledgard had given her fresh news of 
 Hugo. But Meg never asked questions or wor- 
 ried people. She chattered to the children, and 
 immediately after tea carried them off for the 
 usual washing of hands. 
 
 Jan went out into the hall; the door was open 
 and the sunny spring evening called to her. When 
 she was miserable she always wanted to walk, and 
 she walked now; swiftly down the drive she went 
 and out along the road till she came to the church, 
 which stood at the end of the village nearest to 
 Wren's End. 
 
 She turned into the churchyard, and up the 
 broad pathway between the graves to the west 
 door. 
 
 Near the door was a square headstone mark- 
 ing the grave of Charles Considine Smith; and 
 she paused beside it to read once more the some- 
 what strange inscription. 
 
 Under his name and age, cut deep hi the moss- 
 grown stone, were the words: "Though an host 
 should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear." 
 
 Often before Jan had wondered what could 
 have caused Tranquil, his wife, to choose so 
 
 215
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 strenuous an epitaph. Tranquil, who had never 
 stirred twenty miles from the place where she 
 was born; whose very name, so far as they could 
 gather, exemplified her life. 
 
 What secret menace had threatened this "staid 
 person," this prosperous shipper of sherry who, 
 apparently, had spent the evening of his life in 
 observing the habits of wrens. 
 
 Why should his gentle wife have thus com- 
 memorated his fighting spirit? 
 
 Be the reason what it might, Jan felt vaguely 
 comforted. There was triumph as well as trust 
 in the words. Whatever it was that had threat- 
 ened him, he had stood up to it. His wife knew 
 this and was proud. 
 
 Jan tried the heavy oak door and it yielded, 
 and from the soft mildness of the spring evening, 
 so full of happy sounds of innocent life, she passed 
 into the grey and sacred silence of the church. 
 
 It was cold in the beautiful old fourteenth-cen- 
 tury church, with that pervading smell of badly- 
 burning wood that is so often found in country 
 churches till all attempt at heating ceases for the 
 summer. But nothing could mar the nobility of 
 its austerely lovely architecture; the indefinable, 
 exquisite grace that soothes and penetrates. 
 
 She went and knelt in the Wren's End pew 
 where Charles Considine Smith's vast prayer- 
 book still stood on the book-board. And even as 
 in the Bombay Cathedral she had prayed that 
 strength might be given to her to walk in the 
 Way, so now she prayed for courage and a quiet, 
 steadfast mind. 
 
 216
 
 "Though an Host Should Encamp" 
 
 Her head was bowed and buried in her hands: 
 11 My heart shall not fear, 1 ' she whispered; but she 
 knew that it did fear, and fear grievously. 
 
 The tense silence was broken by an odd, fitful, 
 pattering sound; but Jan, absorbed in her petition 
 for the courage she could not feel, heard nothing. 
 
 Something clumsy, warm, and panting pushed 
 against her, and she uncovered her face and 
 looked down upon William trying to thrust his 
 head under her arm and join in her devotions. 
 
 And William became a misty blur, for her 
 eyes filled with tears; he looked so anxious and 
 foolish and kind with his tongue hanging out and 
 his absurd, puzzled expression. 
 
 He was puzzled. Part of the usual ritual had 
 been omitted. 
 
 She ought, by all known precedents, to have 
 put her arm round his neck and have admonished 
 him to "pray for his Master." But she did 
 nothing of the kind, only patted him, with no 
 sort of invitation to join in her orisons. 
 
 William was sure something was wrong some- 
 where. 
 
 Then Jan saw Tony sitting at the far end of 
 the seat, hatless, coatless, in his indoor strap 
 shoes; and he was regarding her with grave, un- 
 derstanding eyes. 
 
 In a moment she was back in the present and 
 vividly alive to the fact that here was chilly, 
 delicate Tony out after tea, without a coat and 
 sitting in an ice-cold church. 
 
 She rose from her knees, much to William's 
 satisfaction, who did not care for religious ser- 
 
 217
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 vices in which he might not take an active part. 
 He trotted out of the pew and Jan followed him, 
 stooping to kiss Tony as she passed. 
 
 "It's too cold for you here, dear," she whis- 
 pered; "let us come out." 
 
 She held out her hand and Tony took it, and 
 together they passed down the aisle and into the 
 warmer air outside. 
 
 "How did you know I was here?" she asked, 
 as they hurried into the road. 
 
 "I saw you going down the drive from the 
 bathroom window, and so I runned after you, 
 and William came too." 
 
 "But what made you come after me?" 
 
 "Because I thought you looked frightened, and 
 I didn't like it; you looked like Mummy did 
 sometimes." 
 
 No one who has seen fear stamped upon a 
 woman's face ever forgets it. Tony had watched 
 his aunt all tea-tune, and this quite new expres- 
 sion troubled him. Mummy had always seemed 
 to want hun when she looked like that; perhaps 
 Auntie Jan would want him too. The moment 
 his hands were dried he had rushed past Meg and 
 down the stairs with William in his wake. Meg 
 had not tried to stop him, for she, too, realised 
 that something worried Jan, and she knew that 
 already there had arisen an almost unconscious 
 entente between these two. But she had no idea 
 that he had gone out of doors. She dressed little 
 Fay and took her out to the garden, thinking 
 that Tony and Jan were probably in the nursery, 
 and she was careful not to disturb them. 
 
 218
 
 "Though an Host Should Encamp" 
 
 "Are you cold, Tony?" Jan asked anxiously, 
 walking so fast that Tony had almost to run to 
 keep up with her. 
 
 "No, not very; it's a nice coldness rather, don't 
 you think?" 
 
 "Tony, will you tell me when Daddie was 
 angry with you, were you never frightened?" 
 
 Tony pulled at her hand to make her go more 
 slowly. "Yes," he said, "I used to feel fright- 
 ened inside, but I wouldn't let him know it, and 
 then it was funny but quite sunn'ly I wasn't 
 frightened any more. You try it." 
 
 "You mean," Jan asked earnestly, "that if 
 you don't let anyone else know you are fright- 
 ened, you cease to be frightened?" 
 
 "Something like that," Tony said; "it just 
 happens." 
 
 219
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 MEG AND CAPTAIN MIDDLETON 
 
 MEG had worked hard and faithfully ever 
 since Ayah left. Very soon after she took 
 over the children entirely she discovered that, 
 however naughty and tiresome they were in many 
 respects, they were quick-witted and easily in- 
 terested. And she decided there and then that 
 to keep them good she must keep them well 
 amused, and it acted like a charm. 
 
 She had the somewhat rare power of surround- 
 ing quite ordinary everyday proceedings with a 
 halo of romance, so that the children's day de- 
 veloped into a series of entrancing adventures. 
 
 With Meg, enthusiastic make-believe had never 
 wholly given place to common sense. Through- 
 out the long, hard days of her childhood and 
 early apprenticeship to a rather unkindly world 
 she had pretended joyously, and invented for 
 herself all sorts of imaginary pleasures to take 
 the place of those tangible ones denied to her. 
 She had kept the width and wistfulness of the 
 child's horizon with a good deal of the child's 
 finality and love of detail; so that she was as 
 responsive to the drama of common things as 
 the children themselves. 
 
 Thus it came about that the daily donning of 
 the uniform was in very truth symbolic and in- 
 
 220
 
 Meg and Captain Middleton 
 
 spiring; and once the muslin cap was adjusted, 
 she felt herself magically surrounded by the at- 
 mosphere most conducive to the production of 
 the Perfect Nurse. 
 
 For Tony and little Fay getting up and going 
 to bed resolved themselves into feats of delicious 
 dexterity that custom could not stale. The un- 
 derneaths of tables were caves and dungeons, 
 chairs became chariots at will, and every night 
 little Fay waved a diminutive pocket-handker- 
 chief to Tony from the deck of an ocean-going 
 P. and 0. 
 
 The daily walks, especially since they came to 
 Wren's End, were filled with hopeful possibilities. 
 And to hunt for eggs with Mrs. Earley, or gather 
 vegetables with her son, partook of the nature 
 of a high and solemn quest. It was here Meg 
 showed real genius. She drew all the household 
 into her net of interest. The children poked their 
 busy fingers into everybody's pies, and even stern 
 Hannah was compelled, quite unconsciously, to 
 contribute her share in the opulent happiness of 
 their little world. 
 
 But it took it out of Meg. 
 
 For weeks she had been on the alert to pre- 
 vent storms and tempests. Now that the chil- 
 dren's barometer seemed at "set fair" she sud- 
 denly felt very tired. 
 
 Jan had been watching her, and on that par- 
 ticular Sunday, had she been able to catch Meg 
 before she got up, Jan would have dressed the 
 children and kept her in bed. But Meg was too 
 nimble for her, washed and dressed her charges, 
 
 221
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 and appeared at breakfast looking a "wispy 
 wraith." 
 
 She had slept badly; a habit formed in her 
 under-nourished youth which she found hard to 
 break; and she had, in consequence, been sitting 
 up in bed at five in the morning to make button- 
 holes in garden smocks for Tony. 
 
 This would have enraged Jan had she but 
 known it. But Meg, frank and honest as the 
 day in most things, was, at times, curiously secre- 
 tive; and so far had entirely eluded Jan's vigi- 
 lance. By the time Anne Chitt came with the 
 awakening tea there wasn't a vestige of smock, 
 needles, or cotton to be seen, and so far lynx-eyed 
 little Fay had never awoke in tune to catch her 
 at it. 
 
 This morning, however, Jan exerted her au- 
 thority. She slung the hammock between two 
 trees hi the sunniest part of the garden; she 
 wrapped Meg in her own fur coat, which was far 
 too big for Meg; covered her with a particularly 
 soft, warm rug, gave her a book, a sun-umbrella, 
 and her cigarette case; and forbade her to move 
 till lunch-tune unless it rained. 
 
 Then she took the two children and William 
 into Squire Walcote's woods for the morning and 
 Meg fell fast asleep. 
 
 Warm with the double glow that came from 
 being wrapped in Jan's coat because Jan loved 
 her; lulled by the songs of birds and a soft, shy 
 wind that ruffled the short hair about her fore- 
 head, little Meg was supremely happy. To be 
 tired, to be made to rest, to be kissed and tucked 
 
 222
 
 Meg and Captain Middleton 
 
 in and sternly commanded to stay where she was 
 till she was fetched all this, so commonplace to 
 cherished, cared-for folk, seemed quite wonderful 
 to Meg, and she snuggled down among the 
 cushions in blissful content. 
 
 Meanwhile, on that same Sunday morning, 
 Captain Middleton, at Amber Guiting Manor, 
 was trying to screw his courage up to the an- 
 nouncement that he did not intend to accompany 
 his aunt and uncle to church. Lady Mary Wai- 
 cote was his mother's only sister, and Mrs. Wai- 
 cote, wife of Jan's tenant, was one of his father's, 
 so that he spoke quite truly when he told Meg he 
 had "stacks of relations down at Amber Guiting." 
 
 Colonel Walcote was much better off than his 
 elder brother, the squire of Amber Guiting, for 
 he benefited by the Middleton money. 
 
 Miles Middleton's father was the originator of 
 "Middleton's Made Starch," which was used 
 everywhere and was supposed to be superior to 
 all other starches. Why "Made" scoffers could 
 never understand, for it required precisely the 
 same treatment as other starches. But the Brit- 
 ish Public believed in it, the British Public also 
 bought it in large quantities, and George Middle- 
 ton, son of Mutton-Pie Middleton, a well-to-do 
 confectioner in Doncaster, became an exceedingly 
 rich man. He did not marry till he was forty, 
 and then he married "family," for Lady Agnes 
 Keills, younger daughter of Lord Glencarse, had 
 a long pedigree and no dower at all. She was a 
 good wife to him, gentle, upright, and always 
 affectionate. She adored their only child, Miles, 
 
 223
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 and died quite suddenly from heart failure, just 
 after that cheerful youth had joined at Wool- 
 wich. George Middleton died some three years 
 later, leaving his money absolutely to his son, 
 who came of age at twenty-five. And, so far, 
 Miles had justified his father's faith in him, for 
 he had never done anything very foolish, and a 
 certain strain of Yorkshire shrewdness prevented 
 him from committing any wild extravagance. 
 
 He was generous, kindly, and keen on his pro- 
 fession, and he had reached the age of thirty-two 
 without ever having felt any overwhelming de- 
 sire to marry; though it was pretty well known 
 that considerable efforts to marry him suitably 
 had been made by both mothers and daughters. 
 
 The beautiful and level-headed young ladies of 
 musical comedy had failed to land this consider- 
 able fish, angled they never so skilfully; though 
 he frankly enjoyed their amusing society and was 
 quite liberal, though not lavish, in the way of 
 presents. 
 
 Young women of his own rank were pleasant to 
 him, their mothers cordial, and no difficulty was 
 ever put in the way of his enjoying then* society. 
 But he was not very susceptible. Deep in his 
 heart, in some dim, unacknowledged corner, there 
 lay a humble, homely desire that he might feel a 
 great deal more strongly than he had felt yet, 
 when the tune and the woman came to him. 
 
 Never, until Meg smiled at him when he offered 
 to carry little Fay up that long staircase, had the 
 thought of a girl thoroughly obsessed him; and it 
 is possible that even after their meetings in Ken- 
 
 224
 
 Meg and Captain Middleton 
 
 sington Gardens her image might gradually have 
 faded from his mind, had it not occurred to Mrs. 
 Trent to interfere. 
 
 He had seen a good deal of the Trents while 
 hunting with the Pytchley two winters ago. 
 Lotty was a fearless rider and what men called "a 
 real good sort." At one tune it had sometimes 
 crossed Captain Middleton's mind that Lotty 
 wouldn't make half a bad wife for a Horse Gun- 
 ner, but somehow it had always stopped at the 
 idea, and when he didn't see Lotty he never 
 thought about her at all. 
 
 Now that he no longer saw Meg he thought 
 about her all day and far into the night. His 
 sensations were so new, so disturbing and un- 
 pleasant, his life was so disorganised and upset, 
 that he asked himself in varying degrees of ever- 
 accumulating irritation: "What the deuce was 
 the matter?" 
 
 Then Mrs. Trent asked him to luncheon. 
 
 She was staying with her daughters at the 
 Kensington Palace Hotel, and they had a suite 
 of rooms. Lotty and her sister flew away before 
 coffee was served, as they were going to a matinee, 
 and Miles was left tete-a-tete with Mrs. Trent. 
 
 She was most motherly and kind. 
 
 Just as he was wondering whether he might 
 now decently take leave of her, she said: "Cap- 
 tain Middleton, I'm going to take a great liberty 
 and venture to say something to you that per- 
 haps you will resent . . . but I feel I must do it 
 because your mother was such a dear friend of 
 
 225
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 This was a piece of information for Miles, who 
 knew perfectly well that Lady Agnes Middleton's 
 acquaintance with Mrs. Trent had been of the 
 slightest. However, he bowed and looked ex- 
 pectant. 
 
 "I saw you the other day walking with Miss 
 Morton in Kensington Gardens; apparently she is 
 now hi charge of somebody's children. May I 
 ask if you have known her long?" 
 
 Mrs. Trent looked searchingly at Miles, and 
 there was an inflection on the "long" that he felt 
 was in some way insulting to Meg, and he stif- 
 fened all over. 
 
 "Before I answer that question, Mrs. Trent, 
 may I ask why you should want to know?" 
 
 "My dear boy, I see perfectly well that it must 
 seem impertinent curiosity on my part. But I 
 assure you my motive for asking is quite justi- 
 fiable. Will you try not to feel irritated and be- 
 lieve that what I am doing, I am doing for the 
 best?" 
 
 "I have not known Miss Morton very long; 
 why?" 
 
 "Do you know the people she is living with at 
 present?" 
 
 Again that curious inflection on the "present." 
 
 "Oh, yes, and so do my people; they think all 
 the world of her." 
 
 "Of Miss Morton?" Shocked astonishment 
 was in Mrs. Trent's voice. 
 
 "I was not speaking of Miss Morton just then, 
 but of the lady she is with. I've no doubt, 
 though," said Miles stoutly, "they'd think just 
 
 226
 
 Meg and Captain Middleton 
 
 the same of Miss Morton if they knew her. They 
 may know her, too; it's just a chance we've never 
 discussed her." 
 
 "It is very difficult and painful for me to say 
 what I have got to say . . . but if Miss Morton 
 is in charge of the children of a friend of your 
 family, I think you ought to know she is not a 
 suitable person to be anything of the kind." 
 
 "I say!" Miles exclaimed, "that's a pretty 
 stiff thing to say about any girl; a dangerous 
 thing to say; especially about one who seems to 
 need to earn her own living." 
 
 "I know it is; I hate to say it ... but it 
 seemed to me the other day I hope I was mis- 
 taken that you were rather . . . attracted, and 
 knowing what I do I felt I must speak, must warn 
 you." 
 
 Miles got up. He seemed to tower above the 
 table and dwarf the whole room. "I'd rather 
 not hear any more, Mrs. Trent, please. It seems 
 too beastly mean somehow for me to sit here and 
 listen to scandal about a poor little unprotected 
 girl who works hard and faithfully mind you, 
 I've seen her with those children, and she's per- 
 fectly wonderful. Don't you see yourself how I 
 can't do it?" 
 
 Mrs. Trent sat on where she was and smiled at 
 Miles, slowly shaking her head. "Sit down, my 
 dear boy. Your feelings do you credit; but we 
 mustn't be sentimental, and facts are facts. I' 
 have every reason to know what I'm talking 
 about, for some years ago Miss Morton was in 
 my service." 
 
 227
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Miles did not sit down. He stood where he 
 was, glowering down at Mrs. Trent. 
 
 "That doesn't brand her, does it?" he asked. 
 
 Still smiling maternally at him, Mrs. Trent 
 continued: "She left my service when she ran 
 away with Mr. Walter Brooke you know him, I 
 think? Disgraceful though it was, I must say 
 this of him, that he never made any concealment 
 of the fact that he was a married man. She did 
 it with her eyes open." 
 
 "If," Miles growled, "all this happened 'some 
 years ago' she must have been about twelve at 
 the time, and Brooke ought to have been hounded 
 out of society long ago." 
 
 "I needn't say that we have cut him ever since. 
 She was, I believe, about nineteen at the time. 
 She did not remain with him, but you can under- 
 stand that, naturally, I don't want you to get 
 entangled with a girl of that sort." 
 
 Miles picked up his hat and stick. "I wish you 
 hadn't told me," he groaned. "I don't think a 
 bit less highly of her, but you've made me feel 
 such a low-down brute, I can't bear it. Good- 
 bye I've no doubt you did it for the best . . . 
 but " And Miles fairly ran from the room. 
 
 Mrs. Trent drummed with her fingers on the 
 table and looked thoughtful. "It was quite time 
 somebody interfered," she reflected. And then 
 she remembered with annoyance that she had 
 not found out the name of Meg's employer. 
 
 Miles strode through Kensington Gore and past 
 Knightsbridge, when he turned down Sloane 
 Street till he came to a fencing school he fre- 
 
 228
 
 Meg and Captain Middleton 
 
 quented. Here he went in and had a strenuous 
 half-hour with the instructor, but nothing served 
 to restore his peace of mind. He was angry and 
 hurt and horribly worried. If it was true, if the 
 whole miserable story was true, then he knew 
 that something had been taken from him. Some- 
 thing he had cherished in that dun, secret corner 
 of his heart. Its truth or untruth did not affect 
 his feeling for Meg. But if it were true, then he 
 had irretrievably lost something intangible, yet 
 precious. Young men like Miles never mention 
 ideals, but that's not to say that in some very 
 hidden place they don't exist, like buried treasure. 
 
 All the shrewd Yorkshire strain hi him shouted 
 that he must set this doubt at rest. That what- 
 ever was to be his action in the future he must 
 know and face the truth. All the delicacy, the 
 fine feeling, the sensitiveness he got from his 
 mother, made him loathe any investigation of 
 the kind, and his racial instincts battled together 
 and made him very miserable indeed. 
 
 When he left the fencing school, he turned into 
 Hyde Park. The Row was beginning to fill, and 
 suddenly he came upon his second cousin, Lady 
 Penelope Pottinger, sitting all alone on a green 
 chair with another empty one beside it. Miles 
 dropped into the empty chair. He liked Lady 
 Pen. She was always downright and sometimes 
 very amusing. Moreover she took an intelligent 
 interest in dogs, and knew Amber Guiting and its 
 inhabitants. So Miles dexterously led the con- 
 versation round to Jan and Wren's End. 
 
 Lady Pen was looking very beautiful that 
 229
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 afternoon. She wore a broad-leaved hat which 
 did not wholly conceal her glorious hair. Hair 
 the same colour as certain short feathery rings 
 that framed a pale, pathetic little face that 
 haunted him. 
 
 "Talking of Amber Guiting," he said, "did 
 you ever come across a Miss Morton down there ? 
 A friend of Miss Ross." 
 
 Lady Pen turned and looked hard at him. " Oh 
 dear, yes; she's rather a pal of mine. I knew her 
 long before I met her at the Ross's. Why, I 
 knew her when she was companion at the Trents, 
 poor little devil." 
 
 "Did she have a bad time there? Weren't 
 they nice to her?" 
 
 "At first they were nice enough, but after- 
 wards it was rotten. Clever little thing she is, 
 but poor as a rat. What do you know about 
 her?" 
 
 Again Lady Pen looked hard at Miles. 'She 
 was wondering whether Meg had ever given 
 away the reason for that short hair of hers. 
 
 "Oh, I've met her just casually, you know, 
 with Miss Ross. She strikes me as a . . . rather 
 unusual sort of girl." 
 
 "Ever mention me?" 
 
 "No, never that I can remember. I haven't 
 seen much of her, you know." 
 
 "Well, my son, the less you see of her the bet- 
 ter, for her, I should say. She's a clever, indus- 
 trious, good little thing, but she's not in your 
 row. After all, these workin' girls have their 
 feelin's." 
 
 230
 
 Meg and Captain Middleton 
 
 "I don't fancy Miss Morton is at all the sus- 
 ceptible idiot you appear to think her. It's other 
 people's feelings I should be afraid of, not hers." 
 
 "Oh, I grant you she's attractive enough to 
 some folks. Artists, for instance, rave over her. 
 At least, Anthony Ross did. Queer chap, that; 
 would never paint me. Now can you understand 
 any man in his senses refusin' to paint me?" 
 
 "It seems odd, certainly." 
 
 "He painted her, for nothin' of course, over 
 an' over again . . . just because he liked doin' 
 it. Odd chap he was, but very takin'. You 
 couldn't dislike him, even when he refused to 
 paint you. Awful swank though, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Were his pictures of Miss Morton sold?" 
 
 "Some were, I believe; but Janet Ross has got 
 a lot of 'em down at Wren's End. She always 
 puts away most of her father's paintin's when 
 she lets the house. But you take my advice, 
 Miley, my son: you keep clear of that little 
 girl." 
 
 This was on Thursday, and, of course, after 
 two warnings in one afternoon, Miles went down 
 to Amber Guiting on Saturday night. 
 
 "Aunt Mary, it's such a lovely morning, should 
 you mind very much if I go for a stroll in the 
 woods or slack about in the fresh air, instead of 
 going to church?" 
 
 At the word "stroll" he had seen an interested 
 expression lighten up Squire Walcote's face, and 
 the last thing he wanted was his uncle's society 
 for the whole morning. 
 
 "I don't feel up to much exercise," Miles went 
 231
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 on, trying to look exhausted and failing egre- 
 giously. "I've had rather a hard week in town. 
 I'll give the vicar a turn in the evening, I will 
 truly." 
 
 Lady Mary smiled indulgently on this large 
 young man, who certainly looked far from deli- 
 cate. But only a hard-hearted woman could 
 have pointed this out at such a moment, and 
 where her nephew was concerned Lady Mary's 
 heart was all kindly affection. So she let him off 
 church. 
 
 Miles carried out a pile of books to a seat in 
 the garden and appeared to be settled down to 
 a studious morning. He waved a languid hand 
 to his aunt and uncle as they started for church, 
 and the moment they were out of sight laid down 
 his book and clasped his hands behind his head. 
 
 The vicar of Amber Guiting was a family man 
 and merciful. The school children all creaked 
 and pattered out of church after morning prayer, 
 and any other small people in the congregation 
 were encouraged to do likewise, the well-filled 
 vicarage pew setting the example. Therefore, 
 Miles reckoned, that even supposing Miss Morton 
 took the little boy to church (he couldn't con- 
 ceive of anyone having the temerity to escort 
 little Fay thither), they would come out in about 
 three-quarters of an hour after the bell stopped. 
 But he had no intention of waiting for that. The 
 moment the bell ceased he unaccompanied by 
 any of the dogs grouped about him at that mo- 
 ment was going to investigate the Wren's End 
 garden. He knew every corner of it, and he in- 
 
 232
 
 Meg and Captain Middleton 
 
 tended to unearth Meg and the children if they 
 were to be found. 
 
 Besides, he ardently desired to see William. 
 
 William was a lawful pretext. No one could 
 see anything odd hi his calling at Wren's End to 
 see William. It was a perfectly natural thing 
 to do. 
 
 Confound Mrs. Trent. 
 
 Confound Pen, what did she want to interfere 
 for? 
 
 Confound that bell. Would it never stop? 
 
 Yes it had. No it hadn't. Yes ... it had. 
 
 Give a few more minutes for laggards, and 
 then 
 
 Three melancholy and disappointed dogs were 
 left in the Manor Garden, while Miles swung 
 down the drive, past the church, and into the 
 road that led to Wren's End. 
 
 What a morning it was ! 
 
 The whole world seemed to have put on its 
 Sunday frock. There had been rain in the night, 
 and the air was full of the delicious fresh-washed 
 smell of spring herbage. Wren's End seemed 
 wonderfully quiet and deserted as Miles turned 
 into the drive. As he neared the house he paused 
 and listened, but there was no sound of high little 
 voices anywhere. 
 
 Were they at church, then? 
 
 They couldn't be indoors on such a beautiful 
 day. 
 
 Miles whistled softly, knowing that if William 
 were anywhere within hearing, that would bring 
 him at the double. 
 
 233
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 But no joyfully galumphing William appeared 
 to welcome him. 
 
 He had no intention of ringing to inquire. No, 
 he'd take a good look round first, before he went 
 back to hang about outside the church. 
 
 It was pleasant in the Wren's End garden. 
 
 Presently he went down the broad central path 
 of the walled garden, with borders of flowers and 
 beds of vegetables. Half-way down, in the sun- 
 niest, warmest place, he came upon a hammock 
 slung between an apple-tree not quite out and a 
 pear-tree that was nearly over, and a voice from 
 the hammock called sleepily: "Is that you, 
 Earley? I wish you'd pick up my cigarette case 
 for me; it's fallen into the lavender bush just 
 below." 
 
 "Yes, Miss," a voice answered that was cer- 
 tainly not Earley's. 
 
 Meg leaned out of the hammock to look be- 
 hind her. 
 
 "Hullo!" she said. "Why are you not in 
 church? I can't get up because I'm a prisoner 
 on parole. Short of a thunderstorm nothing is 
 to move me from this hammock till Miss Ross 
 comes back." 
 
 Miles stood in the pathway looking down at 
 the muffled figure in the hammock. There was 
 little to be seen of Meg save her rumpled, hatless 
 head. She was much too economical of her pre- 
 cious caps to waste one in a hammock. She had 
 slept for nearly two hours, then Hannah roused 
 her with a cup of soup. She was drowsy and 
 warm and comfortable, and her usually pale 
 
 234
 
 Meg and Captain Middleton 
 
 cheeks were almost as pink as the apple-blossom 
 buds above her head. 
 
 "Do you want to sleep? Or may I stop and 
 talk to you a bit?" Miles asked, when he had 
 found the somewhat battered cigarette case and 
 restored it to her. 
 
 "As I'm very plainly off duty, I suppose you 
 may stay and talk if I fall asleep in the middle 
 you must not be offended. You'll find plenty of 
 chairs in the tool house." 
 
 When Miles returned Meg had lit her cigarette, 
 and he begged a light from her. 
 
 What little hands she had! How fine-grained 
 and delicate her skin ! 
 
 Again he felt that queer lump in his throat at 
 the absurd, sweet pathos of her. 
 
 He placed his chair where he had her full in 
 view, not too near, yet comfortably so for con- 
 versation. Jan had swung the hammock very 
 high, and Meg looked down at Miles over the 
 edge. 
 
 "It is unusual," she said, "to find a competent 
 nurse spending her morning in this fashion, but 
 if you know Miss Ross at all, you will already 
 have realised that under her placid exterior she 
 has a will of iron." 
 
 "I shouldn't say you were lacking in deter- 
 mination." 
 
 "Oh, I'm nothing to Jan. She exerts physical 
 force. Look at me perched up here ! How can I 
 get down without a bad fall, swathed like a 
 mummy in wraps; while my employer does my 
 work?" 
 
 235
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "But you don't want to get down. You look 
 awfully comfortable." 
 
 "I am awfully comfortable but it's most . . . 
 unprofessional please don't tell anybody else." 
 
 Meg closed her eyes, looking rather like a 
 sleepy kitten, and Miles watched her in silence 
 with a pain at his heart. Something kept saying 
 over and over again: "Six years ago that girl 
 there ran off with Walter Brooke. Six years ago 
 that apparently level-headed, sensible little per- 
 son was dazzled by the pinchbeck graces of that 
 epicure in sensations." Miles fully granted his 
 charm, his gentle melancholy, his caressing man- 
 ner; but with it all Miles felt that he was so 
 plainly "a wrong-'un," so clearly second-rate and 
 untrustworthy and a nice girl ought to recog- 
 nise these things intuitively. 
 
 Miles looked very sad and grave, and Meg, 
 suddenly opening her eyes, found him regarding 
 her with this incomprehensible expression. 
 
 "You are not exactly talkative," she said. 
 
 "I thought, perhaps, you wanted to rest, and 
 would rather not talk. Maybe I'm a bit of a 
 bore, and you'd rather I went away?" 
 
 "You have not yet asked after William." 
 
 "I hoped to find William, but he's nowhere to 
 be seen." 
 
 "He's with Jan and the children. I think "- 
 here Meg lifted her curly head over the edge of 
 the hammock "he is the very darlingest animal 
 in the world. I love William." 
 
 "You do! I knew you would." 
 
 "I do. He's so faithful and kind and under- 
 standing." 
 
 236
 
 Meg and Captain Middleton 
 
 "Has he been quite good?" 
 
 "Well . . . once or twice he may have been a 
 little destructive but you expect that with 
 children." 
 
 "I hope you punish him." 
 
 "Jan does. Jan has a most effectual slap, but 
 there's always a dreadful disturbance with the 
 children on these occasions. Little Fay roars the 
 house down when William has to be chastised." 
 
 "What has he done?" 
 
 "I'm not going to tell tales of William." 
 
 Miles and Meg smiled at one another, and 
 Walter Brooke faded from his mind. 
 
 "Perhaps," he said, and paused, "you will by 
 and by allow to William's late master a small 
 portion of that regard?" 
 
 "If William's master on further acquaintance 
 proves half as loyal and trustworthy as William 
 I couldn't help it." 
 
 "I wonder what you mean exactly by loyal and 
 trustworthy?" 
 
 "They're not very elastic terms, are they?" 
 
 "Don't you think they mean rather the same 
 thing?" 
 
 "Not a bit," Meg cried eagerly; "a person 
 might be ever so trustworthy and yet not loyal. 
 I take it that trustworthy and honest in tangible 
 things are much the same. Loyalty is something 
 intangible, and often means belief hi people when 
 everything seems against them. It's a much 
 rarer quality than to be trustworthy. William 
 would stick to one if one hadn't a crust, just be- 
 cause he liked to be there to make things a bit 
 less wretched." 
 
 237
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Miles smoked in silence for a minute, and 
 again Meg closed her eyes. 
 
 "By the way," he said presently, "I didn't 
 know you and my cousin Pen were friends. I 
 met her in the Park the day before yesterday. 
 Her hair's rather the same colour as yours 
 handsome woman, isn't she?" 
 
 Meg opened her eyes and turned crimson. 
 Had the outspoken Lady Pen said anything 
 about her hair, she wondered. 
 
 Miles, noting the sudden blush, put it down 
 to Lady Pen's knowledge of what had happened 
 at the Trents, and the miserable feelings of doubt 
 and apprehension came surging back. 
 
 " She's quite lovely," said Meg. 
 
 "A bit too much on the big side, don't you 
 think?" 
 
 "I admire big women." 
 
 Silence fell again. Meg pulled the rug up 
 under her chin. 
 
 Surely it was not quite so warm as a few min- 
 utes ago. 
 
 Miles stood up. "I have a guilty feeling that 
 Miss Ross will strongly disapprove of my dis- 
 turbing you like this. If you will tell me which 
 way they have gone I will go and meet them." 
 
 "They've gone to your uncle's woods, and I 
 think they must be on their way home by now. 
 If you call William he'll answer." 
 
 "I won't say good-bye," said Miles, "because 
 I shall come back with them." 
 
 "I shall be on duty then," said Meg. "Good- 
 bye." 
 
 238
 
 Meg and Captain Middleton 
 
 She turned her face from him and nestled 
 down among her cushions. For a full minute he 
 stood staring at the back of her head, with its 
 crushed and tumbled tangle of short curls. 
 
 Then quite silently he took his way out of the 
 Wren's End garden. 
 
 Meg shut her eyes very tight. Was it the 
 light that made them smart so? 
 
 239
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE YOUNG IDEA 
 
 CQUIRE WALCOTE had given the Wren's 
 ^ End family the run of his woods, and, what 
 was even more precious, permission to use the 
 river-path through his grounds. Lady Mary, 
 who had no children of her own, was immensely 
 interested in Tony and little Fay, and would 
 give Jan more advice as to their management in 
 an hour than the vicar's wife ever offered during 
 the whole of their acquaintance. But then she 
 had a family of eight. 
 
 But the first time Tony went to the river Jan 
 took him alone; and not to the near water in 
 Squire Walcote's grounds, but to the old bridge 
 that crossed the Amber some Way out of the vil- 
 lage. It was the typical Cotswold bridge, with 
 low parapets that make such a comfortable seat 
 for meditative villagers. Just before they reached 
 it she loosed Tony's hand, and held her breath to 
 see what he would do. Would he run straight 
 across to get to the other side, or would he look 
 over? 
 
 Yes. He went straight to the low wall; 
 stopped, looked over, leaned over, and stared 
 and stared. 
 
 Jan gave a sigh of relief. 
 
 The water of the Amber just there is deep and 
 240
 
 The Young Idea 
 
 clear, an infinite thing for a child to look down 
 into ; but it was not of that Jan was thinking. 
 
 Hugo was no fisherman. Water had no attrac- 
 tion for him, save as a pleasant means of taking 
 exercise. He was a fair oar; but for a stream 
 that wouldn't float a boat he cared nothing at all. 
 
 Charles Considine Smith had angled diligently. 
 In fact, he wrote almost as much about the habits 
 of trout as about wrens. James Ross, the gal- 
 lant who carried off the second Tranquil, had 
 been fishing at Amber Guiting when he first 
 saw her. Anthony's father fished and so did 
 Anthony; and Jan, herself, could throw a fly 
 quite prettily. Yet, your true fisherman is born, 
 not made; it is not a question of environment, 
 but it is, very often, one of heredity; for the ten- 
 dency comes out when, apparently, every adverse 
 circumstance has combined to crush it. 
 
 And no mortal who cares for or is going to care 
 for fishing can ever cross a bridge without stop- 
 ping to look down into the water. 
 
 "There's a fish swimming down there," Tony 
 whispered (was it instinct made him whisper? 
 Jan wondered), "brown and speckledy, rather 
 like the thrushes in the garden." 
 
 Jan clutched nervously at the little coat while 
 Tony hung over so far that only his toes were on 
 the ground. She had brought a bit of bread in 
 her pocket, and let him throw bits to the greedy, 
 wily old trout who had defied a hundred skilful 
 rods. On that first day old Amber whispered 
 her secret to Tony and secured another slave. 
 
 For Jan it was only another proof that Tony 
 241
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 possessed a sterling character. Since her sister's 
 disastrous marriage she had come to look upon a 
 taste for fishing as more or less of a moral safe- 
 guard. She had often reflected that if only Fay 
 had not been so lukewarm with regard to the 
 gentle craft and so bored in a heavenly place 
 where, if it did rain for twenty-three of the 
 twenty-four hours, even a second-rate rod might 
 land fourteen or fifteen pounds of good sea- 
 trout in an afternoon she could never have 
 fallen in love with Hugo Tancred, who was equally 
 without enthusiasm and equally bored till he 
 met Fay. Jan was ready enough now to blame 
 herself for her absorption at this time, and would 
 remember guiltily the relief with which she and 
 her father greeted Fay's sudden willingness to 
 remain a week longer in a place she previously 
 had declared to be absolutely unendurable. 
 
 The first tune Tony's sister went to Amber 
 Bridge Meg took them both. Little Fay de- 
 scended from her pram just before they reached 
 it, declaring it was a "nice dly place to walk." 
 She ran on a little ahead, and before Meg realised 
 what she was doing, she had scrambled up on 
 to the top of the low wall and run briskly along 
 it till her progress was stopped by a man who 
 was leaning over immersed in thought. He 
 nearly fell in himself, when a clear little voice 
 inquired, "Do loo mind if I climb over loo?" 
 
 It was Farmer Burgess, and he clasped the 
 tripping lady of the white woolly gaiters in a 
 pair of strong arms, and lifted her down just as 
 the terrified Meg reached them. 
 
 242
 
 The Young Idea 
 
 "Law, Missie!" gasped Mr. Burgess, "you 
 mustn't do the like o' that there. It's downright 
 fool'ardy." 
 
 " Downlight foolardy," echoed little Fay. " And 
 what nelse?" 
 
 According to Mr. Burgess it was dangerous 
 and a great many other things as well, but he 
 lost his heart to her in that moment, and she 
 could twist him round her little finger ever after. 
 
 To be told that a thing was dangerous was to 
 add to its attractions. She was absolutely with- 
 out fear, and could climb like a kitten. She 
 hadn't been at Wren's End a week before she was 
 discovered half-way up the staircase on the out- 
 side of the banisters. And when she had been 
 caught and lifted over by a white-faced aunt, 
 explained that it was "muts the most instasting 
 way of going up tairs." 
 
 When asked how she expected to get to the 
 other side at the top, she giggled derisively and 
 said "ovel." 
 
 Jan seriously considered a barbed-wire entan- 
 glement for the outside edge of her staircase after 
 that. 
 
 While Meg rested in the hammock Jan spent a 
 strenuous morning in Guiting Woods with the 
 children and William. Late windflowers were 
 still in bloom, and early bluebells made lovely 
 atmospheric patches under the trees, just as 
 though a bit of the sky had fallen, as in the oft- 
 told tale of "Cockie Lockie." There were prim- 
 roses, too, and white violets, so that there were 
 many little bunches with exceedingly short stalks 
 
 243
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 to be arranged and tied up with the worsted prov- 
 ident Auntie Jan had brought with her; finally 
 they all sat down on a rug lined with mackintosh, 
 and little Fay demanded "Clipture." 
 
 "Clipture" was her form of " Scripture," which 
 Auntie Jan "told" every morning after breakfast 
 to the children. Jan was a satisfactory narrator, 
 for the form of her stories never varied. The 
 Bible stories she told in the actual Bible words, 
 and all children appreciate their dramatic sim- 
 plicity and directness. 
 
 That morning Joseph and his early adventures 
 and the baby Moses were the favourites, and 
 when these had been followed by "The Three 
 Bears" and "Cock Robin," it was time to collect 
 the bouquets and go home. And on the way 
 home they met Captain Middleton. William 
 spied him afar off, and dashed towards him with 
 joyful, deep-toned barks. He was delighted to 
 see William, said he had grown and was in the 
 pink of condition; and then announced that he 
 had already been to Wren's End and had seen 
 Miss Morton. There was something in the tone 
 of this avowal that made Jan think. It was 
 shy, it was proud, it seemed to challenge Jan to 
 find any fault in his having done so, and it was 
 supremely self-conscious. He walked back with 
 them to the Wren's End gate, and then came a 
 moment of trial for William. 
 
 He wanted to go with his master. 
 
 He wanted to stay with the children. 
 
 Captain Middleton settled it by shaking each 
 offered paw and saying very seriously: "You 
 
 244
 
 The Young Idea 
 
 must stay and take care of the ladies, William. 
 I trust you." William looked wistfully after the 
 tall figure that went down the road with the 
 queer, light, jumpetty tread of all men who ride 
 much. 
 
 Then he trotted after Jan and the children and 
 was exuberantly glad to see Meg again. 
 
 She declared herself quite rested; heard that 
 they had seen Captain Middleton, and met un- 
 moved the statement that he was coming to tea. 
 
 But she didn't look nearly so well rested as 
 Jan had hoped she would. 
 
 After the children's dinner Meg went on duty, 
 and Jan saw no more of the nursery party till 
 later in the afternoon. The creaking wheels of 
 two small wheelbarrows made Jan look up from 
 the letters she was writing at the knee-hole table 
 that stood in the nursery window, and she beheld 
 little Fay and Tony, followed by Meg knitting 
 busily, as they came through the yew archway 
 on to the lawn. 
 
 Meg subsided into one of the white seats, but 
 the children processed solemnly round, pausing 
 under Jan's window. 
 
 "I know lots an' lots of Clipture," her niece's 
 voice proclaimed proudly as she sat down heavily 
 in her wheelbarrow on the top of some garden 
 produce she had collected. 
 
 "How much do you know?" Tony asked scep- 
 tically. 
 
 " Oh, lots an' lots, all about poor little Jophez 
 in the bullushes, and his instasting dleams." 
 
 "Twasn't Jophez," Tony corrected. "It was 
 245
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Mophez in the bulrushes, and he didn't have no 
 dreams. That was Jophez." 
 
 "How d'you know," Fay persisted, "that poor 
 little Mophez had no dleams? Why shouldn't he 
 have dleams same as Jophez?" 
 
 "It doesn't say so." 
 
 "It doesn't say he didn't have dleams. He 
 had dleams, I tell you; I know he had. Muts 
 nicer dleams van Jophez." 
 
 "Let's ask Meg; she'll know." 
 
 Jan gave a sigh of relief. The children had 
 not noticed her, and Meg had a fertile mind. 
 
 The wheelbarrows were trundled across the 
 lawn and paused in front of Meg, while a lively 
 duet demanded simultaneously: 
 
 "Did little Mophez have dleams?" 
 ' Didn't deah littoo Mophez have dleams?" 
 
 When Meg had disentangled the questions and 
 each child sat down in a wheelbarrow at her 
 feet, she remarked judicially: "Well, there's 
 nothing said about little Moses' dreams, cer- 
 tainly; but I should think it's quite likely the 
 poor baby did have dreams." 
 
 "What sort of dleams? Nicer van sheaves 
 and sings, wasn't they?" 
 
 "I should think," Meg said thoughtfully, 
 "that he dreamed he must cry very quietly lest 
 the Egyptians should hear him." 
 
 "Deah littoo Mophez . . . and what nelse?" 
 
 Meg was tempted and fell. It was very easy 
 for her to hi vent "dleams" for "deah littoo 
 Mophez" lying in his bulrush ark among the 
 flags at the river's edge. And, wholly regardless 
 
 246 
 
 .cu 
 
 {
 
 The Young Idea 
 
 of geography, she transported him to the Amber, 
 where the flags were almost in bloom at that 
 moment, such local colour adding much to the 
 realism of her stories. 
 
 Presently William grew restless. He ran to 
 Anthony's Venetian gate in the yew hedge and 
 squealed (William never whined) to get out. 
 Tony let him out, and he fled down the drive to 
 meet his master, who had come a good half- 
 hour too soon for tea. 
 
 Jan continued to try and finish her letters 
 while Captain Middleton, coatless, on all-fours, 
 enacted an elephant which the children rode in 
 turn. When he had completely ruined the knees 
 of his trousers he arose and declared it was time 
 to play "Here we go round the mulberry-bush," 
 and it so happened that once or twice he played 
 it hand-in-hand with Meg. 
 
 Jan left her letters and went out. 
 
 The situation puzzled her. She feared for 
 Meg's peace of mind, for Captain Middleton 
 was undoubtedly attractive; and then she found 
 herself fearing for his. 
 
 After tea and more games with the children 
 Captain Middleton escorted his hostess to church, 
 where he joined his aunt in the Manor seat. 
 
 During church Jan found herself wondering 
 uneasily: 
 
 "Was everybody going to fall hi love with 
 Meg?" 
 
 "Would Peter?" 
 
 "What a disagreeable idea !" 
 
 And yet, why should it be? 
 247
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Resolutely she told herself that Peter was at 
 perfect liberty to fall in love with Meg if he liked, 
 and set herself to listen intelligently to the Vicar's 
 sermon. 
 
 Meg started to put her children to bed, only 
 to find that her fertility of imagination in the 
 afternoon was to prove her undoing in the eve- 
 ning; for her memory was by no means as re- 
 liable as her powers of invention. 
 
 Little Fay urgently demanded the whole cycle 
 of little Mophez' dleams over again. And for 
 the life of her Meg couldn't remember them 
 either in then* proper substance or sequence 
 and this in spite of the most persistent prompt- 
 ing, and she failed utterly to reproduce the enter- 
 tainment of the afternoon. Both children were 
 disappointed, but little Fay, accustomed as she 
 was to Auntie Jan's undeviating method of 
 narrating "Clipture," was angry as well. She 
 fell into a passion of rage and nearly screamed 
 the house down. Since the night of Ayah's de- 
 parture there had not been such a scene. 
 
 Poor Meg vowed (though she knew she would 
 break her vow the very first time she was 
 tempted) that never again would she tamper 
 with Holy Writ, and for some weeks she coldly 
 avoided both Jophez and Mophez as topics of 
 conversation. 
 
 Meg could never resist playing at things, 
 and what "Clipture" the children learned from 
 Jan in the morning they insisted on enacting with 
 Meg later in the day. 
 
 248
 
 The Young Idea 
 
 Sometimes she was seized with misgiving as 
 to the propriety of these representations, but 
 dismissed her doubts as cowardly. 
 
 "After all," she explained to Jan, "we only 
 play the very human bits. I never let them 
 pretend to be anybody divine . . . and you 
 know the people in the Old Testament, any- 
 way were most of them extremely human, 
 not to say disreputable at times." 
 
 It is possible that "Capture's" supreme at- 
 traction for the children was that it conveyed 
 the atmosphere of the familiar East. The New 
 Testament was more difficult to play at, but, 
 being equally dramatic, the children couldn't 
 see it. 
 
 "Can't we do one teeny miracle?" Tony would 
 beseech, but Meg was firm; she would have 
 nothing to do with either miracles nor yet with 
 angels. Little Fay ardently desired to be an 
 angel, but Meg wouldn't have it at any price. 
 
 "You're not in the least like an angel, you 
 know," she said severely. 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "Because angels are perfectly good." 
 
 "I could pletend to be puffectly good." 
 
 "Let's play Johnny Baptist," suggested the 
 ever-helpful Tony, "and we could pittend to 
 bring in his head on a charger." 
 
 "Certainly not," Meg said hastily. "That 
 would be a horrid game." 
 
 "Let me be the daughter!" little Fay im- 
 plored, "and dance in flont of Helod." 
 
 This was permitted, and Tony, decorated 
 249
 
 with William's chain, sat gloomily scowling at 
 the gyrations of "the daughter," who, assisted 
 by William, danced all over the nursery: and 
 Meg, watching the representation, decided that 
 if the original " daughter" was half as bewitch- 
 ing as this one, there really might have been 
 some faint excuse for Herod. 
 
 Hannah had no idea of these goings-on, or 
 she would have expected the roof to fall in and 
 crush them. Yet she, too, was included among 
 the children's prophets, owing to her exact and 
 thorough knowledge of "Clipture." Hannah's 
 favourite part of the Bible was the Book of 
 Daniel, which she knew practically by heart, 
 and her rendering of certain chapters was 
 though she would have hotly resented the phrase 
 extremely dramatic. 
 
 It is so safe and satisfying to know that your 
 favourite story will run smoothly, clause for 
 clause, and word for word, just as you like it 
 best, and the children were always sure of this 
 with Hannah. 
 
 Anne Chitt would listen open-mouthed in 
 astonishment, exclaiming afterwards, "Why, 
 'Annah, wot a tremenjous lot of Bible verses 
 you 'ave learned to be sure." 
 
 The children once tried Anne Chitt as a story- 
 teller, but she was a failure. 
 
 As she had been present at several of Hannah's 
 recitals of the Three Children and the burning 
 fiery furnace, they thought it but a modest de- 
 mand upon her powers. But when instead of 
 beginning with the sonorous "Then an herald 
 
 250
 
 The Young Idea 
 
 cried aloud, To you it is commanded, people, 
 nations and languages" when she wholly omitted 
 any reference to "the sound of cornet, flute, harp, 
 sackbut, psaltery, and dulcimer, and all kinds of 
 musick" and essayed to tell the story in broad 
 Gloucestershire and her own bald words, the 
 disappointed children fell upon her and thumped 
 her rudely upon the back; declaring her story 
 to be "kittcha" and she, herself, a budmash. 
 Which, being interpreted, meant that her story 
 was most badly made and that she, herself, was 
 a rascal. 
 
 Anne Chitt was much offended, and complained 
 tearfully to Jan that she " wouldn't 'ave said 
 nothin' if they'd called 'er or'nery names, but 
 them there Injian words was more than she 
 could abear." 
 
 251
 
 Cl 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 ONE WAY OF LOVE' 
 
 AMONG the neighbours there was none 
 ** more assiduous in the matter of calls and 
 other friendly manifestations than Mr. Huntly 
 Withells emphasis on the "ells" who lived at 
 Guiting Grange, about a couple of miles from 
 Wren's End. Mr. Withells was settled at the 
 Grange some years before Miss Janet Ross left 
 her house to Jan, and he was already a person 
 of importance and influence in that part of the 
 county when Anthony Ross and his daughters 
 first spent a whole summer there. 
 
 Mr. Withells proved most neighbourly. He 
 had artistic leanings himself, and possessed some 
 good pictures; among them, one of Anthony's, 
 which naturally proved a bond of union. He did 
 not even so much as sketch, himself which 
 Anthony considered another point in his favour 
 but he was a really skilled photographer, 
 possessed the most elaborate cameras, and ob- 
 tained quite beautiful results. 
 
 Since Jan's return from India he had com- 
 pletely won her heart by taking a great many 
 photographs of the children, pictures delight- 
 fully natural, and finished as few amateurs con- 
 trive to present them. 
 
 252
 
 "One Way of Love" 
 
 It was rumoured in Amber Guiting that Mr. 
 Withells' views on the subject of matrimony 
 were "peculiar"; but all the ladies, especially 
 the elderly ladies, were unanimous in declaring 
 that he had a "beautiful mind." 
 
 Mrs. Fream, the vicar's wife, timidly confided 
 to Jan that Mr. Withells had told her husband 
 that he cared only for "spiritual marriage" 
 whatever that might be; and that, as yet, he 
 had met no woman whojjpi he felt would see eye 
 to eye with him on this question. "He doesn't 
 approve of caresses," she added. 
 
 "Well, who wants to caress him?" Jan asked 
 bluntly. 
 
 Meg declared there was one thing she could 
 not bear about Mr. Withells, and that was the 
 way he shook hands, "exactly as if he had no 
 thumbs. If he's so afraid of touching one as 
 all that comes to, why doesn't he let it alone?" 
 
 Yet the apparently thumbless hands were 
 constantly occupied in bearing gifts of all kinds 
 to his friends. 
 
 In appearance he was dapper, smallish, with- 
 out being undersized, always immaculately neat 
 in his attire, with a clean-shaven, serious, rather 
 sallow face, which was inclined to be chubby as 
 to the cheeks. He wore double-sighted pince- 
 nez, and no mortal had ever seen him without 
 them. His favourite writer was Miss Jane Aus- 
 ten, and he deplored the licentious tendency of 
 so much modern literature; frequently, and with 
 flushed countenance, denouncing certain books 
 as an "outrage." He was considered a very 
 
 253
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 well-read man. He disliked anything that was 
 "not quite nice," and detested a strong light, 
 whether it were thrown upon life or landscape; 
 in bright sunshine he always carried a white 
 umbrella lined with green. The game he played 
 best was croquet, and here he was really first 
 class; but he was also skilled in every known 
 form of Patience, and played each evening un- 
 less he happened to be dining out. 
 
 As regards food he was something of a faddist, 
 and on the subject of fresh air almost a mono- 
 maniac. He declared that he could not exist 
 for ten minutes in a room with closed windows, 
 and that the smell of apples made him feel posi- 
 tively faint; moreover, he would mention his 
 somewhat numerous antipathies as though there 
 were something peculiarly meritorious in pos- 
 sessing so many. This made his entertainment 
 at any meal a matter of agitated consideration 
 among the ladies of Amber Guiting. 
 
 Nevertheless, he kept an excellent and hos- 
 pitable table himself, and in no way forced his 
 own taste upon others. He disliked the smell 
 of tobacco and hardly ever drank wine, yet he 
 kept a stock of excellent cigars and his cellar 
 was beyond reproach. 
 
 He had been observing Jan for several years, 
 and was rapidly coming to the conclusion that 
 she was an "eminently sensible woman." Her 
 grey hair and the way she had managed every- 
 thing for her father led him to believe that she 
 was many years older than her real age. Re- 
 cently he had taken to come to Wren's End on
 
 "One Way of Love" 
 
 one pretext and another almost every day. He 
 was kind and pleasant to the children, who 
 amused and pleased him especially little Fay; 
 but he was much puzzled by Meg, whom he had 
 known in pre-cap-and-apron days while she was 
 staying at Wren's End. 
 
 He couldn't quite place Meg, and there was 
 an occasional glint in her queer eyes that he 
 found disconcerting. He was never comfortable 
 in her society, for he objected to red hair almost 
 as strongly as to a smell of apples. 
 
 He really liked the children, and since he 
 knew he couldn't get Jan without them he was 
 beginning to think that in such a big house as 
 the Grange they would not necessarily be much 
 in the way. He knew nothing whatever about 
 Hugo Tancred. 
 
 Jan satisfied his fastidious requirements. She 
 was dignified, graceful, and, he considered, of 
 admirable parts. He felt that in a very little 
 while he could imbue Jan with his own views as 
 to the limitations and delicate demarcations of 
 such a marriage as he contemplated. 
 
 She was so sensible. 
 
 Meanwhile the object of these kind intentions 
 was wholly unaware of them. She was just then 
 very much absorbed in her own affairs and con- 
 siderably worried about Meg's. For Captain 
 Middleton's week-end was repeated on the fol- 
 lowing Saturday and extended far into the next 
 week. He came constantly to Wren's End, 
 where the children positively adored him, and 
 he seemed to possess an infallible instinct which 
 
 255
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 led him to the village whensoever Meg and her 
 charges had business there. 
 
 On such occasions Meg was often quite rude 
 to Captain Middleton, but the children and 
 William more than atoned for her coldness by 
 the warmth of their welcome, and he attached 
 himself to them. 
 
 In fact, as regards the nursery party at Wren's 
 End, Miles strongly resembled William before a 
 fire you might clrive him away ninety and 
 nine tunes, he always came thrusting back with 
 the same expression of deprecating astonish- 
 ment that you could be other than delighted to 
 see him. 
 
 Whither was it all tending? Jan wondered. 
 
 No further news had come from Hugo; Peter, 
 she supposed, had sailed and was due in London 
 at the end of the week. 
 
 Then Mr. Huntly Withells asked her one after- 
 noon to bicycle over to see his spring irises he 
 called them "irides," and invariably spoke of 
 "crori," and "delphinia" and as Meg was taking 
 the children to tea at the vicarage, Jan went. 
 
 To her surprise, she found herself the sole 
 guest, but supposed she was rather early and 
 that his other friends hadn't come yet. 
 
 They strolled about the gardens, so lovely in 
 their spring blossoming, and it happened that 
 from one particular place they got a specially 
 good view of the house. 
 
 "How much larger it is than you would think, 
 looking at the front," Jan remarked. "You 
 don't see that wing at all from the drive." 
 
 256
 
 "One Way of Love" 
 
 "There's plenty of room for nephews and 
 nieces," Mr. Withells said jocularly. 
 
 "Have you many nephews and nieces?" she 
 asked, turning to look at him, for there was 
 something in the tone of his voice that she could 
 not understand. 
 
 "Not of my own," he replied, still in that 
 queer, unnatural voice, "but you see my wife 
 might have ... if I was married." 
 
 "Are you thinking of getting married?" she 
 asked, with the real interest such a subject al- 
 ways rouses in woman. 
 
 "That depends," Mr. Withells said con- 
 sciously, "on whether the lady I have in mind 
 ... er ... shall we sit down, Miss Ross? It's 
 rather hot in the walks." 
 
 "Oh, not yet," Jan exclaimed. She couldn't 
 think why, but she began to feel uncomfortable. 
 "I must see those Darwin tulips over there." 
 
 "It's very sunny over there," he objected. 
 "Come down the nut-walk and see the myosotis 
 arvensis; it is already in bloom, the weather has 
 been so warm. 
 
 "Miss Ross," Mr. Withells continued seriously, 
 as they turned into the nut-walk which led back 
 towards the house, "we have known each other 
 for a considerable time . . ." 
 
 "We have," said Jan, as he had paused, evi- 
 dently expecting a reply. 
 
 "And I have come to have a great regard for 
 you . . ." 
 
 Again he paused, and Jan found herself si- 
 lently whispering, "Curtsy while you're thinking 
 
 257
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 it saves time," but she preserved an outward 
 silence. 
 
 "You are, if I may say so, the most sensible 
 woman of my acquaintance." 
 
 " Thank you," said Jan, but without enthu- 
 siasm. 
 
 "We are neither of us quite young" (Mr. 
 Withells was forty-nine, but it was a little hard 
 on Jan) "and I feel sure that you, for instance, 
 would not expect or desire from a husband those 
 constant outward demonstrations of affection 
 such as handclaspings and kisses, which are so 
 foolish and insanitary." 
 
 Jan turned extremely red and walked rather 
 faster. 
 
 "Do not misunderstand me, Miss Ross," Mr. 
 Withells continued, looking with real admiration 
 at her downcast, rosy face she must be quite 
 healthy he thought, to look so clean and fresh 
 always "I lay down no hard-and-fast rules. 
 I do not say should my wife desire to kiss me 
 sometimes, that I should . . . repulse her." 
 
 Jan gasped. 
 
 "But I have the greatest objection, both on 
 sanitary and moral grounds to 
 
 "I can't imagine anyone wanting to kiss you," 
 Jan interrupted furiously; "you're far too puffy 
 and stippled." 
 
 And she ran from him as though an angry 
 bull were after her. 
 
 Mr. Withells stood stock-still where he was, 
 in pained astonishment. 
 
 He saw the fleeing fair one disappear into the 
 258
 
 "One Way of Love" 
 
 distance and in the shortest time on record he 
 heard the clanging of her bicycle bell as she 
 scorched down his drive. 
 
 " Puffy and stippled" "Puffy and stippled"! 
 
 Mr. Withells repeated to himself this rudely 
 personal remark as he walked slowly towards 
 the house. 
 
 What could she mean? 
 
 And what in the world had he said to make 
 her so angry? 
 
 Women were really most unaccountable. 
 
 He ascended his handsome staircase and went 
 into his dressing-room, and there he sought his 
 looking-glass, which stood in the window, and 
 surveyed himself critically. Yes, his cheeks 
 were a bit puffy near the nostrils, and, as is gen- 
 erally the case in later life, the pores of the skin 
 were a bit enlarged, but for ail that he was quite 
 a personable man. 
 
 He sighed. Miss Ross, he feared, was not 
 nearly so sensible as he had thought. 
 
 It was distinctly disappointing. 
 
 For the first mile and a quarter Jan scorched 
 all she knew. The angry blood was thumping 
 in her ears and she exclaimed indignantly at 
 intervals, "How dared he! How dared he!" 
 
 Then she punctured a tyre. 
 
 There was no hope of getting it mended till 
 she reached Wren's End, when Earley would 
 do it for her. As she pushed her bicycle along 
 the lane she recovered her sense of humour and 
 she laughed. And presently she became aware 
 
 259
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 of a faint, sweet, elusive perfume from some 
 flowering shrub on the other side of somebody's 
 garden wall. 
 
 It strongly resembled the smell of a blossom- 
 ing tree that grew on Ridge Road, Malabar 
 Hill. And in one second Jan was in Bombay, 
 and was standing in the moonlight, looking up 
 into a face that was neither puffy nor stippled 
 nor prim; but young and thin and worn and very 
 kind. And the exquisite understanding of that 
 moment came back to her, and her eyes filled 
 with tears. 
 
 Yet in another moment she was again de- 
 manding indignantly, "How dared he!" 
 
 She went straight to her room when she got 
 in, and, like Mr. Withells, she went and looked 
 at herself in the glass. 
 
 Unlike Mr. Withells, she saw nothing there 
 to give her any satisfaction. She shook her 
 head at the person in the glass and said aloud: 
 
 "If that's all you get by trying to be sensible, 
 the sooner you become a drivelling idiot the 
 better for your peace of mind and your 
 vanity." 
 
 The person in the glass shook her head back 
 at Jan, and Jan turned away thoroughly dis- 
 gusted with such a futile sort of in quoque. 
 
 260
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 ANOTHER WAY OF LOVE 
 
 1V/TEG and the children, returning from then: 
 *** tea-party at the vicarage, were stopped 
 continually in their journey through the main 
 street by friendly folk who wanted to greet the 
 children. It was quite a triumphal progress, 
 and Meg was feeling particularly proud that 
 afternoon, for her charges, including William, 
 had all behaved beautifully. Little Fay had 
 refrained from snatching other children's be- 
 longings with the cool remark, "Plitty little 
 Fay would like 'at"; Tony had been quite merry 
 and approachable; and William had offered 
 paws and submitted to continual pullings, push- 
 ings and draggings with exemplary patience. 
 
 Once through the friendly, dignified old street, 
 they reached the main road, which was bordered 
 by rough grass sloping to a ditch surmounted 
 by a thick thorn hedge. They were rather late, 
 and Meg was wheeling little Fay as fast as she 
 could, Tony trotting beside her to keep up, 
 when a motor horn was sounded behind them 
 and a large car came along at a good speed. 
 They were all well to the side of the road, but 
 William with the perverse stupidity of the 
 young dog above all, of the young bull-terrier 
 chose that precise moment to gambol aim- 
 
 261
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 lessly right into the path of the swiftly-coming 
 motor, just as it seemed right upon him; and 
 this, regardless of terrified shouts from Meg and 
 the children, frantic sounding of the horn and 
 violent language from the driver of the car. 
 
 It seemed that destruction must inevitably 
 overtake William when the car swerved violently 
 as the man ran it down the sloping bank, where 
 it stuck, leaving William, unscathed and rather 
 alarmed by all the clamour, to run back to his 
 family. 
 
 Meg promptly whacked him as hard as she 
 could, whereupon, much surprised, he turned 
 over on his back, waving four paws feebly in 
 the air. 
 
 "Why don't you keep your dog at the side?" 
 the man shouted with very natural irritation as 
 he descended from his seat. 
 
 "He's a naughty stupid puppy," Meg ejacu- 
 lated between the whacks. "It wasn't your 
 fault in the least, and it was awfully good of you 
 to avoid him." Whack whack. 
 
 The man started a little as she spoke and 
 came across the road towards them. 
 
 Meg raised a flushed face from her castigation 
 of William, but the pretty colour faded quickly 
 when she saw who the stranger was. 
 
 "Meg !" he exclaimed. " You /" 
 
 For a tense moment they stared at one an- 
 other, while the children stared at the stranger. 
 He was certainly a handsome man; melancholy, 
 "interesting." Pale, with regular features and 
 sleepy, smallish eyes set very near together. 
 
 262
 
 Another Way of Love 
 
 "If you knew how I have searched for you," 
 he said. 
 
 His voice was his great charm, and would 
 have made his fortune on the stage. It could 
 convey so much, could be so tender and beseech- 
 ing, so charged with deepest sadness, so musical 
 always. 
 
 "Your search cannot have been very arduous," 
 Meg answered drily. " There has never been 
 any mystery about my movements." And she 
 looked him straight in the face. 
 
 "At first, I was afraid ... I did not try to 
 find you." 
 
 "You were well-advised." 
 
 "Who is 'at sahib?" little Fay interrupted 
 impatiently. "Let us go home." She had no 
 use for any sahib who ignored her presence. 
 
 "Yes, we'd better be getting on," Meg said 
 hurriedly, and seized the handle of the pram. 
 
 But he stood right in their path. 
 
 "You were very cruel," the musical voice 
 went on. "You never seemed to give a thought 
 to all I was suffering." 
 
 Meg met the sleepy eyes, that used to thrill 
 her very soul, with a look of scornful amusement 
 in hers that was certainly the very last expres- 
 sion he had ever expected to see in them. 
 
 She had always dreaded this moment. 
 
 Realising the power this man had exercised 
 over her, she always feared that should she meet 
 him again the old glamour would surround him; 
 the old domination be reasserted. She forgot 
 that in five years one's standards change. 
 
 263
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Now that she did meet him she discovered 
 that he held no bonds with which to bind her. 
 That what she had dreaded was a chimera. The 
 real Walter Brooke, the moment he appeared in 
 the flesh, destroyed the image memory had set 
 up; and Meg straightened her slender shoulders 
 as though a heavy burden had dropped from 
 them. 
 
 The whole thing passed like a flash. 
 
 "You were very cruel," he repeated. 
 
 "There is no use going into all that," Meg 
 answered in a cheerful, matter-of-fact tone. 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Brooke. We are most grateful 
 to you for not running over William, who is," 
 here she raised her voice for the benefit of the 
 culprit, "a naughty tiresome dog." 
 
 "But you can't leave me like this. When can 
 I see you again there is so much I want to 
 explain . . ." 
 
 "But I don't want any explanations, thank 
 you. Come children, we must go." 
 
 "Meg, listen . . . surely you have some little 
 feeling of kindness towards me . . . after all 
 that happened ..." 
 
 He put his hand on Meg's arm to detain her, 
 and William, who had never been known to 
 show enmity to human creature, gave a deep 
 growl and bristled. A growl so ominous and 
 threatening that Meg hastily loosed the pram 
 and caught him by the collar with both hands. 
 
 Tony saw that Meg was flustered and uncom- 
 fortable. "Why does he not go?" he asked. 
 "I thought he was a sahib, but I suppose he is 
 
 264
 
 Another Way of Love 
 
 the gharri-wallah. We have thanked him 
 does he want backsheesh? Give him a rupee." 
 
 "He does want backsheesh," the deep, musical 
 voice went on "a little pity, a little common 
 kindness." 
 
 It was an embarrassing situation. William was 
 straining at his collar and growling like an in- 
 cipient thunderstorm. 
 
 "We have thanked you," Tony said again 
 with dignity. "We have no money, or we would 
 reward you. If you like to call at the house, 
 Auntie Jan always has money." 
 
 The man smiled pleasantly at Tony. 
 
 "Thank you, young man. You have told me 
 exactly what I wanted to know. So you are 
 with your friends ? " 
 
 "I can't hold this dog much longer," Meg 
 gasped. "If you don't go you'll get bitten." 
 
 William ceased to growl, for far down the road 
 he had heard a footstep that he knew. He still 
 strained at his collar, but it was hi a direction 
 that led away from Mr. Walter Brooke. Meg 
 let go and William swung off down the road. 
 
 "Shall we all have a lide in loo ghalli?" little 
 Fay asked it seemed to her sheer waste of time 
 to stand arguing in the road when a good car 
 was waiting empty. The children called every 
 form of conveyance a "gharri." 
 
 "We shall meet again," said this persistent 
 man. "You can't put me off like this." 
 
 He raised his voice, for he was angry, and its 
 clear tones carried far down the quiet road. 
 
 "There's Captain Middleton with William," 
 265
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Tony said suddenly. "Perhaps he has some 
 money." 
 
 Meg paled and crimsoned, and with hands 
 that trembled started to push the pram at a 
 great pace. 
 
 The man went back to his car, and Tony, re- 
 gardless of Meg's call to him, ran to meet Wil- 
 liam and Miles. 
 
 The back wheels of the car had sunk deeply 
 into the soft wet turf. It refused to budge. 
 Miles came up. He was long-sighted, and he 
 had seen very well who it was that was talking 
 to Meg in the road. He had also heard Mr. 
 Brooke's last remark. 
 
 Till lately he had only known Walter Brooke 
 enough to dislike him vaguely. Since his inter- 
 view with Mrs. Trent this feeling had intensified 
 to such an extent as surprised himself. At the 
 present moment he was seething with rage, but 
 all the same he went and helped to get the car 
 up the bank, jacking it up, and setting his great 
 shoulders against it to start it again. 
 
 All this Tony watched with deepest interest, 
 and Meg waited, fuming, a little way down the 
 road, for she knew it was hopeless to get Tony 
 to come till the car had once started. Once on 
 the hard road again, it bowled swiftly away 
 and to her immense relief passed her without 
 stopping. 
 
 She saw that Miles was bringing Tony, and 
 started on again with little Fay. 
 
 Fury was in her heart at Tony's disobedience, 
 and behind it all a dull ache that Miles should 
 
 266
 
 Another Way of Love 
 
 have heard, and doubtless misunderstood, Walter 
 Brooke's last remark. 
 
 Tony was talking eagerly as he followed, but 
 she was too upset to listen till suddenly she 
 heard Miles say hi a tone of the deepest satis- 
 faction, "Good old William." 
 
 This was too much. 
 
 She stopped and called over her shoulder: 
 "He isn't good at all; he's a thoroughly tire- 
 some, disobedient, badly- trained dog." 
 
 They came up with her at that, and William 
 rolled over on his back, for he knew those tones 
 portended further punishment. 
 
 "He's an ass in lots of ways," Miles allowed, 
 "but he is an excellent judge of character." 
 
 And as if in proof of this William righted him- 
 self and came cringing to Meg to try and lick the 
 hand that a few minutes ago had thumped him 
 so vigorously. 
 
 Meg looked up at Miles and he looked down 
 at her, and his gaze was pained, kind and grave. 
 His eyes were large and well-opened and set 
 wide apart in his broad face. Honest, trust- 
 worthy eyes they were. 
 
 Very gently he took the little pram from her, 
 for he saw that her hands were trembling: 
 "You've had a fright," he said. "I know what 
 it is. I had a favourite dog run over once. It's 
 horrible, it takes months to get over it. I can't 
 think why dogs are so stupid about motors . . . 
 must have been a near shave that . . . very 
 decent of Brooke he's taken pounds off his car 
 with that wrench." 
 
 267
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 While Miles talked he didn't look at Meg. 
 
 "I say, little Fay," he suddenly suggested, 
 "wouldn't you like to walk a bit?" and he lifted 
 her out. " There, that's better. Now, Miss 
 Morton, you sit down a minute; you've had a 
 shake, you know. I'll go on with the kiddies." 
 
 Meg was feeling a horrible, humiliating desire 
 to cry. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, 
 her knees refused to bear her. Thankfully she 
 sat down on the foot-board of Fay's little pram. 
 The tall figure between the two little ones sud- 
 denly grew blurred and dim. Furtively she 
 blew her nose and wiped her eyes. They were 
 not a stone's throw from the lodge at Wren's 
 End. 
 
 How absurd to be sitting there ! 
 
 And yet she didn't feel inclined to move just 
 yet. 
 
 "'Ere, my dear, you take a sip o' water; the 
 gentleman's told me all about it. Them sort 
 o' shocks fair turns one over." 
 
 And kind Mrs. Earley was beside her, holding 
 out a thick tumbler. Meg drank the deliciously 
 cold water and arose refreshed. 
 
 And somehow the homely comfort of Mrs. 
 Barley's presence made her realise wherein lay 
 the essential difference between these two men. 
 
 "He still treats me like a princess," she 
 thought, "even though he thinks . . . Oh, what 
 can he think?" and Meg gave a little sob. 
 
 "There, there!" said Mrs. Earley, "don't you 
 take on no more, Miss. The dear dog bain't 
 'urted not a 'air of him. 'E cum frolicking in 
 
 268
 
 Another Way of Love 
 
 that friendly I sometimes wonders if there do 
 be anyone as William 'ud ever bite. 'E ain't 
 much of a watchdog, I fear." 
 
 "He nearly bit someone this afternoon," Meg 
 said. 
 
 "Well, I'm not sorry to yer it. It don't do 
 for man nor beast to be too trustful not in this 
 world it don't." 
 
 At the drive gate Miles was standing. 
 
 Mrs. Earley took the pram with her for Earley 
 to clean, and Meg and Miles walked on together. 
 
 "I'm sorry you've had this upset," he said. 
 "I've talked to William like a father." 
 
 "It wasn't only William," Meg murmured. 
 
 They were close to the house, and she stopped. 
 
 "Good night, Captain Middleton. I must go 
 and put my children to bed; we're late." 
 
 "I don't want to seem interfering, Miss 
 Morton, but don't you let anyone bully you into 
 picking up an acquaintance you'd rather drop." 
 
 "I suppose," said Meg, "one always has to 
 pay for the things one has done." 
 
 "Well, yes, sooner or later; but it's silly to 
 pay Jew prices." 
 
 "Ah," said Meg, "you've never been poor 
 enough to go to the Jews, so you can't tell." 
 
 Miles walked slowly back to Amber Guiting 
 that warm May evening. He had a good deal 
 to think over, for he had come to a momentous 
 decision. When he thought of Meg as he had 
 just seen her small and tremulous and tearful 
 he clenched his big hands and made a sound 
 
 269
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 in his throat not unlike William's growl. When 
 he pictured her angry onslaught upon William, 
 he laughed. But the outcome of his reflections 
 was this that whether in the past she had really 
 done anything that put her in Walter Brooke's 
 power, or whether he was right to trust to that 
 intangible quality in her that seemed to give 
 the direct lie to the worst of Mrs. Trent's story, 
 Meg appeared to him to stand in need of some 
 hefty chap as a buffer between her and the hard 
 world, and he was very desirous of being that 
 same for Meg. 
 
 His grandfather, "Mutton-Pie Middleton," had 
 married one of his own waitresses for no other 
 reason than that he found she was "the lass for 
 him" and he might, so the Doncaster folk 
 thought, have looked a good deal higher for a 
 wife, for he was a "warm" man at the time. 
 Miles strongly resembled his grandfather. He 
 was somewhat ruefully aware that in appear- 
 ance there was but little of the Keills about him. 
 He could just remember the colossal old man 
 who must have weighed over twenty stone in 
 his old age, and Miles, hitherto, had refused to 
 buy a motor for his own use because he knew 
 that if he was to keep his figure he must walk, 
 and walk a lot. 
 
 Like his grandfather, he was now perfectly 
 sure of himself; Meg "was the lass for him"; 
 but he was by no means equally sure of her. 
 By some infallible delicacy of instinct and this 
 he certainly did not get from the Middletons 
 he knew that what the world would regard as a 
 
 270
 
 Another Way of Love 
 
 magnificent match for Meg, might be the very 
 circumstance that would destroy his chance 
 with her. The Middletons were all keenly alive 
 to the purchasing powers of money, and saw 
 to it that they got then- money's worth. 
 
 All the same, a man's a man, whether he be 
 rich or poor, and Miles still remembered the way 
 Meg had smiled upon him the first tune they 
 ever met. Surely she could never have smiled 
 at him like that unless she had rather liked 
 him. 
 
 It was the pathos of Meg herself not the 
 fact that she had to work that appealed to 
 Miles. That she should cheerfully earn her own 
 living instead of grousing in idleness hi a meagre 
 home seemed to him merely a matter of common 
 sense. He knew that if he had to do it he could 
 earn his, and the one thing he could neither 
 tolerate nor understand about a good many of 
 his Keills relations was their preference for any 
 form of assistance to honest work. He helped 
 them generously enough, but hi his heart of 
 hearts he despised them, though he did not con- 
 fess this even to himself. 
 
 As he drew near the Manor House he saw 
 Lady Mary walking up and down outside, evi- 
 dently waiting for him. 
 
 "Where have you been, Miles?" she asked, 
 impatiently. "Pen has been here, and wanted 
 specially to see you, but she couldn't stay any 
 longer, as it's such a long run back. She motored 
 over from Malmesbury." 
 
 "What did she want?" Miles asked. "She's 
 271
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 always in a stew about something. One of her 
 Pekinese got pip, or what?" 
 
 Lady Mary took his arm and turned to walk 
 along the terrace. "I think," she said, and 
 stopped. "Where were you, Miles?" 
 
 "I strolled down the village to get some to- 
 bacco, and then I saw a chap who'd got his motor 
 stuck, and helped him, and then ..." Here 
 Miles looked down at his aunt, who looked up 
 at him apprehensively. "I caught up with Miss 
 Morton and the children, and walked back to 
 Wren's End with them. There, Aunt Mary, 
 that's a categorical history of my time since tea." 
 
 Lady Mary pressed his arm. " Miles, dear, 
 do you think it's quite wise to be seen about so 
 much with little Miss Morton . . . wise for her 
 I mean?" 
 
 "I hope I'm not the sort of chap it's bad to 
 be seen about with . . ." 
 
 "Of course not, dear Miles, but, you see, her 
 position ..." 
 
 "What's the matter with her position?" 
 
 "Of course I know it's most creditable of her 
 and all that . . . but . . . when a girl has to 
 go out as a sort of nursery governess, it is dif- 
 ferent, isn't it, dear? I mean . . ." 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Mary, I'm awfully interested 
 different from what?" 
 
 "From girls who lead the sheltered life, girls 
 who don't work . . . girls of our own class." 
 
 "I don't know," Miles said thoughtfully, 
 "that I should say Pen, for instance, lives ex- 
 actly a sheltered life, should you?" 
 
 272
 
 Another Way of Love 
 
 "Pen is married." 
 
 "Yes, but before she was married ... eh, 
 Aunt Mary? Be truthful, now." 
 
 Miles held his aunt's arm tightly within his, 
 and he stooped and looked into her face. 
 
 "And does the fact that Pen is married ex- 
 plain or excuse her deplorable taste in men? 
 Which does it do, Aunt Mary? Speak up, 
 now." 
 
 Lady Mary laughed. "I'm not here to de- 
 fend Pen; I'm here to get your answer as to 
 whether you think it's . . . quite fair to make 
 that little Miss Morton conspicuous by running 
 after her and making her the talk of the entire 
 county, for that's what you're doing." 
 
 "What good old Pen has been telling you I'm 
 doing, I suppose." 
 
 "I had my own doubts about it without any 
 help from Pen . . . but she said Alec Pottinger 
 had been talking ..." 
 
 "Pottinger's an ass." 
 
 "He doesn't talk much, anyhow, Miles, and 
 she felt if he said anything . . ." 
 
 "Look here, Aunt Mary, how's a chap to go 
 courting seriously if he doesn't run after a girl? 
 ... he can't work it from a distance . . . not 
 unless he's one of those poet chaps, and puts 
 letters hi hollow trees and so on. And you don't 
 seem to have provided any hollow trees about 
 here." 
 
 "Courting . . . seriously!" Lady Mary re- 
 peated with real horror in her tones. "Oh, 
 Miles, you can't mean that!" 
 
 273
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 " Surely you'd not prefer I meant the other 
 thing?" 
 
 "But, Miles dear, think!" 
 
 "I have thought, and I've thought it out." 
 
 "You mean you want to marry her?" 
 
 Lady Mary spoke in an awed whisper. 
 
 "Just exactly that, and I don't care who 
 knows it; but I'm not at all sure she wants to 
 marry me . . . that's why I don't want to rush 
 my fences and get turned down. I'm a heavy 
 chap to risk a fall, Aunt Mary." 
 
 "Oh, Miles! this is worse than anything Pen 
 even dreamt of." 
 
 "What is? If you mean that she probably 
 won't have me I'm with you." 
 
 "Of course she'd jump at you any girl would. 
 . . . But a little nursemaid !" 
 
 "Come now, Aunt Mary, you know very well 
 she's just as good as I am; better, probably, for 
 she's got no pies nor starch in her pedigree. Her 
 father's a Major and her mother was of quite 
 good family and she's got lots of rich, stingy 
 relations . . . and she doesn't sponge on 'em. 
 What's the matter with her?" 
 
 "Please don't do anything in a hurry, dear 
 Miles." 
 
 "I shan't, if you and Pen and the blessed 
 'county,' with its criticism and gossip, don't 
 drive me into it ... but the very first word 
 you either say or repeat to me against Miss 
 Morton, off I go to her and to the old Major. 
 ... So now we understand each other, Aunt 
 Mary eh?" 
 
 274
 
 Another Way of Love 
 
 " There are things you ought to know, Miles." 
 
 "You may depend," said Miles grimly, "that 
 anything I ought to know I shall be told . . . 
 over and over again . . . confound it. ... 
 And remember, Aunt Mary, that what I've told 
 you is not hi the least private. Tell Pen, tell 
 Mrs. Fream, tell Withells, but just leave me to 
 tell Miss Ross, that's all I beg." 
 
 "Miles, I shall tell nobody, for I hope ... I 
 hope- 
 
 " 'Hope told a flattering tale,' " said Miles, 
 and kissed his aunt . . . but to himself he said: 
 "I've shut their mouths for a day or two any- 
 way." 
 
 275
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE ENCAMPMENT 
 
 IT was the morning of the first Monday in 
 June, and Tony had wandered out into the 
 garden all by himself. Monday mornings were 
 very busy, and once Clipture was over Jan and 
 Meg became socially useless to any self-respect- 
 ing boy. 
 
 There was all the washing to sort and divide 
 into two large heaps: what might be sent to 
 Mrs. Chitt in the village, and what might be 
 kept for the ministrations of one Mrs. Mumford, 
 who came every Monday to Wren's End. And 
 this division was never arrived at without a good 
 deal of argument between Jan and Meg. 
 
 If Jan had had her way, Mrs. Mumford's heap 
 would have been very small indeed, and would 
 have consisted chiefly of socks and handkerchiefs. 
 If Meg had had hers, nothing at all would have 
 gone to Mrs. Chitt. Usually, too, Hannah was 
 called hi as final arbitrator, and she generally 
 sided with Meg. Little Fay took the greatest 
 interest in the whole ceremony, chattered con- 
 tinually, and industriously mixed up the heaps 
 when no one was looking. 
 
 At such times Tony was of the opinion that 
 there were far too many women in the world. 
 
 276
 
 The Encampment 
 
 On this particular morning, too, he felt injured 
 because of something that had happened at 
 breakfast. 
 
 It was always a joy to Meg and Jan that what- 
 ever poor Fay might have left undone in the 
 matter of disciplining her children, she had at 
 least taught them to eat nicely. Little Fay's 
 management of a spoon was a joy to watch. The 
 dimpled baby hand was so deft, the turn of the 
 plump wrist so sure and purposeful. She never 
 spilled or slopped her food about. Its journey 
 from bowl to little red mouth was calculated and 
 assured. Both children had a horror of anything 
 sticky, and would refuse jam unless it was "well 
 covelled in a sangwidge." 
 
 That very morning Jan and Meg exchanged 
 congratulatory glances over their well-behaved 
 charges, sitting side by side. 
 
 Then, all at once, with a swift, sure movement, 
 little Fay stretched up and deposited a spoonful 
 of exceedingly hot porridge exactly on the top 
 of her brother's head, with a smart tap. 
 
 Tony's hair was always short, and had been 
 cut on Saturday, and the hot mixture ran down 
 into his eyes, which filled him with rage. 
 
 He tried to get out of his high chair, exclaim- 
 ing angrily, "Let me get at her to box her!" 
 
 Jan held him down with one hand while she 
 wiped away the offending mess with the other, 
 and all the tune Tony cried in crescendo, "Let 
 me get at her!" 
 
 Little Fay, quite unmoved, continued to eat 
 her porridge with studied elegance, and in gently 
 
 277
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 reproachful tones remarked, "Tony velly closs 
 littoo boy." 
 
 Jan and Meg, who wanted desperately to 
 laugh, tried hard to look shocked, and Meg 
 asked, "What on earth possessed you to do 
 such a thing?" 
 
 "Tony's head so shiny and smoove." 
 
 Tony rubbed the shiny head ruefully. 
 
 "Can't I do nuffin to her?" he demanded. 
 
 "No," his sister answered firmly, "loo can't, 
 'cos I'm plitty littoo Fay." 
 
 "Can't I plop some on her head?" he persisted. 
 
 "It certainly seems unfair," Jan said though t- 
 fuUy, "but I think you'd better not." 
 
 "It is unfair," Tony grumbled. 
 
 Jan loosed his hands. "Now," she said, "you 
 can do what you like." 
 
 Little Fay leaned towards her brother, smiling 
 her irresistible, dimpled, twinkling smile, and 
 held out a spoonful of her porridge. 
 
 "Deah littoo Tony," she cooed, "taste it." 
 
 And Tony meekly accepted the peace-offering. 
 
 "You haven't smacked her," Jan remarked. 
 
 Tony sighed. "It's too late now I don't 
 feel like it any more." 
 
 All the same he felt aggrieved as he set out to 
 seek Earley in the kitchen garden. 
 
 Earley was not to be found. He saw Mrs. 
 Mumford already hanging kitchen cloths on a 
 line in the orchard, but he felt no desire for Mrs. 
 Mumford's society. 
 
 Tony's tormented soul sought for something 
 soothing. 
 
 278
 
 The Encampment 
 
 The garden was pleasant, but it wasn't enough. 
 
 Ah ! he'd got it ! 
 
 He'd go to the river; all by himself he'd go, 
 and not tell anybody. He'd look over the bridge 
 into that cool deep pool and perhaps that big 
 fat trout would be swimming about. What was 
 it he had heard Captain Middleton say last time 
 he was down at Amber Guiting? "The May- 
 fly was up." 
 
 He had seemed quite delighted about it, there- 
 fore it must mean something pleasant. 
 
 After all, on a soft, not too sunny morning in 
 early June, with a west wind rustling the leaves 
 in the hedges, the world was not such a bad 
 place; for even if there were rather too many 
 women in it, there were dogs and rivers and 
 country roads where adventurous boys could 
 see life for themselves. 
 
 William agreed with Tony in his dislike of 
 Monday mornings. He went and lay on the 
 front door mat so that he was more than ready 
 to accompany anyone who happened to be going 
 out. 
 
 By the time they reached the bridge all sense 
 of injury had vanished, and buoyant expectation 
 had taken its place. 
 
 Three men were fishing. One was far in the 
 distance, one about three hundred yards up 
 stream, and one Tony recognised as Mr. 
 Dauncey, landlord of "The Full Basket," the 
 square white house standing in its neat garden 
 just on the other side of the bridge. The fourth 
 gentleman, who had forgotten his hat, and was 
 
 279
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 clad in a holland smock, sandals, and no stock- 
 ings, leaned over luxuriously, with his elbows 
 on the low wall and his bare legs thrust out. 
 He was very still, even trying not to twitch when 
 William licked his bare legs, as he did at inter- 
 vals just to show he was there on guard. 
 
 There had been heavy rain hi the night and 
 the water was discoloured. Nobody noticed 
 Tony, and for about an hour nothing happened. 
 Then Mr. Dauncey got a rise. The rigid little 
 figure on the bridge leaned further over as Mr. 
 Dauncey's reel screamed and he followed his 
 cast down stream. 
 
 Presently, with a sense of irritation, Tony was 
 aware of footsteps coming over the bridge. He 
 felt that he simply could not bear it just then if 
 anyone leaned over beside him and talked. The 
 footsteps came up behind him and passed; and 
 William, who was lying between Tony's legs 
 and the wall, squeezed as close to him as possible, 
 gave a low growl. 
 
 "Hush, William, naughty dog!" Tony whis- 
 pered crossly. 
 
 William hushed, and drooped as he always 
 did when rebuked. 
 
 It occurred to Tony to look after this amazing 
 person who could cross a bridge without stopping 
 to look over when a reel was joyfully proclaim- 
 ing that some fisherman was having luck. 
 
 It was a man, and he walked as though he 
 were footsore and tired. There was something 
 dejected and shabby in his appearance, and his 
 clothes looked odd somehow in Amber Guiting. 
 
 280
 
 The Encampment 
 
 Tony stared after the stranger, and gradually 
 he realised that there was something familiar 
 in the back of the tall figure that walked so slowly 
 and yet seemed trying to walk fast. 
 
 The man had a stick and evidently leant upon 
 it as he went. He wore an overcoat and carried 
 nothing in his hand. 
 
 Mr. Dauncey's reel chuckled and one of the 
 other anglers ran towards him with a landing-net. 
 
 But Tony still stared after the man. Pres- 
 ently, with a deep sigh, he started to follow him. 
 
 Just once he turned, hi tune to see that Mr. 
 Dauncey had landed his trout. 
 
 The sun came out from behind the clouds. 
 "The Full Basket," the river, brown and rippled, 
 the bridge, the two men talking eagerly on the 
 bank below, the muddy road growing cream- 
 coloured in patches as it dried, were all photo- 
 graphed upon Tony's mind. When he started 
 to follow the stranger he was out of sight, but 
 now Tony trotted steadily forward and did not 
 look round again. 
 
 William was glad. He had been lying in a 
 puddle, and, like little Fay, he preferred "a dly 
 place." 
 
 Meanwhile, at Wren's End the washing had 
 taken a long time to count and to divide. There 
 seemed a positively endless number of little 
 smocks and frocks and petticoats and pinafores, 
 and Meg wanted to keep them all for Mrs. Mum- 
 ford to wash, declaring that she (Meg) could 
 starch and iron them beautifully. This was 
 quite true. She could iron very well, as she did 
 
 281
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 everything she undertook to do. But Jan knew 
 that it tired her dreadfully, that the heat and 
 the wielding of the heavy iron were very bad for 
 her, and after much argument and many insult- 
 ing remarks from Meg as to Jan's obstinacy and 
 extravagance generally, the things were divided. 
 Meg put on little Fay's hat and swept her out 
 into the garden; whereupon Jan plunged into 
 Mrs. Mumford's heap, removed all the things to 
 be ironed that could not be tackled by Anne 
 Chitt, stuffed them into Mrs. Chitt's basket, 
 fastened it firmly and rang for Anne and Hannah 
 to carry the things away. 
 
 She washed her hands and put on her garden- 
 ing gloves preparatory to going out, humming 
 a gay little snatch of song; and as she ran down 
 the wide staircase she heard the bell ring, and 
 saw the figure of a man standing hi the open 
 doorway. 
 
 The maids were carrying the linen down the 
 back stairs, and she went across the hall to see 
 what he wanted. 
 
 "Well, Jan," he said, and his voice sounded 
 weak and tired. "Here I am at last." 
 
 He held out his hand, and as she took it she 
 felt how hot and dry it was. 
 
 "Come in, Hugo," she said quietly. "Why 
 didn't you let me know you were coming, and 
 I'd have met you." 
 
 The man followed her as she led the way into 
 the cool, fragrant drawing-room. He paused 
 in the doorway and passed his hand across his 
 eyes. "It does bring it all back," he said. 
 
 282
 
 The Encampment 
 
 He sat down in a deep chair and leaned his 
 head against the back, closing his eyes. Jan 
 saw that he was thin to emaciation, and that he 
 looked very ill; shabby, too, and broken. 
 
 The instinct of the nurse that exists in any 
 woman worth her salt was roused in Jan. All 
 the passionate indignation she had felt against 
 her brother-in-law was merged at the moment 
 in pity and anxiety. 
 
 "Hugo," she said gently, "I fear you are ill. 
 Have you had any breakfast?" 
 
 "I came by the early train to avoid ordering 
 breakfast; I couldn't have paid for it. I'd only 
 enough for my fare. Jan, I haven't a single 
 rupee left." 
 
 He sat forward in the chair with his hands on 
 the arms and closed his eyes again. 
 
 Jan looked keenly at the handsome, haggard 
 face. There was no pretence here. The man 
 was gravely ill. His lips (Jan had always mis- 
 trusted his well-shaped mouth because it would 
 never really shut) were dry and cracked and dis- 
 coloured, the cheekbones sharp, and there was 
 that deep hollow at the back of the neck that al- 
 ways betrays the man in ill-health. 
 
 She went to him and pressed him back in the 
 chair. 
 
 "What do you generally do when you have 
 fever?" she asked. 
 
 "Go to bed if there is a bed; and take 
 quinine and drink hot tea." 
 
 "That's what you'd better do now. Where 
 are your things?" 
 
 283
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "There's a small bag at the station. They 
 promised to send it up. I couldn't carry it and 
 I had no money to pay a boy. I came the long 
 way round, Jan, not through the village. No 
 one recognised me." 
 
 "I'll get you some tea at once, and I have 
 quinine hi the house. Will you take some now?" 
 
 Hugo laughed. "Your quinine would be of 
 no earthly use to me, but I've already taken it 
 this morning. I've got some here in my pocket. 
 The minute my bag comes I'll go to bed if 
 you don't mind." 
 
 Someone fumbled at the handle of the door, 
 and Tony, followed by William, appeared on 
 the threshold. 
 
 Hugo Tancred opened his eyes. "Hullo!" he 
 said. "Do you remember me, young shaver?" 
 
 Tony came into the room holding out his 
 hand. "How do you do?" he said solemnly. 
 
 Hugo took it and stared at his son with strange 
 glazed eyes. "You look fit enough, anyhow," he 
 said, and dropped the little hand. 
 
 "I came as quit as I could," Tony said eagerly 
 to Jan. "But Mr. Dauncey caught a trout, and 
 I had to wait a minute." 
 
 "Good heavens!" Hugo exclaimed irritably. 
 "Do you all still think and talk about nothing 
 but fishing?" 
 
 "Come," said Jan, holding out her hand to 
 Tony, "and we'll go and see about some break- 
 fast for Daddie." 
 
 William, who had been sniffing dubiously at 
 the man in the chair, dashed after them. 
 
 284
 
 The Encampment 
 
 As they crossed the hall Tony remarked philo- 
 sophically: "Daddie's got fever. He'll be very 
 cross, then he'll be very sad, and then he'll want 
 you to give him something, and if you do 
 p'raps he'll go away." 
 
 Jan made no answer. 
 
 Tony followed her through the swing door 
 and down the passage to speak to Hannah, who 
 was much moved and excited when she heard 
 Mr. Tancred had arrived. Hannah was full of 
 sympathy for the "poor young widower," and 
 though she could have wished that he had given 
 them notice of his coming, still, she supposed 
 him to be so distracted with grief that he forgot 
 to do anything of the kind. She and Anne Chitt 
 went there and then to make up his bed, while 
 Jan boiled the kettle and got him some break- 
 fast. 
 
 While she was doing this Meg and little Fay 
 came round to the back to look for Tony, whom 
 they found making toast. 
 
 "Who's turn?" asked little Fay, while Jan 
 rapidly explained the situation to Meg. 
 
 "Your Daddie's come." 
 
 Little Fay looked rather vague. "What sort 
 of a Daddie?" she asked. 
 
 "You take her to see him, Tony, and I'll finish 
 the toast," said Jan, taking the fork out of his 
 hand. 
 
 When the children had gone Meg said slowly: 
 "And Mr. Ledgard comes to-morrow?" 
 
 "He can't. I must telegraph and put him off 
 for a day or two. Hugo is really ill." 
 
 285
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "I shouldn't put him off long, if I were you." 
 Jan seized the tray: "I'll send a wire now, if 
 
 you and the children will take it down to the 
 
 post-office for me." 
 
 "Why send it at all?" said Meg. "Let him 
 
 come." 
 
 286
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 TACTICS 
 
 TT was a fortnight since Hugo Tancred arrived 
 -* at Wren's End, and Jan had twice put off 
 Peter's visit. 
 
 During the first few days Hugo's temperature 
 remained so high that she grew thoroughly 
 alarmed; and in spite of his protestations that 
 he was "quite used to it," she sent for the doctor. 
 Happily the doctor in his youth had been hi the 
 East and was able to reassure her. His opinion, 
 too, had more weight with Hugo on this ac- 
 count, and though he grumbled he consented to 
 do what the doctor advised. And at the end of 
 a week Hugo was able to come downstairs, look- 
 ing very white and shaky. He lay out in the 
 garden in a deck-chair for most of the day and 
 managed to eat a good many of the nourishing 
 dishes Hannah prepared for him. 
 
 It had been a hard tune for Jan, as Hugo was 
 not an invalid who excited compassion in those 
 who had to wait upon him. He took everything 
 for granted, was somewhat morose and exacting, 
 and made no attempt to control the extreme 
 irritability that so often accompanies fever. 
 
 When the fever left him, however, his tone 
 changed, and the second stage, indicated by 
 Tony as "sad," set in with severity. 
 
 287
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 His depression was positively overwhelming, 
 and he seemed to think that its public manifes- 
 tation should arouse in all beholders the most 
 poignant and respectful sympathy. 
 
 Poor Jan found it very difficult to behave in 
 a manner at all calculated to satisfy her brother- 
 in-law. She had not, so far, uttered one word 
 of reproach to him, but she would shrink visibly 
 when he tried to discuss his wife, and she could 
 not even pretend to believe in the deep sincerity 
 of a grief that seemed to find such facile solace 
 in expression. The mode of expression, too, in 
 hackneyed, commonplace phrases, set her teeth 
 on edge. 
 
 She knew that poor Hugo she called him 
 "poor Hugo" just then thought her cold and 
 unsympathetic because she rather discouraged 
 his outpourings; but Fay's death was too lately- 
 lived a tragedy to make it possible for her to 
 talk of it above all, with him; and after several 
 abortive attempts Hugo gave up all direct en- 
 deavour to make her. 
 
 "You are terribly Scotch, Jan," he said one 
 day. "I sometimes wonder whether anything 
 could make you really feel." 
 
 Jan looked at him with a sort of contemptuous 
 wonder that caused him to redden angrily, but 
 she made no reply. 
 
 He was her guest, he was a broken man, and 
 she knew well that they had not yet even ap- 
 proached their real difference. 
 
 Two people, however, took Hugo's attitude of 
 profound dejection in the way he expected and 
 
 288
 
 Tactics 
 
 liked it to be taken. These were Mr. Withells 
 and Hannah. 
 
 Mr. Withells did not bear Jan a grudge because 
 of her momentary lapse from good manners. In 
 less than a week from the unfortunate interview 
 in the nut-walk he had decided that she could 
 not properly have understood him; and that he 
 had, perhaps, sprung upon her too suddenly the 
 high honour he held in store for her. 
 
 So back he came in his neat little two-seater 
 car to call at Wren's End as if nothing had hap- 
 pened, and Jan, guiltily conscious that she had 
 been very rude, was only too thankful to accept 
 the olive-branch in the spirit in which it was 
 offered. 
 
 He took to coming almost as often as before, 
 and was thoroughly interested and commiserat- 
 ing when he heard that poor Mrs. Tancred's 
 husband had come home from India and been 
 taken ill almost immediately on arrival. He 
 sent some early strawberries grown in barrels 
 in the houses, and with them a note conjuring 
 Jan "on no account to leave them in the sick- 
 room overnight, as the smell of fruit was so 
 deleterious." 
 
 Hannah considered Hugo's impenetrable gloom 
 a most proper and husbandly tribute to the de- 
 parted. She felt that had there been a Mr. 
 Hannah she could not have wished him to show 
 more proper feeling had Providence thought fit 
 to snatch her from his side. So she expressed 
 her admiration in the strongest of soups, the 
 smoothest of custards, and the most succulent 
 
 289
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 of mutton-chops. Gladly would she have com- 
 manded Mrs. Earley to slay her fattest cockerels 
 for the nourishment of "yon poor heartbroken 
 young man," but that she remembered (from 
 her experience of Fay's only visit) that no one 
 just home from India will give a thank-you for 
 chickens. 
 
 Jan had cause to bless kind Mr. Withells, for 
 directly Hugo was able for it, he came with his 
 largest and most comfortable car, driven by his 
 trustworthy chauffeur, to take the invalid for a 
 run right into Wiltshire. He pressed Jan to go 
 too, but she pleaded " things to see to" at home. 
 
 Hugo had seen practically nothing of Meg. 
 She was fully occupied in keeping the children 
 out of their father's way. Little Fay "pooah 
 daddied" him when they happened to meet, and 
 Tony stared at him in the weighing, measuring 
 way Hugo found so trying, but Meg neither 
 looked at him nor did she address any remark 
 whatever to him unless she positively could not 
 help it. 
 
 Meg was thoroughly provoked that he should 
 have chosen to turn up just then. She had been 
 most anxious that Peter should come. Firstly, 
 because, being sharply observant, she had come 
 to the conclusion that his visit would be a real 
 pleasure to Jan, and secondly, because she ar- 
 dently desired to see him herself that she might 
 judge whether he was "at all good enough." 
 
 And now her well-loved Jan, instead of look- 
 ing her best, was growing thin and haggard, 
 losing her colour, and her sweet serenity, and in 
 
 290
 
 Tactics 
 
 their place a patient, tired expression in her eyes 
 that went to Meg's heart. 
 
 She had hardly seen Jan alone for over a week; 
 for since Hugo came downstairs Meg had taken 
 all her meals with the children in the nursery, 
 while Jan and Hugo had theirs in the rarely- 
 used dining-room. The girls breakfasted to- 
 gether, as Hugo had his in his room, but as the 
 children were always present there was small 
 chance of any confidential conversation. 
 
 The first afternoon Mr. Withells took Hugo 
 for a drive, Meg left her children in Barley's 
 care the minute she heard the car depart, and 
 went to look for Jan hi the house. 
 
 She found her opening all the windows in the 
 dining-room. Meg shut the door and sat on the 
 polished table, lit a cigarette and regarded her 
 own pretty swinging feet with interest. 
 
 "How long does Mr. Tancred propose to 
 stay?" she asked. 
 
 "How can I tell," Jan answered wearily, as 
 she sat down in one of the deep window-seats. 
 "He has nowhere to go and no money to go with; 
 and, so far, except for a vague allusion to some 
 tea-plantation in Ceylon, he has suggested no 
 plans. Oh, yes ! I forgot, there was something 
 about fruit-farming or vine-growing in Cali- 
 fornia, but I fancy considerable capital would 
 be needed for that." 
 
 "And how much longer do you intend to keep 
 Mr. Ledgard waiting for his visit?" 
 
 "It would be small pleasure for Mr. Ledgard 
 to come here with Hugo, and horrid for Hugo, 
 
 291
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 for he knows perfectly well what Peter . . . 
 Mr. Ledgard thinks of him." 
 
 "But if friend Hugo knew Mr. Ledgard was 
 coming, might it not have an accelerating effect 
 upon his movements? You could give him his 
 fare single, mind to Guernsey. Let him go 
 and stay with his people for a bit." 
 
 Jan shook her head. "I can't turn him out, 
 Meg; and I'm not going to let Mr. Ledgard 
 waste his precious leave on an unpleasant visit. 
 If I could give him a good time it would be dif- 
 ferent; but after all he did for us while we were 
 in Bombay, it would be rank ingratitude to let 
 him in for more worries at home." 
 
 "Perhaps he wouldn't consider them worries. 
 Perhaps he'd like to come." 
 
 Jan's strained expression relaxed a little and 
 she smiled with her eyes fixed on Meg's neat 
 swinging feet. "He says he would." 
 
 "Well, then, take him at his word. We can 
 turn the excellent Withells on to Hugo. Let 
 him instruct Hugo in the importance of daily 
 free gymnastics after one's bath and the neces- 
 sity for windows being left open at the top 'day 
 and night, but especially at night.' Let's tell 
 that Peter man to come." 
 
 Jan shook her head. 
 
 "No, I've explained the situation to him and 
 begged him not to consider us any more for the 
 present. We must think of the maids too. You 
 see, Hugo makes a good deal of extra work, and 
 I'm afraid Hannah might turn grumpy if there 
 was yet another man to do for." 
 
 292
 
 Tactics 
 
 Meg thoughtfully blew beautiful rings of smoke, 
 carefully poked a small finger exactly into the 
 centre of each and continued to swing her feet in 
 silence. 
 
 Jan leaned her head against the casement and 
 closed her eyes. 
 
 Without so much as a rustle Meg descended 
 from the table. She went over to Jan and dropped 
 a light kiss on the top of the thick wavy hair 
 that was so nearly white. Jan opened her tired 
 eyes and smiled. 
 
 This quaint person in the green linen frock 
 and big white apron always looked so restfully 
 neat and clean, so capable and strong with that 
 inward shining strength that burns with a steady 
 light. Jan put her arms round Meg and leaned 
 her head against the admirable apron's cool, 
 smooth bib. 
 
 "You're here, anyway," she said. "You 
 don't know how I thank God for that." 
 
 Meg held her close. "Listen to me," she said. 
 "You're going on quite a wrong tack with that 
 brother-in-law. You are, Jan I grieve to say 
 it standing between him and his children you 
 don't allow him to see his children, especially 
 his adored daughter, nearly enough. Now that 
 he is well enough to take the ah* with Mr. 
 Withells I propose that we allow him to study 
 his children and how can he study them if they 
 are never left with him? Let him realise what 
 it would be if he had them with him constantly, 
 and no interfering aunt to keep them in order 
 do you understand, Jan? Have you tumbled 
 
 293
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 to it? You are losing a perfectly magnificent 
 opportunity." 
 
 Jan pushed Meg a little away from her and 
 looked up: "I believe there's a good deal in 
 what you say." 
 
 "There's everything in what I say. As long 
 as the man was ill one couldn't, of course, but 
 now we can and will eh, Jan?" 
 
 "Not Tony," Jan said nervously. "Hugo 
 doesn't care much for Tony, and I'm always 
 afraid what he may say or do to the child." 
 
 "If you let him have them both occasionally 
 he may discover that Tony has his points." 
 
 "They're both perfect darlings," Jan said re- 
 sentfully. Meg laughed and danced a two-step 
 to the door. 
 
 "They're darlings that need a good deal of 
 diplomatic managing, and if they don't get it 
 they'll raise Cain. I'm going to take them down 
 to the post-office directly with my Indian letters. 
 Why not come with us for the walk?" 
 
 Hugo quite enjoyed his run with Mr. Withells 
 and Mr. Withells enjoyed being consulted about 
 Hugo's plans. He felt real sympathy for a 
 young man whose health, ruined by one bad 
 station after another, had forced him to give up 
 his career in India. He suggested various ame- 
 liorating treatments to Hugo, who received his 
 advice with respectful gratitude, and they ar- 
 ranged to drive again together on Saturday, 
 which was next day but one. 
 
 Hugo sought the sofa in the drawing-room for 
 294
 
 Tactics 
 
 a quiet hour before dinner and lit a cigar. He 
 had hardly realised his pleasantly tired and 
 rather somnolent condition when his daughter 
 entered carrying a large Teddy-bear, two dolls, 
 a toy trumpet and a box containing a wooden 
 tea-set. She dropped several of these articles 
 just inside the door. "Come and help me pick 
 up my sings," she commanded. "I've come to 
 play wis loo, Daddie." 
 
 Hugo did not move. He was fond of little 
 Fay; he admired her good looks and her splendid 
 health, but he didn't in the least desire her so- 
 ciety just then. 
 
 "Poor Daddie's tired," he said in his "saddest" 
 tone. "I think you'd better go and play hi the 
 nursery with Tony." 
 
 "No," said little Fay, "Tony's not zere; loo 
 mus' play wis me. Or" she added as a happy 
 alternative "loo can tell me sumfin instastin." 
 
 "Surely," said Hugo, "it's your bed-tune?" 
 
 "No," little Fay answered, and the letters 
 were never formed that could express the finality 
 of that "no," "Med will fesh me when it's time. 
 I've come to play wis loo. Det up, Daddie; 
 loo can't play p'oply lying zere." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I can," Hugo protested eagerly. 
 "You bring all your nice toys one by one and 
 show them to me." 
 
 u 'At," she remarked with great scorn, "would 
 be a velly stupid game. Det up !" 
 
 "Why can't Meg play with you?" Hugo asked 
 irritably. "What's she doing?" 
 
 Little Fay stared at her father. She was un- 
 295
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 accustomed to be addressed in that tone, and 
 she resented it. Earley and Mr. Burgess were 
 her humble slaves. Captain Middleton did as 
 he was told and became an elephant, a camel, 
 or a polar bear on the shortest notice, moreover 
 he threw himself into the part with real good- 
 will and enjoyment. The lazy man lying there 
 on the sofa, who showed no flattering pleasure 
 in her society, must be roused to a sense of his 
 shortcomings. She seized the Teddy-bear, swung 
 it round her head and brought it down with a 
 resounding thump on Hugo's chest. "Det up," 
 she said more loudly. "Loo don't seem to know 
 any stolies, so you mus j play wis me." 
 
 Hugo swung his legs off the sofa and sat up 
 to recover his breath, which had been knocked 
 out of him by the Teddy-bear. 
 
 "You're a very rude little girl," he said crossly. 
 "You'll have to be punished if you do that sort 
 of thing." 
 
 "What sort of sing?" 
 
 "What you did just now; it's very naughty 
 indeed." 
 
 "Whatnelse?" 
 
 Little Fay stood with her head on one side 
 like an inquisitive sparrow. One of the things 
 she had not dropped was the tin trumpet. She 
 raised it to her lips now, and blew a blast that 
 went through Hugo's head like a knife. 
 
 He snatched it from her. "You're not to do 
 that," he said. "I can't stand it. Go and pick 
 up those other things and show them to me." 
 
 "Loo can see zem from here." 
 296
 
 Tactics 
 
 "Not what's in the box," he suggested diplo- 
 matically. 
 
 "I'm tah'ed too," she said, suddenly sitting 
 down on the floor. "You fesh 'em." 
 
 "Will you play with them if I do?" 
 
 She shook her head. "Not if loo're closs, and 
 lude and naughty and . . . stupid." 
 
 Hugo groaned and stalked over to collect the 
 two dolls and the tea-things. He brought them 
 back and put them down on one end of the sofa 
 while he sat down at the other. 
 
 "Now," he said, "show me how you play with 
 them." 
 
 His cigar had gone out and he struck a match 
 to light it again. Little Fay scrambled to her 
 feet and blew it out before he had touched his 
 cigar with it. 
 
 "Adain," she said joyously. "Make anozer 
 light." 
 
 He struck another match, but sheltered it 
 with his hand till he'd got his cigar going, his 
 daughter blowing -vigorously all the tune. 
 
 "Now," she said, "you can be a nengine and 
 I'll be the tlain." 
 
 Round that drawing-room the unfortunate 
 Hugo ran, encouraged in his efforts by blasts 
 upon the trumpet. The chairs were arranged as 
 carriages, the dolls as passengers, and the box of 
 tea-things was luggage. None of these trans- 
 formations were suggested by Hugo, but little 
 Fay had played the game so often under Meg's 
 brilliant supervision that she knew all the prop- 
 erties by heart. 
 
 297
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 At the end of fifteen minutes Hugo was thor- 
 oughly exhausted and audibly thanked God 
 when Meg appeared to fetch her charge. But 
 he hadn't finished even then, for little Fay, 
 aided and abetted by Meg, insisted that every 
 single thing should be tidily put back exactly 
 where it was before. 
 
 At the door, just as they were on the point of 
 departure, Meg paused. "You must enjoy 
 having her all to yourself for a little while," she 
 said in honeyed, sympathetic tones such as 
 Hugo, certainly, had never heard from her be- 
 fore. "I fear we've been rather selfish about 
 it, but for the future we must not forget that 
 you have the first right to her. . . . Did you 
 kiss your dear Daddie, my darling?" 
 
 Through the shut door Hugo heard his 
 daughter's voice proclaiming in lofty, pitying 
 tones, "Pooah Daddie velly stupid man, he was 
 a velly bad nengine, he did it all long." 
 
 "Damn!" said Hugo Tancred. 
 
 During dinner that night Jan talked con- 
 tinually about the children. She consulted Hugo 
 as to things in which he took not the smallest 
 interest, such as what primers he considered 
 the best for earliest instruction in reading, and 
 whether he thought the Montessori method ad- 
 vantageous or not. 
 
 As they sat over dessert he volunteered the re- 
 mark that little Fay was rather an exhausting child. 
 
 "All children are," Jan answered, "and I've 
 298
 
 Tactics 
 
 just been thinking that while you are here to 
 help me, it would be such a good chance to give 
 Meg a little holiday. She has not had a day off 
 since I came back from India, and it would be 
 so nice for her to go to Cheltenham for a few 
 days to see Major Morton." 
 
 "But surely," Hugo said uneasily, "that's 
 what she's here for, to look after the children. 
 She's very highly paid; you could get a good 
 nurse for half what you pay her." 
 
 "I doubt it, and you must remember that, 
 because she loved Fay, she is accepting less 
 than half of what she could earn elsewhere to 
 help me with Fay's children." 
 
 "Of course, if you import sentiment into the 
 matter you must pay for it." 
 
 "But I fear that's just what I don't do." 
 
 "My dear Jan, you must forgive me if I ven- 
 ture to think that both you and your father, 
 and even Fay, were quite absurd about Meg 
 Morton. She's a nice enough little girl, but 
 nothing so very wonderful, and as for her need- 
 ing a holiday after a couple of months of the 
 very soft job she has with you . . . that's sheer 
 nonsense." 
 
 There was silence for a minute. Hugo took 
 another chocolate and said, "You know I don't 
 believe in having children all over the place. 
 The nursery is the proper place for them when 
 they're little, and school is the proper place 
 most certainly the proper place, anyway, for a 
 boy as soon as ever any school can be found to 
 take him." 
 
 299
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "I quite agree with you as to the benefit of a 
 good school," Jan said sweetly. "I am painfully 
 conscious myself of how much I lost in never 
 having had any regular education. Have you 
 thought yet what preparatory school you'd pre- 
 fer for Tony?" 
 
 "Hardly yet. I've not been home long enough, 
 and, as you know, at present, I've no money at 
 all . . ." 
 
 "I shall be most pleased to help with Tony's 
 education, but in that case I should expect to 
 have some voice in the school selected." 
 
 "Certainly, certainly," Hugo agreed. "But 
 what I really want to know is what you propose 
 to do to help me to attain a position in which I 
 can educate my children as we both should 
 wish." 
 
 "I don't quite see where I come in." 
 
 "My dear Jan, that's absurd. You have 
 money and a few hundreds now will start me 
 again. ..." 
 
 "Start you again in what direction?" 
 
 "That's what we've got to thresh out. I've 
 several propositions to lay before you." 
 
 "All propositions will have to be submitted 
 to Mr. Davidson." 
 
 "That's nonsense. You must remember that 
 I could contest Fay's will if I liked it was grossly 
 unfair to leave that two thousand pounds away 
 from me." 
 
 "She left it to her children, Hugo, and you 
 must remember you spent eight thousand pounds 
 of her money." 
 
 300
 
 Tactics 
 
 "/ didn't spend it. Do you think I benefited? 
 The investments were unfortunate, I grant you, 
 but that's not to say I had it." 
 
 " Anyway that money is gone." 
 
 "And the sooner I set about making some 
 more to replace it the better, but I must have 
 help." 
 
 "It takes every penny of my income to run 
 things here." 
 
 "Well, you know, Jan, to be quite candid, I 
 think it's rather ridiculous of you to live here. 
 You could let this place easily and for a good 
 rent. In a smaller house you'd be equally com- 
 fortable and in easier circumstances. I'm not 
 at all sure I approve of my children being brought 
 up with the false ideas they will inevitably ac- 
 quire if they continue to live in a big place like 
 this." 
 
 "You see, Hugo, it happens to be my house, 
 and I'm fond of it." 
 
 "No doubt, but if you make a fetish of the 
 house, if the house stands in the way of your 
 helping your own flesh and blood ..." 
 
 "I don't think I've ever refused to help my 
 own relations." 
 
 "Which means, I suppose, that your sister's 
 husband is nothing to you." 
 
 Jan rose. "You are rather unjust, I think," 
 she said quietly. "I must put the children first." 
 
 "And suppose you marry " 
 
 "I certainly wouldn't marry any man who 
 would object to my doing all I could for my 
 sister's children." 
 
 301
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "You think so now, but wait till a man comes 
 along. You're just getting to the age, Jan, when 
 a woman is most apt to make a fool of herself 
 over a man. And, remember this, I'd much 
 rather my children were brought up simply with 
 my people in Guernsey than that they should 
 grow up with all sorts of false ideas with nothing 
 to back them." 
 
 Jan clenched her teeth, and though outwardly 
 she was silent, her soul was repeating, "I will 
 not fear/' over and over again. 
 
 "Perhaps you are right, Hugo," she said 
 quietly. "You must arrange as you think best; 
 only please remember that you can hardly ex- 
 pect me to contribute to the keeping of the chil- 
 dren if I am allowed no voice in their upbring- 
 ing. Have you consulted your parents as to 
 their living with them in Guernsey? Shall we 
 go out? It's such a beautiful evening." 
 
 Hugo followed her into the hall and out into 
 the garden. Involuntarily he looked after her 
 with considerable admiration. She held herself 
 well, that quiet woman. She waited for him in 
 the drive, and as she did so Tony's words came 
 back to her: "I used to feel frightened inside, 
 but I wouldn't let him know it, and then it 
 was funny but quite sunnly I wasn't frightened 
 any more. You try it." 
 
 Jan had tried it, and, again to quote Tony, 
 "it just happened." 
 
 302
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID 
 
 began to feel annoyed. More and 
 more clearly did he realise that his chief 
 object in coming home was to see Jan again; 
 and here was he, still in London in the third week 
 of June, and never so much as a glimpse of her. 
 
 Her last letter, too, had postponed his visit 
 indefinitely, and he almost thought she was not 
 treating him quite fairly. It was, of course, a 
 confounded bore that Hugo Tancred should have 
 turned up just now, but Peter saw no reason for 
 staying away for ever on that account. He 
 knew Wren's End was a good-sized house, and 
 though he appreciated Jan's understanding of 
 the fact that he wouldn't exactly choose to be 
 a fellow-guest with such a thoroughly bad hat 
 as Hugo Tancred, still he considered it was lay- 
 ing too much stress upon the finer shades of 
 feeling to keep him away so long. 
 
 His aunt was delighted to have him; London 
 was very pleasant; he had dined out quite a 
 number of times, attended some big parties, seen 
 all the best plays, and bought or ordered all 
 the new clothes he needed, and a good deal that 
 he didn't need at all. He had also bought a 
 motor to take out with him. It was more than 
 time to get within range of the main objective 
 of his leave. 
 
 303
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Suggestions that Jan must have shopping to do 
 and might as well come up for a day or two to 
 do it only elicited the reply that she had no money 
 for shopping and that it was most unlikely that 
 she would be hi London again for ages. 
 
 She hadn't answered his last letter, either, 
 which was another grievance. 
 
 Then came a letter with the Amber Guiting post- 
 mark, and in a handwriting he did not know a 
 funny little, clear, square handwriting with char- 
 acter hi every stroke. 
 
 He opened it and read: 
 
 "DEAR MR. LEDGARD, 
 
 "It is just possible you may have heard of me 
 from Mrs. Tancred or Miss Ross, but in case you 
 haven't I will explain that I am nurse to the little 
 Tancreds and that Miss Ross is my dearest friend. 
 I think it would be a very good thing if you came 
 down to see her, for her brother-in-law is here, 
 and I am never quite sure what he might per- 
 suade her to do if he put the screw on about the 
 children. There is a comfortable inn called 'The 
 Green Hart/ and there's another called 'The Full 
 Basket,' but I fear you'd not get a room there as 
 it's very small and always chock-full at this time 
 of year with fishing people. 
 
 "You see, if you came down to 'The Green 
 Hart,' Jan couldn't say anything, for you've a 
 perfect right to stay there if you choose, and I 
 know it would help her and strengthen her hands 
 to talk things over with you. She has spoken 
 much of your kindness to them all in India. 
 
 304
 
 "The Way of a Man with a Maid" 
 
 "Do you fish, I wonder? I'm sure Squire 
 Walcote would be amiable to any friend of Jan's. 
 "Believe me, yours truly, 
 
 "MARGARET MORTON." 
 
 Peter put the letter in his pocket and left the 
 rest of his correspondence till after breakfast, 
 and his aunt decided that he really was a most 
 amusing and agreeable companion, and that she 
 must have been mistaken last night hi thinking 
 he seemed rather depressed and worried. 
 
 After breakfast he went out to send a reply- 
 paid telegram, and then to the garage, where he 
 kept his car. Among other places he drove to 
 "Hardy Brothers" in Pall Mall, where he stayed 
 over an hour. 
 
 By the time he got back to Artillery Mansions 
 it was lunch tune. More letters awaited him, also 
 a telegram. 
 
 During lunch he mentioned casually that he 
 was going down into the country for the week- 
 end to fish. He was going to motor down. 
 
 "Yes," in answer to his aunt's inquiry, "I do 
 know people down there, but I'm not going to 
 stay with them. I'm going to the inn one's 
 freer, you know, and if the sport's good I may 
 stay on a few days." 
 
 Mr. Withells came again for Hugo on Saturday 
 morning and proposed a run right over to Chel- 
 tenham for a rose show. Hugo declined the rose 
 show, but gratefully accepted the drive. He 
 would potter about the town while Mr. Withells 
 
 305
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 inspected the flowers. The Grange head-gardener 
 had several exhibits, and was to be taken on the 
 front seat. 
 
 They started soon after breakfast and would 
 be gone the whole day, for it was an hour and 
 three-quarters run by road and two by train. 
 
 "I wish he had offered to take you," Jan said 
 to Meg when the big motor had vanished out of 
 the drive. "It would have been so nice for you 
 to see Major Morton." 
 
 "And sit bodkin between Hugo and Mr. With- 
 ells or on one of those horrid little folding-seats 
 no, thank you ! When I go to see my poor 
 little papa I shall go by train by myself. I'll 
 choose a day when then: dear father can help you 
 with the children." 
 
 After lunch Meg began to find fault with Jan's 
 appearance. "I simply won't see you in that 
 old grey skirt a minute longer go and put on a 
 white frock a nice white frock. You've got 
 plenty." 
 
 "Who is always grumbling about the washing? 
 Besides, I want to garden." 
 
 "You can't garden this afternoon. On such a 
 lovely day it's your duty to dress in accordance 
 with it. I'm going to clean up my children, and 
 then we'll all go down to the post-office to buy 
 stamps and show ourselves. You ought to call 
 on Lady Mary you know you ought. Go and 
 change, and then come and see if I approve of 
 you. You might leave a card at the vicarage, 
 too. I know they're going to the rose show, so 
 you'd be quite safe." 
 
 306
 
 "The Way of a Man with a Maid" 
 
 " You're a nuisance, Meg," Jan complained. 
 "Let you and little Fay go swanking down the 
 village if you like, but why can't you leave 
 Tony and me to potter comfortably in our old 
 clothes?" 
 
 "I'm tired of your old clothes; I want you to 
 look decent for once. You haven't done any- 
 thing I asked you for ages. You might as well 
 do this." 
 
 Jan sighed. "It seems rather absurd when you 
 yourself say every soul we know will be at the 
 flower show." 
 
 "I never said anything of the kind. I said 
 Mrs. Fream was going to the flower show. Hurry 
 up, Jan." 
 
 "Well, will I do ? Will I satisfy the hedges and 
 ditches, do you think?" Jan asked later, as she 
 appeared in the hall clad in the white raiment 
 Meg had commanded. 
 
 Meg turned her round. "Very nice indeed," 
 she said. "I'm glad you put on the expensive 
 one. It's funny why the very plain things cost 
 such a lot. I like the black hat with your white 
 hair. Yes, I consent to take you out; I don't 
 mind owning you for my missus. Children, come 
 and admire Auntie Jan." 
 
 Jan dutifully delivered a card at the vicarage, 
 and the nursery party left her to walk up the 
 Manor drive alone. Lady Mary was in, and 
 pleased to see her, but she only stayed a quarter 
 of an hour, because Meg had made her promise 
 to meet them again in the village. They were 
 
 307
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 to have tea in the garden with the children and 
 make it a little festival. 
 
 What a funny little thing Meg was, she thought 
 as she strolled down the drive under the splendid 
 beeches. So determined to have her own way in 
 small things, such an incarnation of self-sacrifice 
 in big ones. 
 
 A man was standing just outside the great 
 gates in a patch of black shade thrown by a holly- 
 tree in the lodge garden. Jan was long-sighted, 
 and something in the figure and its pose caused 
 her to stop suddenly. He wore the usual grey 
 summer suit and a straw hat. Yet he reminded 
 her of somebody, but him she had always seen in 
 a topee, out of doors. 
 
 Of course it was only a resemblance but what 
 was he waiting there for? 
 
 He moved out from the patch of shade and 
 looked up the drive through the open gates. He 
 took off his hat and waved it, and came quickly 
 towards her. 
 
 "I couldn't wait any longer," he said. "I 
 won't be the least bit of a nuisance. I've come 
 to fish, and I'm staying at 'The Green Hart'. . . . 
 And how are you?" 
 
 She could never make it out, when she thought 
 it over afterwards, but Jan found herself stand- 
 ing with both her hands in his and her beautiful 
 black parasol tumbled unheeded in the dust. 
 
 "I happened to meet the children and Miss 
 Morton, and they asked me to tell you they've 
 gone home. They also invited me to tea." 
 
 "So do I," said Jan. 
 
 308
 
 "The Way of a Man with a Maid" 
 
 "I should hardly have known Tony," he con- 
 tinued; "he looks capital. And as for little Fay 
 she's a picture, but she always was." 
 
 "Did they know you?" 
 
 "Did they know me !" 
 
 "Were they awfully pleased?" 
 
 "They were ever so jolly; even Tony shouted." 
 
 At the lodge they met the Squire. Jan intro- 
 duced Peter and explained that he had just come 
 down for a few days' fishing and was staying at 
 "The Green Hart." The Squire proffered advice 
 as to the best flies and a warning that he must 
 not hope for much sport. The Amber was a 
 difficult river, very; and variable; and it had 
 been a particularly dry June. 
 
 Peter bore up under this depressing intelli- 
 gence and he and Jan walked on through warm, 
 scented lanes to Wren's End; and Peter looked 
 at Jan a good deal. 
 
 Those who happened to be in London during 
 the season of 1914 will remember that it was a 
 period of powder and paint and frankest touch- 
 ing-up of complexions. The young and pretty 
 were blackened and whitened and reddened quite 
 as crudely as the old and ugly. There was no 
 attempt at concealment. The faces of many 
 Mayfair ladies filled Peter with disrespectful as- 
 tonishment. He had not been home for four 
 years, and then nice girls didn't do that sort of 
 thing much. 
 
 Now one of Jan's best points was her complex- 
 ion; it was so fair and fresh. The touch of sun- 
 burn, too, was becoming, for she didn't freckle. 
 
 309
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Peter found himself positively thankful to be- 
 hold a really clean face; a face, too, that just 
 then positively beamed with warm welcome and 
 frank pleasure. 
 
 A clean face; a cool, clean frock; kind, candid 
 eyes and a gentle, sincere voice yes, they were 
 all there just as he remembered them, just as he 
 had so often dreamt of them. Moreover, he de- 
 cided there and then that the Georgian ladies 
 knew what they were about when they powdered 
 their hah* white hair, he thought, was extraor- 
 dinarily becoming to a woman. 
 
 "You are looking better than when I was in 
 Bombay. I think your leave must have done 
 you good already," said the kind, friendly voice. 
 
 "I need a spell of country air, really to set me 
 up," said Peter. 
 
 They had an hilarious tea with the children on 
 the Wren's lawn, and the tamest of the robins 
 hopped about on the step just to show that he 
 didn't care a fig for any of them. 
 
 Meg was just going to take the children to bed 
 when Mr. Withells brought Hugo back. It was 
 an awkward moment. Peter knew far too much 
 about Hugo to simulate the smallest cordiality; 
 and Hugo was too well aware of some of the things 
 Peter knew to feel at all comfortable in his pres- 
 ence. But he had no intention of giving way an 
 inch. He took the chair Meg had just vacated 
 and sat down. Mr. Withells, too, sat down for 
 a few minutes, and no sooner had he done so than 
 William dashed out from amongst them, and, re- 
 turning, was accompanied by Captain Middleton. 
 
 310
 
 "The Way of a Man with a Maid" 
 
 "No tea, thank you. Just got down from town, 
 came with a message from my uncle would Miss 
 Ross's friend care for a rod on the Manor water 
 on Monday? A brother officer who had been 
 coming had failed at the last minute there was 
 room for four rods, but there wasn't a chance of 
 much sport." 
 
 Miles was introduced to Peter and sat down 
 by him. The children rushed at Miles and, ably 
 impeded by William, swarmed over him in riotous 
 welcome, wholly regardless of their nurse's voice 
 which summoned them to bed. 
 
 Meg stood waiting. 
 
 "Miss Morton's father lives in Cheltenham," 
 Jan said to Mr. Withells, who seemed rather left 
 out. "She's going to see him on Tuesday to 
 spend the day." 
 
 "Then," said Mr. Withells in his clear stac- 
 cato, "she must take the 9.15 it's much the 
 best train in the day. And the 4.55 back. No 
 other trains are at all suitable. I hope you will 
 be guided by me in this matter, Miss Morton. 
 I've made the journey many times." 
 
 So had Meg; but Mr. Withells always irritated 
 her to such an extent that had it been possible, 
 she would have declared her intention to go and 
 return by quite different trains. As it was, she 
 nodded pleasantly and said those were the very 
 trains she had selected. 
 
 Miles thrust his head out from among the en- 
 compassing three and respectfully implored Mr. 
 Withells' advice about trains to Cricklade, which 
 lay off the Cheltenham route, even going so far 
 
 311
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 as to note the hours of departure and arrival care- 
 fully in a little book. 
 
 Finally Meg came and disencumbered Miles of 
 the chilolren and bore them away. 
 
 When her voice took on a certain tone it was 
 as useless to cope with Meg as with Auntie Jan. 
 They knew this, and like wise children gave in 
 gracefully. 
 
 Elaborate farewells had to be said to every- 
 body, and with a final warm embrace for Miles, 
 little Fay called to him "Turn and see me in my 
 baff." 
 
 "Captain Middleton will have gone long before 
 you are ready for that," Meg said inhospitably, 
 and trying to look very tall and dignified she 
 walked up the three steps leading to the nursery. 
 But it is almost impossible to look imposing with 
 a lagging child dragging at each hand, and poor 
 Meg felt that her exit was far from effective. 
 
 William settled himself comfortably across his 
 master's knees and in two minutes was snoring 
 softly. 
 
 Miles manifested so keen an interest in Mr. 
 Withells' exhibits (he had got a second prize and 
 a highly commended) that the kindly little man 
 was quite attracted; and when Miles inquired 
 about trains to Cheltenham he gave him pre- 
 cisely the same advice that he had given Meg. 
 
 The station at Amber Guiting is seldom 
 crowded; it's on a shuttle line, and except on 
 market-day there is but little passenger traffic. 
 
 312
 
 "The Way of a Man with a Maid" 
 
 Therefore a small young lady with rather con- 
 spicuously red hair, a neat grey coat and skirt, a 
 shady grey straw hat trimmed with white clover 
 and green leaves, and a green parasol, was notice- 
 able upon the platform out of all proportion to 
 her size. 
 
 The train was waiting. The lady entered an 
 empty third-class carriage, and sitting in the cor- 
 ner with her back to the engine, shut herself in. 
 The train departed punctually, and she took out 
 from her bag a note-book which she studied with 
 frowning concentration. 
 
 Ten minutes further down the line the train 
 stops again at Guiting Green, and here the young 
 lady looked out of the window to see whether 
 anyone was travelling that she recognised. 
 
 There was. But it was impossible to judge 
 from the young lady's expression whether the 
 recognition gave her pleasure or not. 
 
 She drew in her head very quickly, but not 
 before she had been seen. 
 
 "Hullo, Miss Morton! Where are you going? 
 May I get in here?" 
 
 "Aren't you travelling first?" 
 
 "Not a bit of it. Sure you don't mind? How 
 jolly to have met you!" 
 
 Miles looked so smiling, so big and well turned 
 out, and pleased with life, that Meg's severe ex- 
 pression relaxed somewhat. 
 
 "I suppose," she said, "you're just going to the 
 junction. But why come to Guiting Green?" 
 
 "I came to Guiting Green because it's exactly 
 four miles from the Manor House. And I've 
 
 313
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 walked those four miles, Miss Morton, walked 
 'em for the good of my health. Wish it wasn't 
 so dusty, though look at my boots ! I'm going 
 to Cheltenham. Where are you going?" 
 
 "Cheltenham?" Meg repeated suspiciously. 
 "What are you going to do there?" 
 
 "I'm going to see about a horse not a dog 
 this tune I hear that Smith's have got a horse 
 that may suit me; really up to my weight they 
 say it is, so I took the chance of going over while 
 I'm with my uncle it's a lot nearer than town, 
 you know. But where are you going?" 
 
 "I," said Meg, "am going to Cheltenham 
 
 "To Cheltenham!" Miles exclaimed in rather 
 overdone astonishment. "What an extraordinary 
 coincidence ! And what are you going to buy in 
 Cheltenham?" 
 
 "I am going to see my father. I thought I had 
 told you he lives there." 
 
 "So you did, of course. How stupid of me to 
 forget! Well, it's very jolly we should happen 
 to be going down together, isn't it?" 
 
 They looked at one another, and Miles laughed. 
 
 "I'm not at all sure that we ought to travel 
 together after we reach the junction, and I don't 
 believe you've got a third-class ticket." Meg 
 looked very prim. 
 
 Miles produced his ticket it was third-class. 
 
 "There!" he said triumphantly. 
 
 "You would be much more comfortable in a 
 smoker." 
 
 "So would you. We'll take a smoker; I've 
 got the sort of cigarette you like." 
 
 314
 
 "The Way of a Man with a Maid" 
 
 At the junction they got a smoker, and Miles 
 saw to it that they had it to themselves; he also 
 persuaded the guard to give Meg a square wooden 
 box to put her feet on, because he thought the 
 seats were too high for her. 
 
 It seemed a very short journey. 
 
 Major Morton was awaiting Meg when *hey 
 arrived; a little gentleman irnmaculately neat (it 
 was quite clear whence Meg got her love of de- 
 tail and finish) who looked both washed-out and 
 dried-up. He embraced her with considerable 
 solemnity, exclaiming, "God bless you, my dear 
 child ! You look better than I expected." 
 
 "Papa, dear, here is Captain Middleton, a 
 friend from Amber Guiting. We happened to 
 travel together." 
 
 "Pleased to meet you, sir," said the little Major 
 graciously; and somehow Miles contrived in two 
 minutes so to ingratiate himself with Meg's "poor 
 little papa" that they all walked out of the sta- 
 tion together as a matter of course. 
 
 Then came the question of plans. 
 
 Meg had shopping to do, declared she had a 
 list as long as her arm, but was entirely at her 
 father's disposal as to whether she should do it 
 before or after lunch. 
 
 Miles boldly suggested she should do it now, at 
 once, while it was still fairly cool, and then she 
 could have all her parcels sent to the station to 
 meet her. He seemed quite eager to get rid of 
 Meg. The little Major agreed that this would 
 be the best course. He would stroll round to his 
 club while Meg was shopping, and meet her 
 
 315
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 when she thought she would have finished. They 
 walked to the promenade and dropped her at 
 Cavendish House. Miles, explaining that he had 
 to go to Smith's to look at a horse, asked for direc- 
 tions from the Major. Their way was the same, 
 and without so much as bidding her farewell, 
 Miles strolled up one of the prettiest promenades 
 in England in company with her father. Meg 
 felt rather dazed. 
 
 She prided herself on having reduced shopping 
 to a fine art, but to-day, somehow, she didn't get 
 through as quickly as usual, and there was a 
 number of items on her list still unticked when 
 it was time to meet her father just outside his 
 club at the top of the promenade. 
 
 Major Morton was the essence of punctuality. 
 Meg flew to meet him, and found he had waited 
 five minutes. He was not, however, upset, as 
 might have been expected. He took her to his 
 rooms in a quiet terrace behind the promenade 
 and comfortably near his club. The sun-blinds 
 were down outside his sitting-room windows, and 
 the room seemed cool and pleasant. 
 
 Then it was that Meg discovered that her 
 father was looking at her in quite a new way. 
 Almost, in fact, as though he had never seen her 
 before. 
 
 Was it her short hair? she wondered. 
 
 Yet that was not very noticeable under such a 
 shady hat. 
 
 Major Morton had vigorously opposed the 
 nursemaid scheme. To the sympathetic ladies 
 who attended the same strictly evangelical church 
 
 316
 
 "The Way of a Man with a Maid" 
 
 of which he was a pillar, he confided that his only 
 daughter did not care for "a quiet domestic life." 
 It was a grief to him but, after all, parents are 
 shelved nowadays; every girl wants to "live her 
 own life," and he would be the last man to stand 
 in the way of his child's happiness. The ladies 
 felt very sorry for Major Morton and indignant 
 with the hard-hearted, unfilial Meg. They did 
 not realise that had Meg lived with her father 
 in rooms and earned nothing, the Major's deli- 
 cate digestion might occasionally have suffered, 
 and Meg would undoubtedly have been half- 
 starved. 
 
 To-day, however, he was more hopeful about 
 Meg than he had been for a long tune. Since 
 the Trent episode he had ceased even to imagine 
 her possible marriage. By her own headstrong 
 folly she had ruined all her chances. "The weari- 
 ful rich" who had got her the post did not spare 
 him this aspect of her deplorable conduct. To- 
 day, however, there was a rift in these dark clouds 
 of consequence. 
 
 Captain Middleton he only knows how had 
 persuaded Major Morton to go with him to see 
 the horse, had asked his quite useless advice, and 
 had subtly and insidiously conveyed to the Major, 
 without one single incriminating sentence, a very 
 clear idea as to his own feelings for the Major's 
 daughter. 
 
 Major Morton felt cheered. 
 
 He had no idea who Miles really was, but he 
 had remarked the gunner tie, and, asking to what 
 part of the Royal Regiment Miles belonged, de- 
 
 317
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 cided that no mere pauper could be a Horse- 
 Gunner. 
 
 He regarded his daughter with new eyes. 
 
 She was undoubtedly attractive. He discov- 
 ered certain resemblances to himself that he had 
 never noticed before. 
 
 Then he informed her that he had promised 
 they would both lunch with her agreeable friend 
 at the Queen's Hotel: "He made such a point of 
 it," said Major Morton, "I could hardly refuse; 
 begged us to take pity on his loneliness, and so 
 on and I'm feeling rather better to-day." 
 
 Meg decided that the tide of fate was too strong 
 for her, she must just drift with it. 
 
 It was a most pleasant lunch, save for one in- 
 cident. Lady Penelope Pottinger and her hus- 
 band, accompanied by Lottie Trent and a man, 
 were lunching at another table. 
 
 Lady Penelope's party came in late. Miles and 
 his guests had already arrived at coffee when they 
 appeared. 
 
 They had to pass Miles' table, and Lady Penel- 
 ope stopped; so did her husband. She shook 
 hands with Meg. Miss Trent passed by with 
 her nose in the air. 
 
 Miles presented his relations to the Major and 
 they passed on. 
 
 The Major was quite pleased and rather flut- 
 tered. He had no idea that the tall young 
 woman with Lady Penelope had deliberately cut 
 his host. But Meg knew just why she had done 
 it. 
 
 After lunch Miles very properly effaced him- 
 318
 
 "The Way of a Man with a Maid" 
 
 self, but made a point of asking the Major if he 
 might act as Miss Morton's escort on the journey 
 back to Amber Guiting. 
 
 The Major graciously accompanied Meg while 
 she did the rest of her shopping, and in the prom- 
 enade they met the Pottinger party again. 
 
 The 4.55 was crowded. Miles collected Meg's 
 parcels and suggested to the Major that it would 
 be less tiring for his daughter if they returned 
 first-class. Should he change the tickets? 
 
 The Major thought it a sensible proposition, 
 especially with all those parcels. Meg would pay 
 Captain Middleton the difference. 
 
 Again an amiable porter secured them an empty 
 carriage. The parcels spread themselves luxuri- 
 ously upon the unoccupied seats. The Major 
 kissed his daughter and gave her his benediction, 
 shaking hands quite warmly with her " pleasant 
 young friend." 
 
 The 4.55 runs right up to the junction without 
 a stop. Meg took off her best hat and placed it 
 carefully in the rack. She leaned her bewildered 
 head against the cushions and closed her eyes. 
 She would drift with the tide just a few minutes 
 more, and then 
 
 Miles put a box of groceries for Lady Mary 
 under her feet. She smiled faintly, but did not 
 speak. 
 
 Presently she opened her eyes to find him re- 
 garding her with that expression she had surprised 
 once or twice before, and never understood. 
 
 "Tired?" he asked. 
 
 "Only pleasantly. I think I've only travelled 
 319
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 first-class about five times in my life before and 
 then it was with Mr. Ross." 
 
 "And now it's with me, and I hope it's the first 
 of many." 
 
 "You say very odd things." 
 
 "What I mean isn't in the least odd it's the 
 most natural thing in the world." 
 
 "What is?" 
 
 "To want to go on travelling with you." 
 
 "If you're going to talk nonsense, I shall go to 
 sleep again." 
 
 "No, I don't think I can allow you to go to 
 sleep. I want you to wake up and face facts." 
 
 "Facts?" 
 
 "A fact." 
 
 "Facts are sometimes very unpleasant." 
 
 "I hope the fact I want you to face isn't exactly 
 that if it is ... then I'm ... a jolly misera- 
 ble chap. Miss Morton Meg you must see 
 how it is with me you must know that you're 
 dearer to me than anything on earth. I think 
 your father tumbled to it and I don't think he 
 minded . . . that I should want you for my wife." 
 
 "My poor little papa would be relieved to think 
 that anyone could . . ." 
 
 "Could what?" 
 
 "Care for me ... in that way." 
 
 "Nonsense ! But I'm exceedingly glad to have 
 met your father." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I wanted to meet him." 
 
 "Again, why?" 
 
 "Because he's your father." 
 320
 
 "The Way of a Man with a Maid" 
 
 "Did you observe that Miss Lotty Trent cut 
 you dead at the Queen's to-day?" 
 
 "I did notice it, and, like you, I wonder why." 
 
 "I can tell you." 
 
 "I don't think you'd better bother. Miss 
 Trent's opinion of me really doesn't matter " 
 
 "It was because you were with me." 
 
 "But what a silly reason if it is a reason." 
 
 "Captain Middleton, will you answer a ques- 
 tion quite truthfully?" 
 
 "I'll try." 
 
 "What have you heard about me in connec- 
 tion with the Trents?" 
 
 "Not much, and that I don't believe." 
 
 "But you must believe it, some of it. It may 
 not be so bad as it might have been but I put 
 myself entirely in the wrong. I deceived Mrs. 
 Trent and I did a thing no girl in her senses ought 
 to have done." 
 
 "Look here, Meg," said Miles, leaning forward. 
 "I don't want to know anything you don't choose 
 to tell me; but since you are on the subject 
 what did happen between you and that . . . and 
 Walter Brooke?" 
 
 Meg, too, leant forward; the express swayed 
 and lurched. Their faces were very near; then* 
 eyes met and held each other in a long, searching 
 gaze on the one side and an answering look of 
 absolute candour on the other. 
 
 "I promised to go away with him, and I went 
 away a few miles, and something came over me 
 that I couldn't go any further, and I broke my 
 promise and ran away. Jan knows it's true, for 
 
 321
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 it was to them I went. But the Trents would 
 never believe it, though Mr. Ross saw Mrs. Trent 
 herself, and told her exactly what had happened. 
 And I daresay . . . they are quite justified." 
 
 "And how many times have you seen him 
 since?" 
 
 " Never till the other day, when he nearly ran 
 over William." 
 
 "And how long ago is it since all this hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 "Nearly six years." 
 
 "Don't you think it's about time you put it 
 all out of your mind?" 
 
 "I had put it out of my mind . . . till . . . 
 you came." 
 
 "It didn't make any difference to me." 
 
 "I shall never forget that," Meg said, so low 
 that the rattle of the train wholly drowned her 
 remark, but it couldn't conceal her smile. 
 
 Miles lost his head. He kneeled down plump 
 on the floor of that compartment and took her 
 in his arms and kissed her. 
 
 "All the same, I don't believe I can marry 
 you," she said later. 
 
 "Why on earth not?" 
 
 "Because I don't think I'm a suitable wife for 
 you." 
 
 "Surely I'm the best judge of that." 
 
 "No, you're not a judge at all. You think 
 you're in love with me . . ." 
 
 "I'm hanged if I do I know." 
 322
 
 "The Way of a Man with a Maid" 
 
 "Because you're sorry for me " 
 
 "On the contrary, I'm sorry for myself. I 
 think you're a hard-hearted . . . obstinate . . . 
 little . . ." 
 
 Mr. Withells would have been scandalised at 
 the conduct of Miles. He would undoubtedly 
 have described it as both "insanitary and im- 
 proper." 
 
 "Oh, please listen!" Meg gasped. "Perhaps a 
 long time hence ... if you're still of the same 
 mind . . ." 
 
 "Anyway, may I tell people?" 
 
 "Not a soul. I won't have my Jan worried 
 just now. I've undertaken those children . . . 
 and she's having a bad time with that brother- 
 in-law " 
 
 "I say, Meg, what is it about that chap Tan- 
 cred? I can't stick him. ... Is he a bad egg, 
 or what?" 
 
 "He is . . ." 
 
 "Poor Miss Ross! But why does she have 
 him there?" 
 
 "Oh, it's a long story and here we are at the 
 junction, and I'm not going on first to Amber 
 Guiting so there!" 
 
 Jan in the pony-cart was waiting outside when 
 Meg came from the little station. Captain Mid- 
 dleton followed in her train, laden with parcels 
 like a Father Christmas. 
 
 He packed her and the parcels in, covered both 
 the ladies with the dust-holland, announced that 
 he had bought a charger, and waited to get into 
 
 323
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 the Manor motor till they had driven out of the 
 station. 
 
 They neither of them spoke till they had turned 
 into the road. Then Jan quoted softly: "When 
 I go to see my poor little papa, I shall go by 
 train by myself." 
 
 324
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 A DEMONSTRATION IN FORCE 
 
 HUGO was dissatisfied. So far, beyond a 
 miserable ten pounds to buy some clothes, 
 he had got no money out of Jan; and he was get- 
 ting bored. 
 
 To be sure, he still had most of the ten pounds, 
 for he had gone and ordered everything in the 
 market-town, where the name of Ross was con- 
 sidered safe as the Bank of England. So he 
 hadn't paid for anything. 
 
 Then there was that fellow Ledgard what did 
 he want hanging about, pretending to fish? He 
 was after Jan and her money, that was his game. 
 
 But however clear Peter Ledgard's nefarious 
 intentions might be, Hugo confessed his sister-in- 
 law puzzled him. She wasn't nearly as much 
 afraid of him as he had expected. She was al- 
 ways gentle and courteous, but under the soft 
 exterior he had occasionally felt a rock of deter- 
 mination, that was disconcerting. 
 
 He had ceased to harp upon the string of his 
 desolation. Somehow Jan contrived to show him 
 that she didn't believe in it, and yet she never 
 said one word to which he could take exception. 
 
 It was awkward that his own people were all of 
 them so unsympathetic about the children. His 
 father and mother declared themselves to be too 
 
 325
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 old to undertake them unless Hugo could pay 
 liberally for their board and for a thoroughly 
 capable nurse. Neither of his sisters would en- 
 tertain the idea at all; and both wrote pointing 
 out that until Hugo was able to make a home for 
 them himself, he would be most foolish to interfere 
 with the arrangements of a devoted aunt who 
 appeared not only willing but anxious to assume 
 their entire maintenance. 
 
 He had told his people that his health forced 
 him to relinquish his work in India. His brothers- 
 in-law, although they had no idea of the real 
 cause, thought there was something fishy about 
 this, and were unsympathetic. 
 
 Peter got at the doctor, and the doctor declared 
 sea-air to be the one thing necessary to insure 
 Hugo's complete restoration to health. Jan hap- 
 pened to mention that her brother-in-law's people 
 lived in Guernsey, close to the shore. The doctor 
 said he couldn't do better than go and stay with 
 them, and that the journey wouldn't hurt him a 
 bit. 
 
 Still Hugo appeared reluctant to leave Wren's 
 End. 
 
 Peter came one day and demanded a business 
 talk with him. It was a most unpleasant conver- 
 sation. Peter declared on Jan's behalf that she 
 was quite ready to help him to some new start in 
 life, but that if it meant a partnership in any 
 rubber plantation, fruit-farm, or business of any 
 sort whatsoever, the money required must be 
 paid through her lawyer directly into the hands 
 of the planter, farmer, or merchant concerned. 
 
 326
 
 A Demonstration in Force 
 
 Hugo declared such an offer to be an insult. 
 Peter replied that it was a great deal better than 
 he deserved or could expect; and that he, per- 
 sonally, thought Miss Ross very silly to make it; 
 but she did make it, and attached to its accep- 
 tance was a clause to the effect that until he could 
 show he was in a position to maintain his family 
 in comfort, he was to give then* aunt an under- 
 taking that he would not interfere with her ar- 
 rangements for the welfare of the children. 
 
 "I see no reason," said Hugo, "why you should 
 interfere between my sister-in-law and me, but, 
 of course, any fool could see what you're after. 
 You want her money, and when you've married 
 her, I suppose my poor children are to be thrown 
 out into the street, and me too far off to see after 
 them." 
 
 "Up to now," Peter retorted, "you have shown 
 no particular desire to 'see after' your children. 
 Why are you such a fool, Tancred? Why don't 
 you thankfully accept Miss Ross's generous offer, 
 and try to make a fresh start?" 
 
 "It's no business of yours what I do." 
 
 "Certainly not, but your sister-in-law's peace 
 and happiness is my business, because I have the 
 greatest admiration, respect and liking for her." 
 
 "Les beaux yeux de sa cassette," growled Hugo. 
 
 "You are an ass," Peter said wearily. "And 
 you know very little of Miss Ross if you haven't 
 seen by this time ..." Peter stopped. 
 
 "Well, go on." 
 
 "No," said Peter, "I won't go on, for it's run- 
 ning my horses on a rock. Think it over, that's 
 
 327
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 all. But remember the offer does not remain 
 open indefinitely." 
 
 "Well, and if I choose to refuse it and go to 
 law and take my children what then?" 
 
 "No court in England would give you their 
 custody." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because you couldn't show means to support 
 them, and we could produce witnesses to prove 
 that you are not a fit person to have the custody 
 of children." 
 
 "We should see about that." 
 
 "Well, think it over. It's your affair, you 
 know." And Peter went away, leaving Hugo to 
 curse and bite his nails in impotent rage. Peter 
 really was far from conciliatory. 
 
 Jan needed a fright, Hugo decided; that's what 
 she wanted to bring her to heel. And before 
 very long he'd see that she got it. She shouldn't 
 shelter herself for ever behind that supercilious 
 beast, Ledgard. Hugo was quite ready to have 
 been pleasant to Jan and to have met her more 
 than half-way if she was reasonable, but since she 
 had chosen to bring Ledgard into it, she should 
 pay. After all, she was only a woman, and you 
 can always frighten a woman if you go the right 
 way about it. It was damned bad luck that 
 Ledgard should have turned up just now. It 
 was Ledgard he'd got to thank that Fay had 
 made that infamously unjust will by which she 
 left the remnant of her money to her children 
 and not to her husband. Oh yes! he'd a lot to 
 thank Ledgard for. Well, he wouldn't like it 
 
 328
 
 A Demonstration in Force 
 
 when Jan got hurt. Ledgard was odd about 
 women. He couldn't bear to see them worried; 
 he couldn't bear to see Fay worried, interfered 
 then. A blank, blank, blank interfering chap, 
 Ledgard was. What Jan needed was a real good 
 scare. 
 
 They suggested Guernsey. Well, he'd go to 
 Guernsey, and he wouldn't go alone. Hugo thor- 
 oughly enjoyed a plot. The twilight world that 
 had been so difficult and perplexing to poor Fay 
 had for him a sort of exciting charm. Wren's 
 End had become dreadfully dull. For the first 
 week or two, while he felt so ill, it had been rest- 
 ful. Now its regular hours and ordered tran- 
 quillity were getting on his nerves. All those 
 portraits of his wife, too, worried him. He could 
 go into no room where the lovely face, with youth's 
 wistful wonder as to what life held, did not con- 
 front him with a reminder that the wife he had 
 left to die in Bombay did not look in the least 
 like that. 
 
 There were few things in his life save miscal- 
 culation that he regretted. But he did feel un- 
 comfortable when he remembered Fay so trust- 
 ful always, so ready to help him in any difficulty. 
 People liked her; even women liked her in spite 
 of her good looks, and Hugo had found the world 
 a hard, unfriendly place since her death. 
 
 The whole thing was getting on his nerves. It 
 was time to shuffle the cards and have a new deal. 
 
 He packed his suit-case which had been so 
 empty when he arrived, and waited for a day 
 when Peter had taken Jan, Meg and the children 
 
 329
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 for a motor run to a neighbouring town. He took 
 care to see that Earley was duly busy in the 
 kitchen garden, and the maids safely at the back 
 of the house. Then he carried it to the lodge 
 gate himself and waited for a passing tradesman's 
 cart. Fortune favoured him; the butcher came 
 up with (had Hugo known it) veal cutlets for 
 Hugo's own dinner. Hugo tipped the butcher 
 and asked him to leave the suit-case at the sta- 
 tion to be sent on as carted luggage to its address. 
 
 Next morning he learned that Tony was to go 
 with Earley to fetch extra cream from Mr. Bur- 
 gess' farm. 
 
 It was unfortunate that he couldn't get any of 
 Tony's clothes without causing comment. He 
 had tried the day before, but beyond a jersey and 
 two little vests (which happened to be little Fay's), 
 he had been unable to find anything. Well, Jan 
 would be glad enough to send Tony's clothes when 
 he let her know where they were to be sent. 
 Tony had changed a good deal from the silent, 
 solemn child he had disliked in India. He was 
 franker and more talkative. Sometimes Hugo 
 felt that the child wasn't such a bad little chap, 
 after all. But the very evident understanding 
 between Jan and Tony filled Hugo with a dull 
 sort of jealousy. He had never tried to win the 
 child, but nevertheless he resented the fact that 
 Tony's attitude to Jan and Meg was one of per- 
 fect trust and friendliness. He never looked at 
 them with the strange judging, weighing look 
 that Hugo hated so heartily. 
 
 He strolled into the drive and waited. Meg 
 330
 
 A Demonstration in Force 
 
 and Jan were busy in the day-nursery, making 
 the little garments that were outgrown so fast. 
 Little Fay was playing on the Wren's lawn and 
 singing to herself: 
 
 The fox went out one moonlight night, 
 And he played to the moon to give him light, 
 For he had a long way to tlot that night 
 Before he could leach his den-oh. 
 
 Hugo listened for a minute. What a clear 
 voice the child had. He would like to have taken 
 little Fay, but already he stood in wholesome 
 awe of his daughter. She could use her thor- 
 oughly sound lungs for other purposes than song, 
 and she hadn't the smallest scruple about drawing 
 universal attention to any grievance. Now Tony 
 would never make a scene. Hugo recognised and 
 admired that quality in his queer little son. He 
 did not know that Tony already ruled his little 
 life by a categorical imperative of things a sahib 
 must not do. 
 
 At the drive gate he met Earley carrying the 
 can of cream, with Tony trotting by his side. 
 
 "I'm going into the village, Tony, and Auntie 
 Jan says you may as well come with me for com- 
 pany. Will you come?" 
 
 Tony looked dubious. Still, he remembered 
 that Auntie Jan had said he must try and be kind 
 to poor Daddie, who had been so ill and was so 
 sad. 
 
 "All right," he said with a little sigh, and took 
 the hand Hugo held out. 
 
 "He'll be quite safe with me, Earley," Hugo 
 331
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 said with a pleasant smile. "Miss Ross knows 
 I'm going to take him." 
 
 Nevertheless Earley went to the back door 
 and asked Hannah to inform her mistress that 
 "Mr. Tancred had taken Mazter Tony along of 
 J im." 
 
 Hannah was busy, and serene in her concep- 
 tion of Hugo as the sorrowing widower, did not 
 think the fact that Tony had gone for a walk 
 with his own father was worth a journey to the 
 day-nursery. 
 
 "How would you like a ride down to the junc- 
 tion?" Hugo said. "I believe we could just 
 catch a train if we take the omnibus at 'The 
 Green Hart.' I want to make inquiries about 
 something for Auntie Jan." 
 
 Tony loved trains; he had only been twice to 
 the junction since he came to Wren's End; it 
 was a fascinating place. Daddie seemed in an 
 agreeable mood this morning. Auntie Jan would 
 be pleased that he should be nice to him. 
 
 It all fell out as if the fates had arranged things 
 for Hugo. They saw very few people in the vil- 
 lage; only one old woman accompanied them in 
 the bus; he heard his father ask for a ticket to 
 the junction, and they arrived without incident 
 of any kind. 
 
 The junction, however, was busy. There were 
 quite a lot of people, and when Hugo went to the 
 ticket-office he had to stand in a queue of others 
 while Tony waited outside the long row. 
 
 Suddenly Tony began to wonder why his father 
 should go to the ticket-office at all to inquire for 
 
 332
 
 A Demonstration in Force 
 
 a parcel. Tony was observant, and just because 
 everything was so different from things in India 
 small incidents were impressed upon his mind. If 
 his father was going on anywhere else, he wasn't 
 going; for Peter had promised to take them out 
 in his car again that afternoon. When Hugo 
 reached the window of the ticket-office Tony 
 heard something about Paddington. 
 
 That decided him. Nothing would induce him 
 to go to Paddington. 
 
 He pushed his way among the crowd and ran 
 for dear life up the stairs, and over the bridge to 
 the other platform where the train for Amber 
 Guiting was still waiting, lonely and deserted. 
 He knew that train. It went up and down all 
 day, for Amber Guiting was the terminus. No 
 one was on the platform as he ran along. With 
 the sure instinct of the hunted he passed the car- 
 riages with their shut doors. Right at the end 
 was a van with empty milk-cans. He had seen 
 a porter putting them in the moment the train 
 stopped. Tony darted into the van and crouched 
 down between the milk-cans and the wall. He 
 thought of getting into one of them. The story 
 of Morgiana and the Forty Thieves was clear in 
 his mind, for Meg had told it to them the night 
 before. But the cans were so high and narrow 
 he decided that it was impossible. Someone 
 slammed the door of the van. There came a 
 bump and a jar, and the train moved out onto 
 a siding till it should go back to Amber Guiting 
 when the 1.30 from London came in. Tony sat 
 quite still in the dark, stuffy van. His little heart 
 
 333
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 was beating with hammer strokes against his ribs, 
 but his face expressed nothing but scorn. 
 
 Again his father had lied to him. Again he 
 had said he was going to do one thing when he 
 fully intended to do another. The pleasantness, 
 the kindliness, the apparent desire for Tony's 
 society were a cheat. Tony spoke rapidly to him- 
 self in Hindustani, and by the time he had fin- 
 ished expressing his views Hugo Tancred hadn't 
 a shred of character left. 
 
 He didn't know when the train would go back 
 to Amber Guiting. It might not be till evening. 
 Tony could wait. Some time it would go back, 
 and once in that dear, safe place alt would be well. 
 
 He disliked the sound of Paddington; it had 
 to do with London, he knew. He didn't mind 
 London, but he wasn't going there with his father, 
 and no Meg and no Jan and no little Fay and no 
 land sahibs who were real sahibs. 
 
 He was very hungry, and his eyes grew a bit 
 misty as he thought of little Fay consuming scones 
 and milk at the "elevens" Meg was always so 
 careful they should have. 
 
 A new and troubling thought perturbed him. 
 Did Auntie Jan know he Tiad gone at all ? Would 
 she be frightened? Would she get that look on 
 her dear face that he couldn't bear to see? That 
 Auntie Jan loved them both with her whole heart 
 was now one of the fixed stars in Tony's firma- 
 ment of beliefs. He began to think that per- 
 haps it would be better for Auntie Jan to give his 
 father some of her twinkly things and let him go 
 away and leave them in peace; but he dismissed 
 
 334
 
 A Demonstration in Force 
 
 that thought as cowardly and unworthy of a 
 sahib. 
 
 Oh, dear ! it was very long sitting in the dark, 
 scrunched up behind those cans. He must tell 
 himself stories to pass the time; and he started 
 to relate the interminable legend of Cocky-locky 
 and Henny-Penny who by their superior subtlety 
 evaded the snares set for them by Toddy-Loddy 
 the fox. He felt a sort of kinship with those 
 harried fowls. Gradually the constant repeti- 
 tion of the various other birds involved, "Juckie- 
 Puckie, Goosie-Loosie, Turkey-lurkey and Swan- 
 nie-Lonnie," had a soothing effect, and Tony fell 
 asleep. 
 
 Meanwhile Hugo had hunted through every 
 corner of the four platforms; he had even gone to 
 look for the Amber Guiting train, but was told it 
 always was moved on to a siding directly it had 
 discharged its passengers. 
 
 It was mysterious, it was profoundly annoy- 
 ing, but it was not, to Hugo, alarming. He sus- 
 pected that Peter Ledgard was in some way 
 mixed up in it; that he. himself, had been shad- 
 owed and that Peter nad stolen Tony in the 
 crowd. In his mistrustful wrath he endowed 
 Peter with such abnormal foresight and acumen 
 as he certainly did not possess. 
 
 It really was an 'impossible situation. Hugo 
 could not go about asking porters and people for 
 a lost child, or the neighbourhood would be 
 roused. He couldn't go back to Wren's End 
 without Tony, or there would be the devil to pay. 
 
 335
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 He even got a porter to look in every carriage of 
 the side-tracked train for a mythical despatch- 
 case, and accompanied him in his search. Natu- 
 rally they didn't seek a despatch-case in the van. 
 
 He had lost his train, but there was another, 
 very slow, about three-quarters of an hour later, 
 and this he decided to take. He would telegraph 
 to Jan from London. Somehow he was not in 
 the least concerned about the fate of Tony. 
 Peter and Peter's car had something to do with 
 this mysterious disappearance. He was sure of 
 that. 
 
 Well, if this particular deal had failed, he must 
 shuffle the cards and deal again. In any case 
 Jan should see that where his children were con- 
 cerned he was not to be trifled with. 
 
 He was sorry, though, he had bought the half- 
 ticket for Tony, and to ask them to take it back 
 might cause comment. 
 
 As the slow train steamed out from the junc- 
 tion Hugo felt a very ill-used man. 
 
 At eleven o'clock Anne Chitt brought in the 
 tray with two cups of milk and a plate of Han- 
 nah's excellent scones. 
 
 ''Please go into the kitchen garden and ask 
 Master Tony to come for his lunch," Jan said. 
 
 Presently Anne returned. "Master Tony ain't 
 in the garden, miss; and 'Annah says as 'e most 
 likely ain't back yet, miss." 
 
 "Back ! Back from where?" 
 
 "Please, miss, 'Annah says as 'is pa've took 
 him with him down the village." 
 
 336
 
 A Demonstration in Force 
 
 Jan laid her sewing on the table and got up. 
 
 "Is Earley in the garden?" 
 
 "Yes, miss. I ast Earley an' 'e says the same 
 as 'Annah. Mr. Tancred 'ave took Master Tony 
 with 'im." 
 
 Anne went away, and Jan and Meg, who had 
 stopped her machining to listen, stared at each 
 other across the table. 
 
 "I suppose they'll be back directly," Jan said 
 uneasily. "I'll go and ask Earley when Hugo 
 took Tony." 
 
 "He got up to breakfast to-day for the first 
 time," Meg remarked irrelevantly. 
 
 Jan went out into the Wrens' garden and 
 through Anthony's gate. She fumbled at the 
 catch, for her hands trembled. 
 
 Earley was picking peas. 
 
 "What tune did Mr. Tancred take Master 
 Tony?" she asked. 
 
 "Just as we got back from fetchin' the cream, 
 miss. I should say as it was about 'alf-past nine. 
 He did meet us at the lodge, and took the young 
 gentleman with 'im for company 'e said so." 
 
 "Thank you, Earley," Jan said quietly. 
 
 Earley looked at her and over his broad, good- 
 natured face there passed a shade of misgiving. 
 "I did tell Hannah to let you know the minute I 
 cum in, miss." 
 
 "Thank you," Jan said again; "that's quite 
 right." 
 
 "Be you feelin' the 'eat, miss?" Earley asked 
 anxiously. "I don't think as you ought to be 
 out without an 'at." 
 
 337
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "No, I expect not. I'll go and get one." 
 
 By lunch time there was still no sign of Hugo 
 and Tony; and Jan was certainly as much scared 
 as even Hugo could have wished. 
 
 Meg had been down to the village and discov- 
 ered that Hugo and Tony had gone by bus to the 
 junction in time for the 10.23. 
 
 Peter was playing golf with Squire Walcote on 
 a little course he had made in some of his fields. 
 It was impossible to go and hunt for Peter without 
 giving away the whole situation, and Jan was 
 loth to do that. 
 
 She and Meg stared at one another in dismayed 
 impotence. 
 
 Jan ordered the pony-carriage; she would drive 
 to the junction, leaving a note for Peter at "The 
 Green Hart," but it was only too likely he would 
 lunch with the Walcotes. 
 
 "You must eat something," said Meg. " There's 
 a train in at a quarter to two; you'd better meet 
 that before you go to the junction; the guard 
 might be able to tell you something." 
 
 At lunch little Fay wept because there was no 
 Tony. 
 
 338
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 IN WHICH SEVERAL PEOPLE SPEAK THEIR MINDS 
 
 " A FTER all, you know," Meg said, with in- 
 -** tent to comfort, "no great harm can hap- 
 pen to Tony. Hugo will only take the child a 
 little way off, to see what he can get out of you." 
 
 "It's the moral harm to Tony that I mind," 
 Jan answered sadly. "He was getting so happy 
 and trustful, so much more like other children. 
 I know his father has got him to go away by 
 some ruse, and he will be miserable and embit- 
 tered because he has been cheated again." 
 
 "Shall you drive to the junction if you hear 
 nothing at the station?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so, though I've little hope of 
 learning anything there. You see, people come 
 there from three directions. They couldn't pos- 
 sibly notice everybody as they do at a little sta- 
 tion like this." 
 
 "Wait," said Meg, "don't go to the junction. 
 Have you forgotten Mr. Ledgard was to fetch us 
 all at half -past two? He'll run you over in his 
 car in a quarter the time you'd take to go with 
 Placid, and be some use as well. You'd better 
 come straight back here if you get no news, and 
 I'll keep him till you get back if he turns up first." 
 
 By this time the pony-cart was at the door. 
 Meg helped Jan in, kissed her, and whispered, 
 "Cheer up ; I feel somehow you'll hear something," 
 
 339
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 and Jan drove off. She found a boy to hold the 
 pony when she reached the station, and went in. 
 The old porter was waiting for the train, and she 
 asked if he happened to notice her little nephew 
 that morning. 
 
 "Yes, miss, I did see 'un along with a holder 
 gentleman unbeknownst to me." 
 
 Jan walked up and down in an agony of doubt 
 and apprehension. 
 
 The train came in. There were but few pas- 
 sengers, and among them was Miles, come down 
 again for the week-end. 
 
 He greeted Jan with effusion. Had she come 
 to meet anyone, or was it a parcel? 
 
 To his astonishment Miss Ross broke from him 
 and rushed at the guard right up at the far end 
 of the train. 
 
 The guard evidently disclaimed all knowledge 
 of the parcel, for Miles saw him shaking his head 
 vigorously. 
 
 "Any other luggage, sir?" asked the old por- 
 ter, lifting out Miles' suit-case. 
 
 "Yes, a box of rods in the van." 
 
 The old porter went to the end of the train 
 near where Jan had been to the guard three min- 
 utes before. 
 
 He opened the van door and nearly tumbled 
 backward in astonishment, for right in the door- 
 way, blinking at the light, stood "Miss Rass' 
 young gen'leman." 
 
 "Well, I am blessed!" exclaimed the porter, 
 and lifted him out. 
 
 Tony was dreadfully dirty. The heat, the 
 340
 
 In Which Several People Speak Their Minds 
 
 dust, the tears he had shed when he woke up with 
 the putting in of luggage at the junction and 
 couldn't understand what had happened to him, 
 all combined to make him about the most misera- 
 ble-looking and disreputable small boy you could 
 imagine. He had left his hat behind the milk- 
 cans. 
 
 Jan had gone out of the station. She had 
 passed Miles blindly, and her face caused that 
 young man to whistle softly, just once. Then he 
 dashed after her. 
 
 "Your haunt bin askin' for you," the old porter 
 said to Tony. "Teared to me she was a bit 
 worried-like." 
 
 Tony moved stiffly down the little station, the 
 old porter following with Miles' luggage on a 
 truck. 
 
 The ticket-collector stood in the doorway. 
 Tony, of course, had none. "Don't you say 
 nothin'," whispered the old porter. "'Is haunt'll 
 make it good; there's some sort of a misteree." 
 
 Tony felt queer and giddy. Jan, already in 
 her little pony-trap, had started to drive away. 
 Miles, waiting for his baggage beside his uncle's 
 car, saw the dejected little figure appear in the 
 station entrance. 
 
 He let fly a real barrack-square bellow after 
 Jan, and she pulled up. 
 
 She looked back and saw the reason for Cap- 
 tain Middleton's amazing roar. 
 
 She swung the indignant Placid round, and in 
 two minutes she was out of the pony-trap and 
 had Tony in her strong arms. 
 
 341
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Miles tipped the porter and drove off. He, 
 too, realised that there was some sort of a "mis- 
 teree," something painful and unpleasant for 
 Miss Ross, and that she would probably prefer 
 that no questions were asked. 
 
 Whatever mischief could that young Tony have 
 been after ? And dared Miles call at Wren's End 
 that evening, in the hope of a glimpse of Meg, or 
 would it look inquisitive and ill-bred? 
 
 Placid turned a mild, inquiring head to discover 
 the reason for this new delay. 
 
 When Jan, after paying Tony's fare back from 
 the junction, had driven away, the old porter, the 
 ticket-collector, and the station-master sat in 
 conclave on the situation. And their unanimous 
 conclusion was summed up by the old porter: 
 "Byes be a mishtiful set of young varmints, an' 
 it warn't no job for a lone 'ooman to 'ave to bring 
 'em up." 
 
 The lone woman in question held her reins in 
 one hand and her other arm very tightly round 
 the dirty little boy on the seat beside her. 
 
 As they drove through the village neither of 
 them spoke, but when they reached the Wren's 
 End Road, Tony burst into tears. 
 
 "I am so hungry," he wailed, "and I feel so 
 nasty in my inside." 
 
 As Meg was putting him to bed that night she 
 inquired if he had done anything with his green 
 jersey, for she couldn't find it. 
 
 "No," Tony answered. "I haven't had it for 
 a long tune it's been too warm." 
 
 342
 
 In Which Several People Speak Their Minds 
 
 "It's very odd," said Meg. "It has disap- 
 peared, and so have two vests of little Fay's that 
 I put in the nursery ottoman to mend. Where 
 can they be? I hate to lose things; it seems so 
 untidy." 
 
 "I 'spect," said Tony, thoughtfully, "my 
 Daddie took them. He'd never leave without 
 takin somefin." 
 
 There was a dinner-party at the Manor House. 
 Peter had come down from town for it, and this 
 tune he was staying at Wren's End. Lady Penel- 
 ope and her husband were to dine and sleep at 
 the Manor, likewise Miles, who had come down 
 with Peter; and Lady Pen contrived thoroughly 
 to upset her aunt before dinner, by relating how 
 she had met Miles with Miss Morton and her 
 father hi Cheltenham. And poor Lady Mary had 
 been hoping that the unfortunate affair would die 
 a natural death. She had asked the prettiest 
 girl in the neighbourhood for Miles to take in, 
 and now, looking down the table at him, she 
 would have said he was as well-pleased with his 
 neighbour as any young man could be. The 
 Freams were there and Mr. Withells, the pretty 
 girl's mamma and a bride and bridegroom four- 
 teen in all. A dangerous number to ask, the 
 Squire had declared; one might so easily have 
 fallen through. No one did, however, and Peter 
 found himself allotted to Lady Penelope, while 
 Jan's fate was the bridegroom. "His wife won't 
 be jealous of Miss Ross, you know," Lady Mary 
 had said while arranging her couples. 
 
 343
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 It happened that Peter sat opposite to Jan, 
 and he surveyed her across the sweet-peas with 
 considerable satisfaction. He had never seen Jan 
 in what her niece bluntly called "a nekked dless" 
 before. To-night she wore black, in some soft, 
 filmy stuff from which her fine arms and shoulders 
 and beautiful neck stood out in challenging white- 
 ness. Her hair, too, had "pretty twinkly things" 
 in it, and she wore a long chain of small but 
 well-matched pearls, her father's last gift to her. 
 Yes, Jan was undoubtedly distinguished, and oh, 
 thank heaven ! she had a clean face. 
 
 Beautiful Lady Pen was painted to the eyes, 
 and her maid was not quite skilful in blending 
 her complexion rightly with her vivid hair; beau- 
 tiful hah* it was, with a large ripple that was most 
 attractive, but Mr. Withells, sitting on the other 
 side of Lady Pen, decided that he didn't approve 
 of her. She was flamboyant and daring of speech. 
 She made him nervous. He felt sincerely sorry 
 for Pottinger. 
 
 Peter found Lady Pen very amusing, and 
 perhaps she rather neglected her other neigh- 
 bour. 
 
 The dinner was excellent and long; and after 
 it the ladies, when they left the men to smoke, 
 strolled about on the terrace, and Jan found her- 
 self side by side with Lady Penelope. 
 
 "How's your little friend?" she asked abruptly. 
 "I suppose you know my cousin's playin' round ?" 
 
 Jan was a little taller than Lady Pen, and 
 turned her head slowly to look at her: "I'm 
 afraid I don't quite understand," she said. 
 
 344
 
 In Which Several People Speak Their Minds 
 
 "Surely," Lady Pen retorted, "you must have 
 seen." 
 
 "If you mean that Captain Middleton admires 
 Miss Morton, I believe he does. But you see, to 
 say that anyone is 'playing round' rather reflects 
 on me, because she is in my charge." 
 
 "I should say you've got a pretty good hand- 
 ful," Lady Pen said sympathetically. 
 
 "I don't think you quite understand Miss Mor- 
 ton. I've known her, as it happens, known her 
 well, for close upon nine years." 
 
 "And you think well of her?" 
 
 "It would be difficult to express how well." 
 
 "You're a good friend, Miss Ross. I had oc- 
 casion to think so once before now I'm pretty 
 sure of it. What's the sayin' 'Tune tryeth 
 thingummy'?" 
 
 "Troth?" Jan suggested. 
 
 "That's it. 'Time tryeth troth.' I never was 
 any good at quotations and things. But now, 
 look here, I'd like to ask you somethin' rather 
 particular . . ." Lady Pen took Jan's arm and 
 propelled her gently down a side-walk out of ear- 
 shot of the others. "Suppose you knew folks 
 and they weren't exactly friends, but pleasant, 
 you know, and all that, and you were aware that 
 they went about sayin' things about a third per- 
 son who also wasn't exactly a friend, but . . . 
 well, likeable; and you believed that what the 
 first lot said gave a wrong impression ... in 
 short, was very damaging none of it any business 
 of yours, mind would you feel called upon to do 
 anything?" 
 
 345
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 The two tall women stopped and faced one 
 another. 
 
 The moon shone full on Lady Pen's beautiful 
 painted face, and Jan saw, for the first time, that 
 the eyes under the delicately darkened eyebrows 
 were curiously like Miles'. 
 
 "It's always tiresome to interfere in other 
 people's business," said Jan, "but it's not quite 
 fair, is it, not to stand up for people if you believe 
 an accusation to be untrue whether you like 
 them or not. You see, it may be such a serious 
 thing for the person implicated." 
 
 "I believe you're right," said Lady Pen, "but 
 oh, lord ! what a worry it will be." 
 
 Lady Mary called to them to come, for the 
 bride was going to sing. 
 
 The bride's singing was not particularly pleas- 
 ing, and she was followed by Miles, who per- 
 formed "Drake's Drum," to his aunt's rather un- 
 certain accompaniment, in a voice that shook the 
 walls. Poor Mr. Withells fled out by the window, 
 and sat on the step on his carefully-folded hand- 
 kerchief, but even so the cold stones penetrated, 
 and he came in again. 
 
 And after "Drake's Drum" it was time to go 
 home. 
 
 Jan and Peter walked back through the scented 
 night, Peter carrying her slippers in a silk bag, for 
 the sternly economical Meg wouldn't hear of 
 wasting good suede slippers at 22s. 6d. a pair by 
 walking half a mile in them, no matter how dry 
 it was. 
 
 When all the guests had gone, Lady Pen seized 
 346
 
 In Which Several People Speak Their Minds 
 
 Miles by the arm and implored him to take her 
 outside for a cigarette. "That little Withells had 
 given her the hump." 
 
 Lady Mary said it was bed-tune and the ser- 
 vants wanted to lock up. The Squire and Mr. 
 Pottinger melted away imperceptibly to smoke 
 in peace elsewhere. 
 
 Lady Pen, still holding Miles in an iron grip, 
 pulled him over to the door, which she shut, led 
 him back, and stood in front of Lady Mary, who 
 was just going to ring for the servants to shut the 
 windows. 
 
 "Wait a minute, Aunt Mary. I've got some- 
 thin' to say, and I want to say it before Miles." 
 
 "Oh, don't let us go into all that to-night," 
 Lady Mary implored, "if what you have to say 
 has anything to do with what you told me before 
 dinner." 
 
 "It has and it hasn't. One thing I've decided 
 is that I've got to tell the Trents they are liars; 
 and the other thing is that, though I disapprove 
 with all my strength of the game Miles is play- 
 ing, I believe that little girl is square . . ." 
 
 "You see," Lady Pen went on, turning to 
 Miles, "I've repeated things to Aunt Mary that 
 I: heard from the Trents lately but I heard a 
 different story at the time and though I think 
 you, Miles, are throwing yourself away, I won't 
 be a party to spreadin' lies. Somethin' that pvu- 
 dree woman with the good skin said to-night 
 made me feel a swab " 
 
 "I'm glad you've spoken up like this, Pen," 
 Miles said slowly, "for if you hadn't, we couldn't 
 
 347
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 have been friends any more. I promised Meg I 
 wouldn't tell anybody but I've asked her to 
 marry me ... and though she isn't over keen, 
 I believe I'll get her to do it some day." 
 
 "Isn't over keen?" Lady Mary repeated indig- 
 nantly. "Why, she ought to be down on her 
 knees with joy!" 
 
 Miles laughed. "She's not a kneeling sort, 
 Aunt Mary. It's I who'll have to do the kneeling, 
 I can tell you." 
 
 Lady Pen was looking straight at her cousin 
 with the beautiful candid eyes that were so like 
 his own. "Just for curiosity," she said slowly, 
 "I'd dearly like to know if Meg Morton ever said 
 anything to you about me anything rather con- 
 fidential I won't be offended, I'd just like to 
 know." 
 
 "About you?" Miles echoed in a puzzled 
 voice. 
 
 "About my appearance, you know my looks." 
 
 "I think she called you good-looking, like 
 everybody else, but I don't remember that she 
 was specially enthusiastic. To tell you the hon- 
 est truth, Pen, we've had other things to talk 
 about than you." 
 
 "Now listen, you two," said Lady Pen. "That 
 little girl is straight. You won't understand, 
 Miles, but Aunt Mary will. Meg Morton knew 
 I was against her about you, Miles women 
 always know these things. And yet she held her 
 tongue when she could have said something true 
 that I'd rather not have talked about. You'll 
 hold your tongue, old chap, and so will Aunt 
 
 348
 
 In Which Several People Speak Their Minds 
 
 Mary. I've got her hair; got it on this minute. 
 That's why she's such a croppy." 
 
 Lady Mary sat down on the nearest chair and 
 sighed deeply. 
 
 "It's been a real satisfaction to me, this trans- 
 formation, because I know where it came from." 
 
 Miles took his cousin's hand and kissed it. 
 "If somebody had to have it, I'm glad it's you," 
 he said. 
 
 "Yes, she's straight," Lady Pen repeated. "I 
 don't believe there's many girls who would have 
 kept quiet not when the man they cared about 
 was being got at. You may ring now, Aunt 
 Mary. I'm through. Good night." 
 
 ******** 
 
 "Do you realise," said Peter as they turned out 
 of the dark Manor drive into the moonlit road, 
 "that I've been here on and off over a month, 
 and that we are now nearly at the end of July?" 
 
 "You've only just come to us" said Jan. 
 "You can't count the time you stayed at 'The 
 Green Hart' as a visit." 
 
 "And now I have come . . . I'm not quite sure 
 I've done wisely, unless . . ." 
 
 "Unless what?" 
 
 "Unless I can put something through .that I 
 came back from India to do." 
 
 Jan did not answer. They walked on in silence, 
 and Peter looked at the moon. 
 
 "I think," he said, "you've always had a pretty 
 clear idea why I came home from India . . . 
 haven't you?" 
 
 "It was time for your leave," Jan said ner- 
 349
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 vously. "It isn't good to stay out there too 
 long." 
 
 "I shouldn't have taken leave this year, 
 though, if it hadn't been for you." 
 
 "You've always been kind and helpful to me 
 ... I hope it hasn't been very . . . incon- 
 venient." 
 
 Peter laughed, and stopped in the middle of 
 the road. 
 
 "I'm fond of fencing," he said lightly, "and 
 free play's all very well and pretty; but I've 
 always thought that the real thing, with the 
 buttons off the foils, must have been a lot more 
 sport than anything we get now." 
 
 Again Jan was silent. 
 
 "You've fenced with me, Jan," he said slowly, 
 "ever since I turned up that day unexpectedly. 
 Now, I want a straight answer. Do you care at 
 all, or have you only friendship for me? Look 
 at me; tell me the truth." 
 
 "It's all so complicated and difficult," she fal- 
 tered, and her eyes fell beneath Peter's. 
 
 "What is?" 
 
 "This caring when you aren't a free agent." 
 
 "Free fiddlestick! You either care or you 
 don't which is it?" 
 
 "I care a great deal too much for my own 
 peace of mind," said Jan. 
 
 "I am quite satisfied," said Peter. And if Mr. 
 Withells had seen what happened to the "sen- 
 sible" Miss Ross just then, his neatly-brushed 
 hair would have stood straight on end. 
 
 In the road, too ! 
 
 350
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 AUGUST, 1914 
 
 ," said Jan, "it would be like marrying 
 a widow . . . with encumbrances." 
 
 "But you don't happen to be a widow be- 
 sides, if you were, and had a dozen encumbrances, 
 if we want to get married it's nobody's business 
 but our own." 
 
 Peter spoke testily. He wanted Jan to marry 
 him before he went back to India in October, 
 and if he got the billet he hoped for, to follow him, 
 taking the two children out, early in November. 
 
 But Jan saw a thousand lions in the way. She 
 was pulled in this direction and that, and though 
 she knew she had got to depend on Peter to as 
 she put it "a dreadful extent," yet she hesitated 
 to saddle him with her decidedly explosive affairs, 
 without a great deal more consideration than he 
 seemed disposed to allow her. 
 
 Hugo, for the present, was quiet. He was in 
 Guernsey with his people, and beyond a letter in 
 which he directly accused Peter Ledgard of ab- 
 ducting Tony when his father was taking him to 
 visit his grandparents, Jan had heard nothing. 
 
 By Peter's advice she did not answer this letter. 
 But they both knew that Hugo was only waiting 
 to make some other and more unpleasant demon- 
 stration than the last. 
 
 "You see," Jan began again, "I've got so many 
 351
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 people to think of. The children and Meg and 
 the house and all the old servants. . . . You 
 mustn't hustle me, dear." 
 
 "Yes, I see all that; but I've got you to think 
 of, and if we're married and anything happens to 
 me you'll get your pension, and I want you to 
 have that." 
 
 "And if anything happened to me, you'd be 
 saddled with the care of two little children who've 
 got a thoroughly unsatisfactory father, who can 
 always make life hateful for them and for you. 
 No, Peter, it wouldn't be fair we must wait and 
 see how things work out." 
 
 "At present," Peter said gloomily, "it looks as 
 if things were working out to a fair bust-up all 
 round." 
 
 This was on the 30th of July. 
 
 Peter went up to London, intending to return 
 on the first to stay over the Bank Holiday, but he 
 did not come. He wanted to be within easy 
 reach of recalling cablegram. 
 
 Meg got a wire from Miles on Saturday: "Try 
 to come up for to-morrow and Monday I can't 
 leave town must see you." 
 
 And half an hour after it, came a note from 
 Squire Walcote, asking her to accept his escort, 
 as he and Lady Mary were going up to the Gros- 
 venor, and hoped Meg would be their guest. 
 
 It was during their stay in London that Lady 
 Mary and the Squire got the greatest surprise of 
 their whole lives. 
 
 Miles, looking bigger than ever in uniform, 
 rushed in and demanded an interview with Meg 
 
 352
 
 August, 1914 
 
 alone in their private room. He showed her a 
 special licence, and ordered, rather than requested, 
 that she should marry him at once. 
 
 "I can't," she said, "it's no use asking me . . . 
 I can't:' 
 
 "Listen; have you any objection to me?" 
 
 Meg pulled a little away from him and pre- 
 tended to look him up and down. "No ... in 
 fact ... I love every bit of you especially your 
 boots." 
 
 "Have you thought how likely it is that I may 
 not come back ... if there's war?" 
 
 "Don't!" said Meg. "Don't put it into 
 words." 
 
 "Then why won't you marry me, and let me 
 feel that, whether I'm killed or not, I've had the 
 thing I wanted most in this world?" 
 
 "Dear, I can't help it, but I feel if I married 
 you now . . . you would never come back . . . 
 but if I wait ... if I don't try to grasp this 
 wonderful thing too greedily ... it will come to 
 us both. I daren't marry you, Miles." 
 
 "Suppose I'm all smashed up ... I couldn't 
 ask you then . . . suppose I come back minus an 
 arm or a leg, or blind or something?" 
 
 "If the least little bit of you comes back, I'll 
 marry that; not you or anyone else could stop me 
 then." 
 
 "You'd make it easier all round if you'd marry 
 me now . . ." 
 
 "That's it . . . I don't want it to be easier. If 
 I was your wife, how could I go on being nurse to 
 those children?" 
 
 353
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "I wouldn't stop you you could go back to 
 Miss Ross and do just exactly what you're doing. 
 I agree with you the children are cheery 
 
 Meg shook her head. "No; if I was your wife, 
 it wouldn't do. As it is ... the nursemaid has 
 got her soldier, and that's as it should be." 
 
 "Will you marry me the first leave I get, if I 
 live to get any?" 
 
 "I'll think about that." 
 
 He gave her the ring she had refused before. 
 Such an absurd little ring, with its one big sap- 
 phire set with diamonds, and "no backing to it," 
 Miles said. 
 
 And he gave her a very heavy brass-studded 
 collar for William, and on the plate was engraved 
 her name and address. 
 
 "You see," he explained, "Miss Ross would 
 never really have him, and I'd like to think he was 
 your dog. And here's his licence." 
 
 Then Miles took her right up in his arms and 
 hugged her close, and set her gently down and 
 left her. 
 
 That night he asked his uncle and a brother- 
 officer to witness his will. He had left most of 
 his money among his relations, but twenty thou- 
 sand pounds he had left to Meg absolutely, in 
 the event of his being killed before they were 
 married. 
 
 His uncle pointed out that there was nothing 
 said about her possible marriage. "She'll be all 
 the better for a little money of her own if she does 
 marry," Miles said simply. "I don't want her 
 to go mourning all her days, but I do want the 
 
 354
 
 August, 1914 
 
 capital tied up on her so that he couldn't waste 
 it ... if he was an unfortunate sort of chap 
 over money." 
 
 The Squire blew his nose. 
 
 "You see," Miles went on, "she's a queer little 
 thing. If I left her too much, she'd refuse it al- 
 together. Now I trust to you, Uncle Edward, to 
 see that she takes this." 
 
 "I'll do my best, my boy, I'll do my best," said 
 the Squire; "but I hope with all my soul you'll 
 make settlements on her yourself before long." 
 
 "So do I, but you never can tell in war, you 
 know. And we must always remember," Miles 
 added with his broad, cheerful smile, "there's a 
 good deal of target about me." 
 
 Miles wrote to the little Major, a very manly, 
 straightforward letter, telling him what he had 
 done, but swearing him to secrecy as regarded 
 Meg. 
 
 He also wrote to Jan, and at the end, he said, 
 "I am glad she is to be with you, because you 
 really apreciate her." 
 
 The one "p" in "appreciate" fairly broke Jan 
 down. It was so like Miles. 
 
 Meg, white-faced and taciturn, went back to 
 Wren's End on Tuesday night. The Squire and 
 Lady Mary remained in town. 
 
 In answer to Jan's affectionate inquiries, Meg 
 was brief and business-like. Yes; she had seen 
 Miles several times. He was very busy. No, 
 she did not expect to see him again before . . . 
 he left. Yes; he was going with the First Army. 
 
 Jan asked no more questions, but was quietly, 
 355
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 consistently kind. Meg was adorable with her 
 children and surpassed herself in the telling of 
 stories. 
 
 The First Army left England for Flanders with 
 the silence of a shadow. 
 
 But Meg knew when it left. 
 
 That night, Jan woke about one o'clock, con- 
 scious of a queer sound that she could neither 
 define nor locate. 
 
 She sat up in bed to listen, and arrived at the 
 conclusion that it came from the day-nursery, 
 which was below her room. 
 
 Tony was sleeping peacefully. Jan put on her 
 dressing-gown and went downstairs. The nursery 
 door was not shut, and a shaft of light shone 
 through it into the dark hall. She pushed it 
 open a little way and looked in. 
 
 Meg was sitting at the table, making muslin 
 curtains as if her life depended on it. She wore 
 her nightgown, and over it a queer little Japanese 
 kimono of the green she loved. Her bare feet were 
 pillowed upon William, who lay snoring peace- 
 fully under the table. 
 
 Her face was set and absorbed. A grave, al- 
 most stern, little face. And her rumpled hair, 
 pushed back from her forehead, gave her the look 
 of a Botticelli boy angel. It seemed to merge 
 into tongues of flame where the lamplight caught 
 it. 
 
 The window was wide open and the sudden 
 opening of the door caused a draught, though the 
 night was singularly still. 
 
 The lamp nickered. 
 
 356
 
 August, 1914 
 
 Meg rested her hand on the handle of the sew- 
 ing-machine, and the whirring noise stopped. 
 She saw Jan in the doorway. 
 
 "Dear," said Jan gently, standing where she 
 was, half in and half out of the door, "are you 
 obliged to do this?" 
 
 Meg looked at her, and the dumb pain in that 
 look went to Jan's heart. 
 
 Jan came towards her and drew the flaming 
 head against her breast. 
 
 "I'm sorry I disturbed you," Meg murmured, 
 "but I was obliged to do something." 
 
 William stirred at the voices, and turning his 
 head tried to lick the little bare feet resting on his 
 back. 
 
 "Dearest, I really think you should go back to 
 bed." 
 
 "Very well," said Meg meekly. "I'll go now." 
 
 "He," Jan continued, "would be very angry if 
 he thought you were making curtains in the mid- 
 dle of the night." 
 
 "He," Meg retorted, "is absurd and dear be- 
 yond all human belief." 
 
 "You see, he left you in my charge . . . what 
 will he say if when he comes back he finds a 
 haggard Meg with a face like a threepenny-bit that 
 has seen much service?" 
 
 "All right, I'm coming." 
 
 When Meg got back to her room, she went and 
 leaned over little Fay sleeping in the cot beside her 
 bed. Rosy and beautiful, warm and fragrant, the 
 healthy baby brought comfort to Meg's stricken 
 heart. 
 
 357
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 Perhaps who knows the tramp of that silent 
 army sounded in little Fay's ears, for she stretched 
 out her dimpled arms and caught Meg round the 
 neck. 
 
 "Deah Med!" she sighed, and was still. 
 
 William stood at attention. 
 
 Presently Meg knelt down by her bed, and 
 according to the established ritual he thrust his 
 head into her encircling arm. 
 
 "Pray for your master, William," Meg whis- 
 pered. "Oh, William, pray for your master as 
 you never prayed before." 
 
 The strange tense days went on in August 
 weather serene and lovely as had not been seen 
 for years. Young men vanished from the coun- 
 try-side and older men wistfully wondered what 
 they could do to help. 
 
 Peter came down from Saturday to Monday, 
 telling them that every officer and every civilian 
 serving hi India was recalled, but he had not yet 
 learned when he was to sail. 
 
 They were sitting in the wrens' garden with the 
 children. 
 
 "Barley's going," Tony said importantly. 
 
 "Earley!" Jan exclaimed. "Going where?" 
 
 "To fight, of course," little Fay chimed in. 
 
 "Oh, poor dear Earley!" Jan sighed. 
 
 "Happy, fortunate Earley," said Peter. "I 
 wish I stood in his shoes." 
 
 Earley joined the Gloucesters because, he said, 
 "he couldn't abear to think of them there Ger- 
 
 358
 
 August, 1914 
 
 mans comin' anigh Mother and them childring 
 and the ladies; and he'd better go and see as they 
 didn't." 
 
 Mr. Withells called the men on his place together 
 and told them that every man who joined would 
 have his wages paid to his wife, and his wife or his 
 mother, as the case might be, could stop on in her 
 cottage. And Mr. Withells became a special con- 
 stable, with a badge and a truncheon. But he 
 worried every soldier that he knew with inquiries 
 as to whether there wasn't a chance for him in 
 some battalion: "I've taken great care of my 
 health," he said. "I do exercises every day after 
 my bath; I'm young-looking for my age, don't you 
 think? And anyway, a bullet might find me in- 
 stead of a more useful man." 
 
 No one laughed then at Mr. Withells and his 
 exercises. 
 
 Five days after the declaration of war Jan got a 
 letter from Hugo Tancred. He was in London 
 and was already a private in a rather famous 
 cavalry regiment. 
 
 "They didn't ask many questions," he wrote, 
 "so I hadn't to tell many hes. You see, I can ride 
 well and understand horses. If I get knocked 
 out, it won't be much loss, and I know, you'll 
 look after Fay's kiddies. If I come through, per- 
 haps I can make a fresh start somewhere. I've 
 always been fond of a gamble, and this is the 
 biggest gamble I've ever struck." 
 
 Jan showed the letter to Peter, who gave it 
 back to her with something like a groan: "Even 
 the wrong 'uns get their chance, and yet I have to 
 
 359
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 go back and do a deadly dull job, just because it 
 is my job." 
 
 Peter went up to town and two days after came 
 down again to "The Green Hart" to say good-bye. 
 He had got his marching orders and was to sail 
 in the Somali from Southampton. Some fifteen 
 hundred civilians and officers serving in India 
 were sailing by that boat and the Dongola. 
 
 By every argument he could bring forward he 
 tried to get Jan to marry him before he sailed. 
 Yet just because she wanted to do it so much, 
 she held back. She, too, she kept telling herself, 
 had her job, and she knew that if she was Peter's 
 wife, nothing, not even her dear Fay's children, 
 could be of equal importance with Peter. 
 
 The children and Meg and the household had 
 by much thinking grown into a sort of Franken- 
 stein's monster of duty. 
 
 Her attitude was incomprehensible to Peter. 
 It seemed to him to be wrong-headed and ab- 
 surd, and he began to lose patience with her. 
 
 On his last morning he sought and found her 
 beside the sun-dial in the wrens' garden. 
 
 Meg had taken little Fay to see Lady Mary's 
 Persian kittens, but Tony preferred to potter 
 about the garden with the aged man who was 
 trying to replace Earley. William was not al- 
 lowed to call upon the kittens, as Fatima, their 
 mother, objected to him vehemently, and Tony 
 cared to go nowhere if William might not be of 
 the party. 
 
 Peter came to Jan and took both her hands 
 and held them. 
 
 360
 
 August, 1914 
 
 "It's the last time I shall ask you, my dear. 
 If you care enough, we can have these last days 
 together. If you don't I must go, for I can't bear 
 any more of this. Either you love me enough to 
 marry me before I sail or you don't love me at 
 all. Which is it?" 
 
 "I do love you, you know I do." 
 
 "Well, which is it to be?" 
 
 "Peter, dear, you must give me more time. I 
 haven't really faced it all. I can't do anything 
 in such a hurry as that." 
 
 Peter looked at her and shook his head. 
 
 "You don't know what caring is," he said. 
 "I can't stand any more of this. Do you see that 
 motto on the sun-dial: 'I bide my time' I've 
 read it and read it, and I've said it over to myself 
 and waited and hoped to move you. Now I 
 can't wait any more." 
 
 He kissed her, dropped her hand, and turning 
 from her went out through the iron gate and down 
 the drive. For a moment Jan stood by the sun- 
 dial as though she, too, were stone. 
 
 Then blindly she went up the steps into the 
 empty nursery and sat down on an old sofa far 
 back in the room. She leaned face-downward 
 against the cushions, and great, tearing sobs broke 
 from her. 
 
 Peter was gone. He would never come back. 
 She had driven him from her. And having done 
 so she realised that he was the one person in the 
 world she could not possibly do without. 
 
 Tony's own hen had laid an egg. Carrying it 
 very carefully in a cabbage-leaf, he went, accom- 
 
 361
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 panied by the faithful William, to show it to 
 Auntie Jan, and was just in time to see Peter 
 going down the drive. 
 
 He went through the wrens' garden and in by 
 the window. For a moment he didn't see his 
 aunt; and was turning to go again when a strange 
 sound arrested him, and he saw her all huddled 
 up at the head of the sofa, with hidden face and 
 heaving shoulders. 
 
 He laid his egg on the table and went and 
 pulled at her arm. 
 
 "What is the matter?" he asked anxiously. 
 "And why has Peter gone?" 
 
 Jan raised her head; pride and shame and self- 
 consciousness were dead in her: "He's gone," she 
 sobbed. "He won't come back, and I shall never 
 be happy any more," and down went her head 
 again on her locked arms. 
 
 Tony did not attempt to console her. He ran 
 from the room, and Jan felt that this was only an 
 added pang of abandonment. 
 
 Down the drive ran Tony, with William gal- 
 umphing beside him. But William was not happy, 
 and squealed softly from time to time. He felt 
 it unkind to leave a poor lady crying like that, and 
 yet was constrained to go with Tony because Meg 
 had left him in William's charge. 
 
 Tony turned out of the gate and into the road. 
 
 Far away in the distance was a man's figure 
 striding along with incredible swiftness. Tony 
 started to run all he knew. Now, seldom as Wil- 
 liam barked, he barked when people ran, and 
 William's bark was so deep and sonorous and dis- 
 
 362
 
 August, 1914 
 
 tinctive that it caused the swiftly striding man 
 to turn his head. He turned his body, too, and 
 came back to meet Tony and William. 
 
 Tony was puffed and almost breathless, but he 
 managed to jerk out: "You must go back; she's 
 . . . crying dreadful. You must go back. Go 
 quick; don't wait for us." 
 
 Peter went. 
 
 Jan very rarely cried. When she did it hurt 
 fiercely and absorbed all her attention. She was 
 crying now as if she would never stop. If people 
 seldom cry it has a devastating effect on their 
 appearance when they do. Jan's eyelids were 
 swollen, her nose scarlet and shiny, her features 
 all bleared and blurred and almost scarred by 
 tears. 
 
 Someone touched her gently on the shoulder, 
 and she looked up. 
 
 "My dear," said Peter, "you must not cry like 
 this. I was losing my temper that's why I went 
 off." 
 
 Jan sprang to her feet and flung her arms round 
 his neck. She pressed her ravaged face against 
 his: "I'll do anything you like," she whispered, 
 "if you'll only like it. I can't stand by myself 
 any more." 
 
 This was true, for as she spoke her knees gave 
 under her. 
 
 Peter held her close. Never had Jan looked 
 less attractive and never had Peter loved her 
 more, or realised so clearly how dear and foolish 
 and wise and womanly she was. 
 
 363
 
 Jan and Her Job 
 
 "You see," she sobbed, "you said yourself 
 everyone must do his job, and I thought 
 
 "But surely," said Peter, "I am your job part 
 of it, anyway." 
 
 Jan sobbed now more quietly, with her head 
 against his shoulder. 
 
 Tony and William came and looked in at the 
 window. 
 
 His aunt was still crying, crying hard, though 
 Peter was there close beside her, very close indeed. 
 
 Surely this was most unreasonable. 
 
 "She said," Tony remarked accusingly to Peter, 
 "she was crying because you had gone, so I ran 
 to fetch you back. And now I have fetched you, 
 she's crying worse nor ever." 
 
 But William Bloomsbury knew better. Wil- 
 liam had cause to know the solitary bitter tears 
 that hurt. These tears were different. 
 
 So William wagged his tail and ran into the 
 room, jumping joyously on Peter and Jan. 
 
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