OfntttcU Ittiuerattg Slihrarg 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE 
 
 SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 HENRY W. SAGE 
 
 IS9I 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 1589.E3M2 
 
 The making of Jane.a novel ... 
 
 3 1924 021 981 109 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021981109 
 
THE MAKING OF JANE 
 
THE MAKING 
 OF JANE 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 SARAH BARNWELL ELLIOTT 
 
 AUTHOR OF "JERRY, "THE DURKET SPERRET, 
 "AN INCIDENT AND OTHER HAPPENINGS," ETC. 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 NEW Y0RK:::::::::::::::::i90i 
 
 b 
 
Copyright, 1901, bv 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 AU rights reserved 
 
 TROW DIRECTORY 
 
 PRINTIKQ AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
TO 
 
 M. J. p. C. 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " When ye stood up in the house 
 
 With your little childish feet. 
 And in touching Life's first shows, 
 
 First the touch of Love did meet — 
 Love and nearness seeming one, 
 
 By the heart-light cast before. 
 And of all Beloveds, none 
 
 Standing farther than the door — " 
 
 IT was a large room, a nursery ; it was wainscoted, 
 and the wainscoting was painted gray; the wall 
 above it, and the ceiling, were white. Being in a wing 
 of the house, the room had windows to the north, to 
 the south, and to the west; the fourth side was occu- 
 pied by a door and a fireplace. In front of the fire- 
 place there was a tall wire fender painted green, with 
 brass knobs at stated intervals on the top. The car- 
 pet showed rich and warm in occasional spots in the 
 far corners, but everywhere else it had been worn 
 down to a uniform gray. There were two old-fash- 
 ioned trundle-beds in the room, and a high crib of an- 
 tique shape. There were high c^irs and little chairs ; 
 an old chest of drawers with glass knobs ; a washstand 
 too tall for the children to reach, and a cane-bottomed 
 
 I 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 rocking-chair, large and battered. Everything in the 
 room was more or less battered, yet it had a beauty of 
 its own. 
 
 It was a winter evening, gray and misty, with a fine 
 rain falling. A sad, desolate evening such as come only 
 in Southern countries when the sun is gone and there 
 is no crispness in the air. A fire burned in the big 
 fireplace, a ruddy bank of logs that was slowly turning 
 into coals where all the shades of red and purple 
 glowed and thin blue flames crept in and out about the 
 fiery mass. A fire that struck a strong light up against 
 the high white ceiling, and cast dark shadows in the 
 far corners, and made the face of the black woman 
 rocking a snow-flake of a baby in the big chair, to shine. 
 Some children, like little steps, the youngest just walk- 
 ing, played about on the floor with many miscellaneous 
 articles. Pine-burrs, shells, some old chess-men, some 
 home-made cloth dolls, strings of empty spools which 
 they sometimes put as crowns on their curly heads, 
 and some hoary blocks worn cornerless with use. They 
 were speaking in stage whispers now, and tipping 
 about on their little toes, for the nurse was rocking 
 the baby to sleep, singing a melancholy "Spiritual " — 
 
 " In dat day— in dat day, 
 
 When you see de Lawd a-comin' 
 In dat day — in dat da-y-y ! " 
 
 And as she rocked the old chair creaked and groaned. 
 
 But presently the eldest child stepped on a block 
 
 that turned, she plunged forward upsetting the brother, 
 
 tumbling him against the little sister who, being by 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 no means firm on her legs, sat down very hard. 
 Immediately her head was thrown back, her eyes were 
 shut tight, her mouth fell open and a shrill cry was 
 emitted that rent the air. The baby started wide 
 awake and the nurse sat up straight in her chair. 
 
 " Now, Miss Janey ! " she cried, " what is you doin' ? 
 I dis gitten dis baby to sleep, en you is done wake um 
 up. Git up. Mass Jimmy, doan you cry, you is boy. 
 Come yer. Miss Mayon; come yer, my chile, an tell 
 yo' mawmer wey hot you." 
 
 " Det up, Ma'on," the little boy pleaded, putting one 
 short arm round his sister's neck in a way that bid fair 
 to strangle her, but Marion did not stir. She seemed 
 to be pleased with her present importance and contin- 
 ued to wail aloud, with closed eyes from which no tear 
 came. 
 
 " Now, Miss Janey, you see what you is do," the 
 nurse went on, " meckin' Miss Mayon st'at wid dat 
 dry cry, en you know say nobody kin stop um." 
 
 " I tripped on a block," Janey explained. " Come, 
 Marion," she went on, " take my doll, my new doll," 
 forcing the least defaced of the effigies into the arms 
 of the little wailer. " It's my new doll, Marion, open 
 your eyes ; the one with the pink frock." 
 
 " Teck yo' sister doll, my chile," the nurse chimed 
 in, and now she turned the baby down on his stomach 
 across her knees, and began a joggling, rocking mo- 
 tion that seemed as though it must wring his head off, 
 instead, one fist crept into his mouth, and he fixed his 
 eyes on the fire with a wide, unwinking stare of con- 
 tentment. 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Get up, Marion," Janey went on, " here's my little 
 chair by the fire, and here's my doll ; come on." 
 
 This last suggestion seemed potent, and Marion 
 opened her eyes. Janey helped her to her feet, and 
 grasping Janey's doll closely, she marched to the chair 
 that was hastily put in place for her, and sat down 
 smiling in a superior manner. 
 
 " Now dat's right," the nurse commented. " En, 
 Miss Janey, you en' Mass Jimmy muss keep quiet, 
 kase I bleeged to git dis baby to sleep ; I cahn set yer 
 tell mawnin." Then the baby having been joggled 
 into renewed weariness, the chair once more began to 
 groan and creak in a regular cadence ; the melancholy 
 song was resumed — " In dat day — in dat da-y-y," 
 and Jim and Janey tipped softly on from block to block. 
 Slippery stepping-stones these were, over a deep and 
 dreadful torrent, and a terrible lion lurking in the 
 farthest, darkest corner, was slowly creeping after 
 them ! How horrible was their peril, how they trem- 
 bled, how their eyes grew big with excitement ! 
 
 The evening darkened; the firelight became more 
 pronounced ; the monotonous song went on and on in 
 the warm, red gloom ; Marion was sound asleep in her 
 little chair, and Janey and Jim were almost safe on the 
 shore of the farthest trundle-bed, when the door opened 
 softly and the mother came in. By nursery magic the 
 first turn of the door-knob banished the lion and the 
 flood, and the children ran safely to meet the visitor. 
 She came to bring these elder ones down to supper. 
 
 " And you must be very good," she whispered, " for 
 your cousin Henry, who sends you such beautiful pres- 
 
 4 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 ents every Christmas, has just arrived ; he came on the 
 train, and will be here only for to-night, so you must be 
 very good indeed." 
 
 " Oh, mother ! " they whispered, just as excited as 
 when crossing the torrent. 
 
 " Yes, and he wants Janey to go away with him," 
 looking down into the child's wide-opened eyes that 
 seemed to catch a gleam from the fire. Jim's face fell. 
 " I want to go too," he said. 
 
 "Father's only big boy?" the mother asked. "If 
 Janey goes you'll be the oldest one at home to help 
 us. Marion and Tom are only little babies, you 
 know." 
 
 " And you'll let me go ? " Janey queried breath- 
 lessly ; " for how long, mother ? " 
 
 The mother sighed. " I don't know, dear," she said ; 
 " they want you for a long time. Cousin Henry and 
 Cousin Jane have no little children." 
 
 The child clung to her in a sudden terror. " But 
 I'll be your child all the time ? " she pleaded. 
 
 " Of course, always, all the time, and you need not 
 go unless you wish." Then they went away, and as 
 Janey softly closed the door, the melancholy song be- 
 gan again and the creaking of the chair, and her eyes 
 were filled with the slumberous red gloom of the bat- 
 tered old nursery. 
 
II 
 
 " Dear Heaven, how silly are the things that live ( 
 In thickets, and eat berries ! I, also, 
 A wild bird scarcely fledged, was brought to her/cage, 
 And she was there to meet me. Very kind. 
 Bring the clean water ; give out the fresh seed." 
 
 IT viras a long journey, first into the sleepy old city 
 where they had lunch, and where the maid at the 
 hotel remarked that Jane's hat was very old-fashioned 
 to be travelling with such a rich gentleman. Then 
 the gaudy sleeping-car that was to be their abiding 
 place for the rest of the journey. Here Jane took her 
 hat off. She looked at it critically. It was her very 
 best hat, the one that had been kept in her mother's 
 wardrobe, and put on only on Sundays when there 
 happened to be service within reach of the plantation. 
 Then her father would drive them over, and all the 
 negroes would be there, and the few white people who 
 sat in the front benches. Such hard benches! Her 
 best hat that still had about it a faint smell of dead 
 rose-leaves. Her mother's wardrobe always smelled 
 of dead rose-leaves. 
 
 " Old-fashioned," a " rich gentleman." She glanced 
 at her cousin. He looked quite different from her 
 father. He was fatter, he was younger ; his eyes were 
 fat; his face was shiny, and there were no creases in 
 his clothes, none anywhere ; his shoes, too, were differ- 
 
 6 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 ent. A rich gentleman. She turned very red when her 
 cousin caught her looking at him, and in her confusion 
 dropped her hat. Mr. Saunders picked it up. " What 
 are you thinking?" he asked. 
 
 " The servant said that my hat was old-fashioned, 
 and that you were a rich gentleman." 
 
 " So ? " and he smiled kindly. " You shall have a 
 new hat just as soon as we get to New York." 
 
 " This is my best hat." 
 
 " Now you shall have a better." 
 
 She took the hat. She did not know that the ribbon 
 had been washed and ironed, she did not know that 
 the extreme glistening quality of the uneven blackness 
 of the straw was due to shoe-polish, she only knew 
 that with breathless interest she had watched her 
 mother trim it, had stood at her mother's knee until 
 it was finished, and had laughed with delight when it 
 was put on her head, and her mother had kissed her, 
 and she had gone proudly about the big old house 
 seeking commendation. She smoothed the bows; the 
 smell of the dead rose-leaves came to her again; she 
 could see the big doors of the shining old wardrobe 
 swing open, could see the many drawers with their 
 brass handles, the piles of clothing and small boxes on 
 the various shelves, the very folds of her mother's 
 dresses hanging in the side compartments moved be- 
 fore her eyes. She spoke suddenly. " I don't want a 
 new hat/' she said. 
 
 Mr. Saunders, roused from his paper, again smiled 
 kindly. " Oh ! why, yes, with roses on it and feathers, 
 yes, and ribbons, wide ribbons." 
 
 7 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Jane looked at him solemnly, then went back to the 
 smoothing of the bows and he to his newspaper. 
 
 It was a long, long journey, and at the end her little 
 jacket was scarcely warm enough. Other little girls 
 had come into the car, and with newly awakened views 
 as to hats, Jane looked at theirs critically, then at her 
 own. Gradually she began to be sorry for her hat, 
 then for her jacket, then she found herself sitting with 
 her feet tucked away, though encased in her best shoes, 
 and wondering why her frock was so long. 
 
 The second night she cried herself to sleep, and on 
 the big crowded boat that took her over the great water 
 at the end of the journey, she felt herself alone in all 
 the world and different. Her heart swelled within 
 her, and she did not dare to speak. The streets dazed 
 her, and the rush and turmoil made her feel afraid. 
 Then the house was so still, and Cousin Jane was so 
 tall! She clung to Mr. Saunders, he had been good 
 to her, he had been in her own home. Cousin Jane 
 was beautiful; her eyes were shining and her cheeks 
 were red ; yes, and her clothes were like the clothes in 
 a picture-book; trailing like the princess in the fairy 
 tales, but yet she was like a great big room at night and 
 no light in it. The child clung to Mr. Saunders, got 
 behind him, but Cousin Jane drew her away. Such 
 white hands, such large hands she had, and they were 
 so hard. She was kissed, then her hat was taken off 
 and handed to the maid, her jacket followed. 
 
 " Put them in the parish closet," Mrs. Saunders 
 said, then, " How old are you, Jane ? " 
 
 "Seven years on my birthday." Her voice broke, 
 8 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 and she hid her face in her Uttle hands. The last birth- 
 day was the one that she remembered, and on that day 
 there had been a large ginger-cake and some molasses 
 candy, and her mother had made her a new doll, the 
 one with the pink calico frock on. 
 
 " You must not cry," Mrs. Saunders said. " You 
 must be good ; where is your handkerchief ? " 
 
 " I lost it." 
 
 Then her eyes were wiped with the softest handker- 
 chief she had ever felt, and she and the handkerchief 
 were both given over to a woman in a white cap and 
 apron. 
 
 " She must be bathed and dressed at once," Mrs. 
 Saunders ordered, " and her hair must be washed also, 
 and carefully brushed. She has had her breakfast, 
 Henry?" turning to Mr. Saunders, who was leaving 
 the room. 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " Then," to the maid, " you will tell Simmons that 
 Miss Jane's luncheon is to be served in the nursery 
 at twelve o'clock." 
 
 It was a large luxurious room in blue and white. 
 Curtains, carpet, furniture, china, all in blue and white. 
 A little book-shelf full of books, a doll-house comfort- 
 ably furnished, with a family of well-dressed dolls 
 seated in state ; a small rocking-chair, a low work-table 
 with a little basket on it. There were other playthings 
 too, and in a corner Jane's trunk, which had come with 
 them on the cab. 
 
 The child was bewildered until she caught sight of 
 the trunk, then her wonder centred around that. How 
 
 9 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 small it looked, and how strange. What had happened 
 to it, was it her trunk? She went close to it. Yes, 
 there was " Ormonde " on the end, which she had 
 spelled out so proudly for Jim's benefit. What was 
 the matter that it looked so small and old ? The maid 
 had been given the key, and without more ado she pro- 
 ceeded to open it, to toss the things out on the floor. 
 At first she had looked at them critically, with one or 
 two grunts, but only for a moment, then out every- 
 thing came, carelessly, recklessly. The watching child 
 seemed to see her mother's slim white hands as they 
 had folded and smoothed each thing into its place. 
 She was afraid to speak. At the bottom she saw a box, 
 she saw her cloth doll with the pink frock. 
 
 " There ! " she cried, and seized one in each hand. 
 
 "Stop!" 
 
 Jane's answer was to put the things in the low rock- 
 ing-chair and sit on them. The woman looked from 
 where she kneeled by the trunk, and laughed. " You 
 are a crazy little piece," she said. " I don't want your 
 old things ; they'll all go into the parish closet, I guess." 
 
 "With my best hat?" 
 
 " With all you've brought." 
 
 "What is that closet?" 
 
 The woman was sitting back on her heels now, put- 
 ting the different kinds of garments into separate piles. 
 " That closet is where Mrs. Saunders puts all the 
 things she's done with, to give to the poor." 
 
 "^/Z my clothes?" 
 
 " She'll give you new ones." 
 
 The child's eyes grew big with astonishment. She 
 lo 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 forgot the discomfort she was suffering of sitting on 
 the hard box and the soft doll. Her mother was go- 
 ing farther and farther away from her. What should 
 she do! She could not write; her cousin would not 
 take her back again. The world was an aching void, 
 her life was desolate, and again she put her face down 
 in her little hands and wept. 
 
 " That's no good," the maid went on, " you'll get 
 better ones." 
 
 " Mother made them." 
 
 " 'Cause she had to ; she'll be glad for you to have 
 new ones, fine ones. Come, stop crying, Mrs. Saun- 
 ders won't like it." 
 
 " Cousin Jane ? " 
 
 " Yes, I'm going to fix your bath now ; unbutton 
 your clothes." 
 
 Left alone, the child wiped her eyes on her sleeve. 
 She must save something from that dreadful closet. 
 The woman would hear her if she opened a drawer, 
 she could save only the box and the doll ! She looked 
 about like a hunted creature, then the doll was thrust 
 into the doll-house and the doors were shut, and the 
 box was shoved under the dressing-table, in the mid- 
 dle, far back against the wall? Her hands were trem- 
 bling so that they would scarcely do their office, but 
 she had a reasonable amount of clothing off before the 
 maid returned. It was a tremendous scouring the lit- 
 tle pink body was subjected to, and the tangles of her 
 curly hair seemed endless. Her lunch was lonely, too ; 
 she was lonelier still when the maid went down for her 
 food, but the afternoon made ample amends in the 
 
 II 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 shape of company. She was taken down to Mrs. 
 Saunders's dressing-room, where there were piles of 
 boxes arriving, where garment after garment was tried 
 on. She did not reaHze the fineness of them ; she was 
 simply a doll that Mrs. Saunders and the maid were 
 dressing and undressing, and discussing. Later the 
 snow began to fall. She had read of it, had seen pict- 
 ures of it; it was strange, it was dreadful, it would 
 cover all the world, it would shut her far-off home 
 away from her entirely ! 
 
 Arrayed at last in everything new, she was left by 
 the window, where she could watch this mysterious 
 snow. All the street was wet at first, and black, then 
 a little whiteness began to appear. It would be hope- 
 less when all was covered. She had a frantic longing 
 to rush away, down to the boat, to the train, away to 
 her home before the snow blocked all the roads. She 
 looked over her shoulder. Mrs. Saunders's desk, where 
 Mrs. Saunders was writing, was between her and the 
 door. She turned back to the window, but she could 
 not see. She drew her sleeve across her eyes. 
 
 "Jane!" 
 
 She started violently. 
 
 " There is a handkerchief in your pocket. You'll 
 ruin your new dress." 
 
 She found her handkerchief, but the tears had gone. 
 She could now see every snow-flake as it fell. 
 
 " That's a very untidy habit you have," Mrs. Saun- 
 ders went on ; " you've done it twice already, and why 
 are you crying? I've just bought you a quantity of 
 new clothes." 
 
 12 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " The snow will cover the world." 
 
 " But not you." Mrs. Saunders was standing be- 
 side her now. 
 
 " And all the roads, and all the engines and cars." 
 
 " Your travelling is done." 
 
 There was use for the little handkerchief now, but 
 Jane's maid had come in, and Mrs. Saunders's atten- 
 tion was diverted. " Have you finished ? " she asked. 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Saunders." 
 
 " Then take Miss Jane to her room. Hereafter she 
 will breakfast down-stairs, and have her luncheon with 
 us also. Her dinner will be served in the nursery. 
 Each day after dinner, unless there are guests, she will 
 come down-stairs for a little while. Kiss me, Jane; 
 now go and play with your dolls, read your story-books, 
 and later you will come down again. Make the best 
 of your holiday, for your lessons will begin immedi- 
 ately." 
 
 It was a long, long afternoon, the only, happy mo- 
 ment being when the maid leaving her for a little while, 
 she looked under the dressing-table and saw that her 
 box was safe, opened the doll-house and gave the de- 
 faced cloth effigy a strangling hug. 
 
 The lights and flowers, Mrs. Saunders's brilliant 
 dress and bare shoulders dazzled her when later on 
 she was led into the dining-room. Her chair was 
 placed next to Mr. Saunders, who drew her closer, 
 patted her gently, and put chocolates on her plate. 
 She could not swallow, but she managed to say " Thank 
 you " with a look it took him long to forget. Then 
 they went away in a carriage, and she, up to her bed. 
 
 13 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 The light was turned low, the maid went out, closing 
 the door; she would be back presently, she said. The 
 child waited; the maid would be down all those long 
 steps by this time. The covering was thrown off, the 
 little bare feet sped across the floor, in a moment she , 
 was back again, covered and hidden, with the old doll 
 safe in her arms. 
 
 14 
 
Ill 
 
 " Children's voices should be dear 
 (Call once more) to a mother's ear ; 
 Children's voices wild with pain — " 
 
 JANE ! " 
 The sudden cessation of screams and scold- 
 ing seemed to leave a vacuum in the room, and 
 the dishevelled maid and the infuriated child seemed 
 fixed in their places. 
 
 "What is it all about?" 
 
 " It's about a dirty old rag doll/' the maid answered. 
 " It was a disgrace " 
 
 " You story ! " the child flared up. 
 
 "Jane!" 
 
 " And I threw it into the dust-barrel." 
 
 The child covered her face with her little hands and 
 sobbed as if her heart would break. " Mother made 
 it — mother made it ! " she wailed. 
 
 " And did you for that reason get into this fury ? 
 And look at Fanny's apron; you have torn it to rib- 
 bons, a new apron. I am ashamed of you ; I am very 
 angry; come with me." 
 
 " She bit me, too." And the maid showed some 
 red spots on her hand. 
 
 " Come." And the child followed Mrs. Saunders 
 from the room. 
 
 The new experiences, the crowding sensations, the 
 
 IS 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 governess, the meting out of all time into sections 
 which were all occupied, even to playing at stated 
 hours, had made the days seem endless to the child. 
 From her own stand-point, if she had been able to put 
 it into words, she would have said that she had been 
 hurried and harried, had been tormented, and withal 
 had tried to be good. She liked the dancing-school 
 where the teacher praised her. She liked the gym- 
 nasium that reminded her of climbing trees, of swing- 
 ing from the grape-vines, and of dropping suddenly 
 to the infinite terror of her old nurse. But the lessons, 
 those everlasting lessons, were weariness and pain. 
 French and German — French and German, and thump- 
 ing on a piano, when the only thing she wanted to learn 
 was to write. To write to her father and mother. 
 And she was weary of the dressing and undressing, of 
 the stupid walks. Yet, of what use were play hours 
 to her? She would sit on the floor in front of the 
 doll-house and look at it. Not one article of furniture 
 had been moved, not one member of that orderly fam- 
 ily had ever been out of place. They were strangers, 
 while the old, battered, smirched image of cloth was 
 held close in her arms. She had not taken root, she 
 would not fit into her environment. She held aloof, 
 declaring to herself that some day she would go, some 
 day when she could write to her father to come for 
 her. Her trunk was gone, and her clothes, but so 
 much the quicker her father could pick her up and run 
 with her, and her mother would make her some more 
 clothes. The old doll knew all about it, and would go 
 too. 
 
 i6 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 She had, also, lost some of her awe of her surround- 
 ings, of the governess, of the maid, they who hurried 
 and harried her, and sometimes she would turn in im- 
 potent fury and try to wreak her little vengeance, which 
 outbreaks were all duly reported. Still Mrs. Saunders 
 declared that the child was undemonstrative. Down- 
 stairs she was as still as it was possible to be, and Mr. 
 Saunders was troubled. But now a climax had ar- 
 rived. By chance Mrs. Saunders had come on the 
 scene when the greatest of all the battles was being 
 fought, when the struggle was going hopelessly against 
 the child, when the maid could show rags and wounds, 
 and the child seemed to have no cause. A climax 
 when Mrs. Saunders, once for all, would arbitrate. 
 
 Down-stairs into the library they marched, and the 
 door was shut. " Sit there." And while the child 
 edged on to one of the tall chairs, Mrs. Saunders took 
 her seat near the table. 
 
 " I am sorry to tell you, Jane," she began, " that 
 I am finding you to be a very troublesome little child ; 
 and if I were not sorry for your father and mother, I 
 would send you home at once." 
 
 The child sobbed a little. 
 
 " Hush ! I cannot have any crying ; I cannot stand 
 it. I have given you a number of beautiful dolls, your 
 Cousin Henry has given you a beautiful doll-house; 
 you have everything that a child can possibly want, 
 and yet, because the maid throws away a dirty old rag 
 doll, which, as she says, was a disgrace to your room, 
 you fly into a fury and bite and scratch like a little cat." 
 
 " Mother made it ! " the child cried. 
 
 17 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Yes, and she made all of your clothes ; but I have 
 given them away." 
 
 " And I cried then," the child insisted. 
 
 " And should have been punished then. Now, how- 
 ever, you must hear the truth and try to realize certain 
 things. First, that what did for you at home, will not 
 do for you here, and that I cannot have my house lit- 
 tered up with things that are unsuitable ; second, that 
 I am finding you to be very bad-tempered. I have just 
 received a letter from your mother, and in it there is 
 a letter for you. I took it in to read to you, and found 
 you fighting the maid. As a punishment, you shall 
 not hear it all, but only this little bit ; listen — ' And, 
 little daughter,' " she read, " ' you must be very gentle 
 and very obedient, and always remember how good 
 your cousins are to give you such beautiful things, and 
 to have teachers for you, and to take care of you. If 
 you wish to make your mother happy, you must be 
 gentle and obedient." 
 
 The child's head drooped. 
 
 " It would have broken her heart to have seen you 
 just now," Mrs. Saunders went on. " I have taken 
 you because your father and mother are too poor " 
 
 The child looked up quickly. " We've got a big 
 house, and a big plantation," she interrupted, fiercely, 
 " and servants, and a plenty to eat ! " 
 
 " But your mother could not send you to school," 
 Mrs. Saunders went on, " and your little brothers and 
 sisters will not have all that you have. When you are 
 older you will understand that your father and mother 
 struggle very hard to provide for their children, and 
 
 i8 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 to help them I have taken you off their hands. I 
 should not have told you this if you had not driven 
 me to it by your bad behavior ; but I see that you must 
 be made to understand your position, and what I am 
 trying to do for you. I wish to educate you and bring 
 you up as a lady should be brought up, and how do you 
 reward me ? By being so bad that I can scarcely keep 
 a maid for you. I am very angry, and if you had any 
 money, I should make you pay Fanny for her apron ; 
 it would make you remember." 
 
 " I have some money." And the little head went up 
 proudly. 
 
 "Where is it?" 
 
 " In my drawer — ^in my work-box." 
 
 " Show it to me." 
 
 The child slipped down from her chair, and Mrs. 
 Saunders followed her up-stairs into the room where 
 Fanny, who was straightening the things disarranged 
 by the recent fray, paused in her work to watch devel- 
 opments. The child opened the top drawer, and, run- 
 ning her little hand down under everything, even under 
 the white paper that covered the bottom of the drawer, 
 she pulled out a small key. She kneeled down on the 
 floor, and from away back under the dressing-table she 
 drew forth the painted little wooden box, so long hid- 
 den. Her hands were trembling so that the contents 
 of the box rattled, and hastily, as if fearing the failure 
 of her courage, she unlocked the box, and, opening it, 
 a spool of thread, a little thimble, a paper of needles, a 
 pair of scissors, a new cake of soap, still in wrappings, 
 and a silver dollar were discovered. She paused a 
 
 19 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 moment, as if to gather up her self-control ; it was as 
 if she were taking the coverings from off her heart, 
 and putting it out bare and quivering for the wind to 
 blow on ; then, without raising her head, she took the 
 coin and held it up to Mrs. Saunders. 
 
 " No, you must give it to Fanny yourself, and ask 
 her pardon." 
 
 There was a pause, and the upraised little hand did 
 not move. 
 
 " You must obey me, or I must write and tell your 
 poor mother how bad you are, and how disobedient. 
 It will almost break her heart." 
 
 A second longer the child waited, then, putting the 
 box down on the floor, she got up and walked toward 
 the maid, but without looking at her. 
 
 " I don't want your money," the woman said. 
 
 " I wish you to take it," Mrs. Saunders ordered. 
 " Jane has torn your apron and I wish her to replace it, 
 even though I provide your aprons. I wish her to re- 
 member, and to learn to control her temper. Now 
 say ' I'm sorry, Fanny.' " 
 
 The child put the money into the woman's hand, but 
 did not say the words. 
 
 " Say ' I'm sorry, Fanny,' " Mrs. Saunders repeated. 
 Instead, the child turned and took the box from the 
 floor. 
 
 " Give it to me." And Mrs. Saunders's hand closed 
 on it. " I don't wish you to keep things locked up and 
 hidden," she went on, " and you do not need this soap." 
 She put the box on the dressing-table, threw the key 
 into the waste-basket, and handed the soap to the maid. 
 
 20 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Scented soap is not good for a child's skin ; take it, 
 Fanny, and go. Have you anything else hidden ? " 
 
 Jane shook her head. 
 
 " Who gave you that soap ? " 
 
 " Mother." 
 
 " Who gave you that money? " 
 
 " Father." 
 
 " Have you any more ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am." 
 
 " Don't say ' ma'am,' that is like a servant ; say ' No, 
 cousin.' " 
 
 " No, cousin." 
 
 " Will you tell Fanny that you are sorry ? " 
 
 There was a moment's pause, then the child broke 
 out with, " I'm not sorry — I never will be sorry ! I 
 hate her ! " And throwing her hands up in a wild 
 gesture of despair, she cast herself on the floor. " I 
 hate everybody ! " she cried ; " and I want to go home — 
 I want to go home ! " Mrs. Saunders let the paroxysm 
 pass, then, lifting the child, seated her well back in an 
 arm-chair. " I shall leave you here until I come back ; 
 and stop wiping your eyes on your sleeve. Where is 
 your handkerchief? But wait." And crossing to the 
 wash-stand, she wet a sponge and wiped the child's 
 tear-stained face and dried it with a towel. " You 
 must stay here until you are a better child," she said ; 
 and regulating the heat, she went out, closing the door 
 behind her. 
 
 She went too fast, perhaps, to hear the child's sobs — 
 her room was too far away, perhaps, to hear them, the 
 deep, hopeless sobs that went on and on as if they would 
 
 21 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 never stop. Terrible sobs to come from the heart of 
 a little child. The miseries of her present life had 
 culminated. All the things she had borne^ all the les- 
 sons she hated, all the lonely dinners, all the stupid 
 walks, all Fanny's allusions to her clothes in the parish 
 closet, all the careless laughter at her dififerent ways 
 and training — all seemed now to roll back on her ; now 
 when her only confidant, her only companion had been 
 thrown into the dust-barrel; now when her box, so 
 carefully hidden, so watchfully removed on " sweep- 
 ing days," had been overhauled. For in revealing her 
 secret treasures she had practically lost them. The 
 sweet soap her mother had given her had been scorned ; 
 the money her father had slipped into her hand at part- 
 ing was gone; the old doll, playing with which she 
 could imagine that Jim or Marion would soon come 
 in ; the doll that could remember the nursery, and the 
 red fire, and the chair that creaked and groaned, had 
 been cast away ! 
 
 And her father and mother were poor, had given 
 her away because they were poor; maybe even now 
 they were wanting that very dollar; maybe they had 
 given her their last money; oh, if only she could go 
 back to see for herself ! And she could not write, she 
 could not tell them anything but what her cousin would, 
 she could not hear anything but what her cousin chose 
 to read. 
 
 "Oh, mother, mother!" she wailed; then the sobs 
 went on and on. Weaker after awhile, and fainter as 
 the day darkened down into the sudden wan, snowy 
 winter darkness. Slower and slower, until the curly 
 
 22 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 head drooped sidewise, and the heavy eyelids closed. 
 Asleep, with the long, sobbing breaths still coming at 
 intervals, the last echoes of the storm. 
 
 But the tear-stained, troubled little face grew calmer 
 presently, then a smile parted the lips. Perhaps she 
 was back in the battered old nursery playing in the red 
 fire-lighted dusk; perhaps the monotonously creaking 
 chair and the melancholy song were soothing her — 
 " In dat day — in dat da-y-y." Perhaps her mother 
 would come in presently and say : " My little daughter, 
 your cousins want you to go away with them." But 
 no, that would have wakened her. 
 
 23 
 
•IV 
 
 " I lived on and on, 
 As if my heart were kept beneath a glass 
 And everybody stood, all eyes and ears. 
 To see and hear it tick." 
 
 FANNY repented before the next day, but it was 
 too late. She tried to return the dollar, but Jane 
 pushed it away coldly. She would not any more talk 
 to the woman, nor had she any words for the gov- 
 erness. Her lessons were done much better than ever 
 before, she was absolutely quiet under the brushing 
 of her curls, the dressing and undressing, but her in- 
 structors said that the spirit had gone out of her danc- 
 ing and gymnastic exercises, and in her play-time, 
 though she still sat in front of the open doll-house, 
 and though her arms were empty of their battered 
 treasure, she no more than before played with the new 
 dolls. 
 
 A great change had come over her, and she was 
 developing at a cruel rate. Poor meant that people 
 had no money. Her father and mother were poor, 
 her father had no money to travel to where she was. 
 She had seen her Cousin Henry pay for the tickets, and 
 he had taken out a great deal of money. Her father 
 could never come for her. And she had no money, 
 
 24 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 she could not travel either; she would have to stay 
 where she was. Once the governess, in rebuking her, 
 had said, " Your cousin pays me for teaching you, and 
 you ought to study." Teachers were paid. And Fanny 
 had said : " You are so bad Mrs. Saunders will have 
 to pay me more." Maids were paid. She would learn 
 how to be a maid, she would learn how to be a 
 teacher; she would go out and dress and undress chil- 
 dren, would teach children, would be paid money. 
 But she would have to wait, wait so long. And as 
 whatever she loved was taken from her — Fanny had 
 taken her doll, Mrs. Saunders had taken her other 
 things — ^they should not know any more what she 
 loved, what she was going to do; she would not talk 
 to them. 
 
 The weeks went by, and Mrs. Saunders said that 
 she had never seen a child improve as Jane had im- 
 proved. Mr. Saunders, looking at the child, asked 
 that he instead of the maid might take the child for 
 her walks. He took her down to the shopping dis- 
 trict, and he did not stop to converse with policemen, 
 and Jane found this a great improvement; besides, 
 he stopped at the shop-windows and showed her pretty 
 things. He gave her an ice, then some money for 
 candy. The child's face lighted up and her little hand 
 grasped the coin. 
 
 " I'll keep it," she said, in an excited whisper. 
 
 How strange that a little child should love money, 
 and Mr. Saunders thought much about it. If he had 
 followed her up-stairs, had watched her slip into the 
 nursery noiselessly, so that Fanny might not be at- 
 
 25 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 tracted from the next room; had seen with what 
 eagerness and quiet she abstracted a doll's trunk from 
 the doll-house and slipped the money down into the 
 bottom of it, under the clothes of the mother of the 
 family; had seen her lock it, looking cautiously over 
 her shoulder, and hide the key under the corner of 
 the carpet, he would have been more thoughtful still; 
 might have understood retrospectively the pondering 
 silence of the child during the walk home when she 
 was laying her little plans for concealment; was re- 
 flecting that Fanny locked up the doll-house on sweep- 
 ing-days, that the carpet was nailed to the floor. If 
 he had known how much more restful her sleep was 
 that night, soothed by the thought that she had begun 
 to save money, he would have crowded her little hands 
 with money. But he was satisfied that he had, for a 
 moment at least, taken from her eyes the look that 
 had come there since her improvement had begun to 
 be talked about. A look that troubled him at odd 
 times when he was not especially occupied or inter- 
 ested, a look that made him ask in what way the child 
 had improved. She was yielding to treatment, his 
 wife answered, she was far more diligent, far more 
 happy, having at last begun to dust her doll-house, 
 to pack and unpack the little trunks. 
 
 Fanny, hov/ever, gave warning. The cold, un- 
 broken silence of the child, her reserved dignity was 
 too much for the woman. Charm she never so wisely, 
 the child did not once relax. When Mrs. Saunders 
 questioned the woman there was found no ground for 
 complaint. The child was good now, was obedient, 
 
 26 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 but the place did not suit and Fanny packed up. 
 At the last she stepped into the nursery. " Good-by," 
 she said. 
 
 " Good-by,'' Jane answered, but did not turn her 
 head. 
 
 " I didn't keep your dollar," Fanny went on ; "I 
 put it in the poor-box long ago, where it will help 
 orphan children." 
 
 Jane continued to dust the doll-house. 
 
 "Won't you shake hands with me?" 
 
 The child turned and looked at her. There was a 
 stately poise in the little figure and an infinite con- 
 tempt in the pose of the head. " You knew that I 
 loved my poor old doll," she said. 
 
 Mr. Saunders, meanwhile, did not forget the light 
 that had come into Jane's face when he had given her 
 the money, and he tried the experiment again. Candy, 
 nor dolls, nor toys brought anything but quiet thanks, 
 lady-like little words that she had been taught to say, 
 but the smallest piece of money made her eyes shine 
 and the color come into her cheeks. He could not 
 understand it; a boy he could have comprehended 
 perfectly, but female creatures were strange; his wife, 
 this child were problems. Since it pleased her, how- 
 ever, " candy-money " became a regular thing between 
 them ; quietly pressed into the little hand at odd times, 
 while he watched -the light that came into her eyes 
 and the color that sprang to her cheeks. 
 
 One day in the late spring Mrs. Saunders got a 
 letter. Jane was with her when she read it. There 
 was an exclamation of impatience, the letter was torn 
 
 27 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 up instantly, and Jane was sent to her nursery. The 
 next thing they were on their way to Europe. This 
 was the arranged plan for the summer; Mrs. Saun- 
 ders had only insisted on going a week sooner. 
 
 Another great big water between her and her home, 
 and Mr. Saunders found Jane crying. She did not 
 give any very satisfactory answers to his questions, 
 however. She did not like to travel, she said, and 
 would they come back again? Of course, at the end 
 of the summer they would return, and some day they 
 would go down to see her father and mother. Mrs. 
 Saunders had come up behind them. " Not until Jane 
 has proved herself a hard student," she said; "has 
 learned her French and German thoroughly." 
 
 Later, Mr. Saunders agreed not to mention going 
 home to the child. " I have spent a great deal on 
 her," his wife declared ; " she has just begun to drop 
 her wild, uncivilized ways, and I cannot allow her to 
 go back to where she will pick them all up again. If 
 I am to train this child, and be responsible for her, 
 she must stay in my environment. You wished to 
 help your cousin, and of course this child was named 
 after me in expectation that I would do something for 
 her. I have consented to do it, and in so consenting 
 have acted entirely to please others ; am working and 
 spending entirely for the benefit of others. But if you 
 wish to keep Jane, she must be kept on my conditions, 
 and one is that you must not mention her going home 
 again. I insist on this." 
 
 In Paris there came a dreadful day. Forwarded let- 
 ters reached them, and Jane was sent out to walk with 
 
 28 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 the maid. " The sooner you tell her the better," Mr. 
 Saunders said, " and here in Paris we can divert her." 
 
 " But no mourning," Mrs. Saunders stipulated. 
 " Her outfit is perfectly new, and by next season it 
 will be outgrown — will be out of fashion. I doubt 
 if she knows about mourning. Will you tell her, 
 Henry? " 
 
 Mr. Saunders turned away hastily. " Not for the 
 world; I could not stand her eyes." 
 
 His wife looked up at him. " Her eyes? " 
 
 " Ever since she began to improve her eyes have 
 hurt me like the devil, that's all," then he went away. 
 
 " I want you, Jane," Mrs. Saunders said when the 
 child came in. " When you have taken off your things, 
 come here." There was a letter in her hand, and Jane 
 made what haste the maid would permit; the only let- 
 ters that concerned her came from home. 
 
 " I have talked to you a great deal about self-con- 
 trol," Mrs. Saunders began, " about how well-bred 
 people control their tempers and feelings. How it 
 is only common people, servants and the like, who 
 scream and cry aloud. That ladies and gentlemen 
 should bear the pain of death, if necessary, without a 
 sound, and I think that you have heeded; I think 
 that in the six months that you have been with me 
 you have learned a great deal of self-control ; you are 
 becoming a well-bred little lady." 
 
 " My mother never screams or cries," Jane said. 
 
 "And what did she do when you screamed and 
 cried? " 
 
 The child's eyes met hers unflinchingly, but the lit- 
 29 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 tie lips were shut tight. Mrs. Saunders's eyes flashed, 
 and the color deepened in her face. 
 
 "This is your first impertinence for a long time," 
 she said, coldly, " and on that account I will forgive 
 you; besides, I have something to tell you that will 
 pain you very much, will show if you have really any 
 self-control." She had taken the child's hands and had 
 drawn her close to her knees, and her eyes looked into 
 the child's eyes. " Your brother James " 
 
 " Jim," the child corrected. 
 
 "Jim," Mrs. Saunders repeated, "has been very ill; 
 has been suffering, but now he is well again, and 
 has no more pain, because the good God has taken him 
 up to heaven." 
 
 There was no answer, and the child's eyes did not 
 move. 
 
 " James " 
 
 " Jim," the child corrected once more, her lips seem- 
 ing to open and shut automatically. 
 
 " Jim is dead." 
 
 The child did not stir, her eyes still looked un- 
 movedly into Mrs. Saunders's eyes. Death had never 
 come near her before, and she was bewildered. Some- 
 thing had happened to Jim, and the little hands grew 
 icy in Mrs. Saunders's grasp. 
 
 " You hear me, Jane? " 
 
 " Yes, cousin." 
 
 " You understand? " 
 
 The child drew her hands away and looked at them. 
 " I don't know," she answered; " may I go now? " 
 
 She met Mr. Saunders in the hall, but she hurried 
 
 30 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 past him, scarcely pausing while he pressed a little 
 package into her hand. Mrs. Saunders's maid was sit- 
 ting' in the child's room, so the child sat down too. 
 She did not understand; she was in a maze of doubt 
 and misery. It was not that she wished to cry, no, 
 nor scream, but a great weight was on her. Jim had 
 gone; God had taken him. If she should go home 
 now Jim would not be there. Nobody to play with 
 but Marion. What would her mother do; she had 
 called Jim her only big boy. She could not think of the 
 big nursery without Jim; she could not think of any- 
 thing at home without Jim. She would have liked to 
 ask some questions, but she never spoke to Mrs. Saun- 
 ders unless she was spoken to. She had always been 
 afraid; she had never lost the sense that Mrs. Saun- 
 ders was like a big dark room, and at last the main 
 thing was that Jim had gone. A pain came, she did 
 not know where it was, nor what it meant, but it was 
 a pain as if she wanted to cry and could not. She felt 
 in her pocket, yes, she had a handkerchief, so that if 
 she did cry she would not wipe her eyes on her sleeve; 
 but the tears did not come, and the pain stayed. 
 
 " I need not have told her," Mrs. Saunders said to 
 her husband; " I do not think that she has the slight- 
 est comprehension of the matter; and why should she 
 have; what can death mean to a child like that? If 
 she were at home now, where she could miss him, it 
 would be quite different. It would have been better 
 not to have told her at all. As it was, I did not en- 
 courage any expression of feeling on her part; there 
 is a great deal in not making children excitable. I 
 
 31 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 hope that I shall have the strength of mind to follow 
 my own judgment in the future; it is stupid to tell 
 children such things." 
 
 " If you had not hastened our sailing," Mr. Saun- 
 ders was reading the letter over, " she could have gone 
 home, as her father begs. A letter before this one must 
 have been lost." 
 
 There was a moment's pause, then Mrs. Saunders 
 said : " Sometimes I wonder, I am puzzled to know 
 why I consented to take this child; possibly novelty, 
 certainly duty; but this I do know, that if I am to 
 keep her, I am to have her entirely. If we had heard 
 in time, sending her home would have broken up all 
 my summer plans, and I doubt if the child would have 
 returned to us. Your cousins seem to be hopelessly 
 sentimental, and all that I have spent on the child 
 would have been wasted, which is not to be contem- 
 plated patiently. And please remember that I am to 
 answer that letter, even though it is to you. You hate 
 to write letters, and as you did not break the news to 
 the child you cannot tell them how she took it. By the 
 way, I hope Colby will not talk to her about it. Call 
 Colby, will you? She sits in Jane's room. Order a 
 carriage, and after lunch we can take the child to drive." 
 
 She need not have been afraid, for Jane had no 
 words for the maid. She sat quite still in the low 
 chair in the proper little way she had been taught, and 
 puzzled, and wondered, and suffered. Colby had twice 
 reminded her that she had a package in her hand, but 
 she had made no answer. She had grown to be very 
 cautious with regard to the packages which her Cousin 
 
 32 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Henry gave her; somewhere in them she was almost 
 sure to find a coin that would be transferred to the 
 doll's trunk which Jane had slipped in among her 
 clothes while Colby was packing. And now, Colby 
 having gone, the child opened the little package. A 
 purse, and in it a yellow coin. She looked at it curi- 
 ously for a moment, then she closed the door of the 
 room softly, took out the doll's trunk, and proceeded 
 to put all the money into the new purse, feeling very 
 glad because that the little collection was beginning 
 to rattle. The trunk replaced, the momentary interest 
 gone, the thought of Jim came back to her. Gone to 
 Heaven. She went to the window. Heaven was in 
 the sky, but she could see no sky — walls opposite and 
 near, and a deep courtyard. 
 
 Lunch was long, the drive was long, the night was 
 long in coming, and even after the night had come 
 her sobs had to be hidden under her pillow. A cloud 
 had come over her inner life, and from this time a 
 change came over her outer life also. It may have 
 been that what Mr. Saunders had said about the child's 
 eyes had opened Mrs. Saunders's own eyes; it may 
 have been that the barely escaped summons for the 
 child to go home had made Mrs. Saunders realize that 
 the child's non-understanding of motives might cause 
 a very unflattering portrait of herself to be drawn ; it 
 may have been, as Mrs. Saunders declared that it was, 
 that some remarks of Mrs. Kennet's were really the 
 source of the change; but, whatever it was, something 
 made that day and drive an era in Jane's life. 
 
 "Mrs. Kennet saw us out driving," Mrs. Saunders 
 
 33 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 reported to her husband, " and this afternoon at Ma- 
 dame Schamoynsky's she asked me all sorts of ques- 
 tions about Jane. She is coming to call on my first 
 afternoon at home, and mainly, I believe, on account 
 of the child. And it does seem queer to have a child 
 with you of whom you say nothing; Mrs. Kennet in- 
 timated as much; so I shall have the child with me 
 more. I have always intended bringing her up in this 
 way, but at first she made me uneasy; now, however, 
 that she has learned to speak only when she is spoken 
 to, it will be possible to have her down-stairs — even to 
 take her about in the afternoon. At home, in the win- 
 ter, of course it will be different, but even there I can 
 have her with me more." 
 
 Thus it was that everywhere they went, hiring villas, 
 or ensconced in suites of apartments, moving in the 
 edges of foreign society, or meeting scores of Ameri- 
 can friends — everywhere, Jane was put on show. Ex- 
 quisitely dressed, she would be allowed to wander 
 about the reception-rooms until guests appeared, then, 
 " Jane, dearie," and she would be presented, " My lit- 
 tle cousin who has come to live with us, or rather my 
 husband's Httle cousin; but she has come to seem so 
 much my own that I do not always remember that she 
 is not. Here, little Jane, hand this cup of tea." After 
 this would come bon-bons and caresses, holding the 
 child very close against hard whalebones, smoothing 
 her curls, pressing her hands. It had been something 
 of a shock at first; Jane had not understood it, but she 
 had learned to obey implicitly, and did not flinch. 
 
 The women to whom all this would be said seemed 
 
 34 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 always to the child to look at her in a far-away, ques- 
 tioning manner, with sometimes a smile in their eyes, 
 and Jane made no advances. The men behaved quite 
 differently ; they smiled on her kindly, all save old Mr. 
 DeLong, who looked pretty much as the women did; 
 and frequently boxes of bon-bons, for Jane especially, 
 would be presented. Then Mrs. Saunders would, with 
 much eagerness, help the child to open them, and with 
 little exclamations of delight would explain to Jane 
 her good fortune; and the men would be thanked and 
 smiled on, and more caresses would come to Jane. 
 
 If Jane did not understand the caresses, however, 
 she did sometimes understand the talk enough to know 
 that Mrs. Saunders was explaining that her father was 
 poor; understood enough to send the blood with a 
 rush to her face that was usually hidden in the falls 
 of lace about Mrs. Saunders's bosom and shoulders. 
 
 " The old, old story," Mrs. Saunders would say, " of 
 a large Southern family and an absent income. Plenty 
 of land and ancestors, plenty of mahogany and an- 
 tiquated books, of pride and sentiment; the story that 
 we so often hear from the South — marrying on faith 
 and bringing up a large family on rice. So we have 
 taken this little one, little Jane, salvage from the fam- 
 ily wreck." Once she had been holding Jane's two 
 hands in one of hers as the child sat beside her, grad- 
 ,„,„ ually drawing them over toward herself, while she 
 talked, talked, talked of Jane's governess, Jane's danc- 
 ing, Jane's gymnastics. Presently, the hand farthest 
 away from her was dropped, the other was laid down 
 on her lap and held there for a moment, then she patted 
 
 35 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 it gently, and took up her cup of tea. Jane had made 
 no reciprocal movement; she had sat quite still, and 
 now was looking at her hand thoughtfully, when, in- 
 explicably, and in the very middle of Mrs. Saunders's 
 declaration that she and Jane were great chums, the 
 old lady who was calling, laughed. " It is your own 
 hand, child," she said ; " take it back if you want to." 
 
 Jane looked up quickly, the color rose in Mrs. Saun- 
 ders's face, but she smiled, and repeated: " Quite 
 chums, dear Miss Witting," and patted the unmoved 
 hand once more. 
 
 Jane had no explanation for this new state of things, 
 but she soon became accustomed to it — to the insinua- 
 tions concerning her father's poverty, to bon-bons and 
 ices, to watching people's faces and forming judgments 
 about them and their clothes, to trying to follow them 
 when suddenly they would drop into French or Ger- 
 man, and even to hearing people say : " Dear Mrs. 
 Saunders, how unselfish to take into your life such a 
 care, such a responsibility; but then you are always 
 so very, very good." The first time Jane had turned 
 and looked up at Mrs. Saunders, who was shaking her 
 head deprecatingly and smiling almost sadly. She had 
 never before thought of Mrs. Saunders as good, and 
 presently, Mrs. Saunders, seeing her expression, had 
 sent her away to play. 
 
 It was a strange life to the child, and she drew some 
 odd, unvarnished conclusions which it would never 
 have done to repeat. She wondered, too, over the 
 dearth of home letters, and at the smallness of the bits 
 that were read to her. In return she was allowed 
 
 36 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 to dictate letters under Mrs. Saunders's instructions. 
 " Dear Mother and Father: ' these letters would be- 
 gin, then pause. 
 
 " Tell them what a beautiful house you are living 
 in." 
 
 " We are living in a beautiful house now " 
 
 " With marble floors," suggested Mrs. Saunders, 
 " called a villa." 
 
 " With marble floors, and cousin calls it a villa " 
 
 " Think of something yourself now." 
 
 " I don't like French " 
 
 "That is not pleasant; you who are having such a 
 delightful time should tell them all the happy things. 
 Their lives are so dull, and they are so poor, and work 
 so hard, that you should not trouble them with your 
 little tempers. You should like your education; you 
 should be as thankful as your mother and father are 
 for the things I am doing for you. You ought to like 
 French. Now tell them something pleasant. If you 
 want to make them happy, tell them that you are 
 happy, that you like to be with your Cousin Henry." 
 
 " Cousin Henry gives me dolls " 
 
 "And what do I give you?" 
 
 " — and cousin gives me bon-bons and cakes in the 
 afternoons, and I dress very fine, and see all the com- 
 pany " Janey." 
 
 " Is that all you have to say? " 
 
 " Yes, cousin." 
 
 " Won't you send your love to anyone? " 
 
 The child shook her head; then Mrs. Saunders 
 wrote: " I am so happy — your loving child — Janey." 
 
 37 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 These letters were all her intercourse with her home; 
 beyond this she never mentioned her parents, never 
 told of what her life had been, and since the day when 
 the news of his death came she had never alluded to 
 Jim. Very vividly he had been with her for a while, 
 then gradually he had receded from her life, but not 
 any more than Marion had done, or Tom. She had 
 ceased to cry for her mother, reasoning that her mother 
 and father had sent her to Mrs. Saunders, and that 
 Mrs. Saunders would not let her go. Children so 
 helpless so soon accept the inevitable, and the present 
 state of things seemed inevitable to Jane, her only 
 protest being that she still put by her bits of money — 
 a blind little effort at something, she did not know 
 what. She was helpless, and, though she did not know 
 it, she was hopeless as well. 
 
 Back again to New York and the routine there — 
 lessons, dancing-school, gymnasium. She was being 
 taught everything that a lady should know, all the 
 accomplishments that would set her forth in life; but 
 now, instead of walks with Mr. Saunders on free 
 afternoons, she was taken about with Mrs. Saunders. 
 Weeks went into months, months went into years, 
 many of which were spent abroad. Jane had learned 
 to write at last, but even then her early letters were 
 always overlooked, edited in fact, by Mrs. Saunders, 
 after which Jane made " A fair copy to please her dear 
 mother by her progress," and before that stage of her 
 correspondence was passed she had been so drilled as 
 to the virtue of pleasant things, had become so habitu- 
 ated to the life about her — to the idea that Mrs. Saun- 
 
 38 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 ders owned her, that to stay where she was was her 
 duty — that she never made mention of any desire to 
 return home, expressed no longings, told nothing that 
 she really felt. Sometimes when her father or mother 
 would write as to her paying them a visit, promises 
 would be made readily and pleasantly by Mrs. Saun- 
 ders, and at first Jane's heart had leaped up, but 
 gradually she came to know that something was sure 
 to intervene. Mr. Saunders's gout, or Mrs. Saunders's 
 system, or Jane's own body, that to the child felt per- 
 fectly healthy, would demand baths, or treatment, or 
 a certain climate, and always across the water. She 
 pondered much, but she made no comment; she had 
 come to feel that peace was the most desirable thing 
 in life, and that it was better to leave the veils down 
 over Mrs. Saunders's excuses. Not that she ever 
 worded these conclusions or reasoned them out; she 
 arrived at them by instinct, and the same instinct bade 
 her heed them. 
 
 At last school-days were done, and Mrs. Saunders, 
 viewing Jane critically, decided that she was a most 
 successful specimen of young ladyhood. "All her 
 training and all her grooming is showing now," she 
 said to herself, " and next winter she will make a stir. 
 A reception, a series of dinners, and the opera-box will 
 do it," and she felt herself entering on an exciting 
 game where the stakes were high. The summer be- 
 fore all this, however, should be spent at an American 
 watering-place, where the girl would meet young peo- 
 ple she would be apt to know again in the winter. This 
 place must be carefully selected, and Jane must be held 
 
 39 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 well in hand. Meanwhile they were in Paris, making 
 last purchases for the summer campaign, and in a shop 
 they met an acquaintance whom Jane remembered 
 vividly as the old woman who had bidden her reclaim 
 her own hand. She remembered every line in her face, 
 every gleam in her eyes. 
 
 " My dear Miss Witting! " 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Saunders ! " Then in unison : 
 " Where have you been all these years? " 
 
 At lunch Mrs. Saunders said to her husband : " I 
 met old Miss Witting this morning looking a hun- 
 dred, and travelling with that nephew Mark." 
 
 "John Witting's son?" 
 
 "Yes; will he inherit, do you think?" 
 
 Mr. Saunders shook his head. " Can't say; nobody 
 can say; the old woman is so peculiar and such a skin- 
 flint. She has loads of money, however, and John 
 Witting's son won't be above hanging around to get 
 what he can; that is, if he is like his father." 
 
 " She asked me to let her bring him to call," Mrs. 
 Saunders went on. 
 
 " Of course, and he may be a nice fellow; the old 
 woman may be taking him around for her own pleas- 
 ure." 
 
 "She is eternally old," Mrs. Saunders declared, 
 " and her head waggles ridiculously. I think she must 
 have a touch of palsy." 
 
 The next afternoon Miss Witting came with her 
 nephew, and Mr. Saunders escaping, the quartette sat 
 down, the old woman and the young man, one on each 
 side of the table where Jane was making tea. 
 
 40 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Well-behaved young people are a great comfort," 
 the old woman began, bobbing her head at Jane, " and 
 you've done well, Mrs. Saunders, to provide yourself 
 with a daughter. Maria Kennet talked to me about 
 this young woman some time ago, and Maria Kennet 
 is very critical." 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Kennet has been always deeply inter- 
 ested in Jane, and I'm so glad; a young girl needs 
 friends when she first faces the world." 
 
 " So she's coming out? " 
 
 "Next winter; yes, at home." 
 
 " And what will you do this summer? " 
 
 " I have not decided yet, dear Miss Witting. I'm 
 hunting for a place that has all the virtues. I wish 
 Jane to see a little of society before next winter, but 
 not too much. Heretofore she has seen only my 
 friers, now she must be thrown with younger people." 
 
 "Why don't you come to Hillside Springs? Most 
 conservative and exclusive; you've been there?" 
 
 " ^es, but not for many years." 
 
 " I|go there," Miss Witting went on, " because of 
 my old friend Mrs. Creswick — she lives there all the 
 year round, you know." 
 
 " D^r Mrs. Creswick, she was a great friend of my 
 mother^ She lost her money, did she not? " 
 
 " No,\oh, no ! Much of it is in mines about which 
 there is\litigation, that is all; and once that is over 
 she will oe richer than ever before, enormously rich. 
 Her graidson, Laurence — you know of him? — lives 
 with her the half of every year, which is quite remark- 
 able, I thip, for a young man of great wealth." 
 
 41 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 "Most remarkable; lives with her — ^what a happi- 
 ness! " 
 
 " I did not say entirely, but he is there every sum- 
 mer; another case of well-behaved young people being 
 a great comfort to old people.'' 
 
 " Yes, and Laurence must be very rich." 
 
 " Very, my dear, and so steady — almost too quiet 
 to be interesting." 
 
 Jane had listened dutifully until the young man on 
 her other side spoke to her. " You are sailing very 
 soon?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes." Then the name of the vessel was given, 
 and the discovery made that he also intended taking 
 passage on that very steamer, but would not board her 
 until she reached Queenstown, his aunt intending to 
 go to Ireland. " How very pleasant," he went on, 
 " unless you are ill." 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " How fortunate." 
 
 " In what, Mr. Witting? " and Mrs. Saunders turned 
 toward him. 
 
 " In not being ill at sea." 
 
 " Yes, she is never ill, while I — ^poor me — I go to 
 my cabin before the ship stirs, and stay there until she 
 stops. To comfort me, my husband and Jane come 
 down three times a day to say how deHghtfnl every- 
 thing is and what fine appetites they have. But I do 
 myself injustice; it is a comfort to hear of ;he joy of 
 others, you know that, dear Miss Witting— all of us 
 older ones know it." 
 
 42 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Miss Witting wobbled her head. " Speak for your- 
 self ; for me, if I'm uncomfortable, even, I don't care 
 what is happening to the rest of the world." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders laughed. " That is the way in which 
 you always speak of yourself, dear Miss Witting; 
 fortunately your friends know better." 
 
 The old woman grunted ungraciously, then added: 
 "I don't know when we will sail; I've not made up 
 my mind. I'm going to Ireland first, and as I'm like 
 you, going to bed and staying there all the time, a sea 
 voyage is no joy to me. Besides, it terrifies me. In 
 case of accident some fools might try to save a pretty 
 girl, but an old woman like me, you know, they'd let 
 go to the bottom at once. So I'm terrified from start 
 to finish; take a deck cabin, and live with a life-pre- 
 server on. Mark, here, told me I'd feel safe if I had 
 him along, but I did not, and will not." 
 
 "And yet I keep her informed of the state of the 
 glass," Mark put in. " I tell her all about the ma- 
 chinery, I explain all about the compartments, and 
 how safe a modern vessel is, and if there is a fog or a 
 storm I sit and hold her hand." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Witting, how good he is ! " cried Mrs. 
 Saunders. 
 
 The old woman grunted as before, then rose to go. 
 "I'm glad to have met you again," she said; "I've 
 often wondered what you had done with your life and 
 with this child — she looked a scared, nervous little 
 thing when I saw her last." 
 
 " Thank you for your interest, dear Miss Witting. 
 
 43 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 I have tried to do my duty by her, and she has im- 
 proved, I think. Trials, of course, but — ' In every life 
 some rain must fall,' you know." 
 
 " Else it would be dead dry," and the old soul 
 laughed as she cut Mrs. Saunders short. 
 
 And Mark was saying quietly to Jane : " Look for 
 us at Queenstown. I must go home; and please come 
 to Hillside." 
 
 44 
 
" Young Love lies dreaming ; 
 
 But who shall tell the dream ? " 
 
 JANE wondered a little as to Mark's assurance that 
 she would see him at Queenstown, but she did 
 not speak of it. Miss Witting did not look like a 
 very persuadable person, still he seemed to be quite 
 sure of his plans. The things that had been insinuated 
 about him by her cousins had not been pleasant, but 
 she had learned to discount much. Not that she was 
 particularly interested in Mark Witting, but as his po- 
 sition seemed somewhat analogous to her own, she 
 wondered if he as a man had more power over his 
 earthly providence — if he could persuade his daily 
 bread to change its route or hasten its movements. 
 None of these things had she ever attempted, she had 
 never cared enough. The only thing she had ever 
 tried to do, besides obeying implicitly, had been to 
 save money, and she had not tried that long. Mrs. 
 Saunders had in some way discovered the little ar- 
 rangement about " candy-money," and had put a firm 
 foot down on it. An allowance she would permit, but 
 uncounted, indiscriminate gifts of money, teaching the 
 girl wicked extravagance, she would not countenance. 
 Jane kept the childish hoard, however, and though 
 she had to give a strict and itemized account of every 
 
 45 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 cent of her allowance, she sometimes was able to add 
 a little to the coins in the doll's trunk. Mr. Saunders 
 still gave her money on her birthdays, a day late usu- 
 ally, so that when interrogated as to her gifts Jane 
 need not mention it, for if mentioned it would have to 
 be accounted for; if given and concealed, it would be 
 a lesson in indirection; but to let it come in casually, a 
 few days late, solved the problem and gave Mr. Saun- 
 ders much satisfaction. 
 
 She wondered about Mark Witting, and when she 
 saw him and his aunt come on board at Queenstown 
 she quietly discredited all that had been said about 
 him. 
 
 " He'll stow away his old lady," and Mr. Saunders 
 laughed a little, " then perhaps he'll come and play 
 with us." 
 
 " So you did come after all," Jane said, when, 
 later, Mr. Saunders having gone to the smoking- 
 room, the young man put his chair down close to 
 hers. 
 
 " Of course," Mark answered. " I insisted on Rus- 
 sia, aunt immediately set out for Ireland; I declared 
 for the Far East, she at once took passage on this 
 steamer. One must manage people," he went on, 
 " and when they are beyond dark closets and the use 
 of old slippers one has to find other methods. She had 
 agreed that I must come home, and yet this was the 
 only way in which I could make her keep to her own 
 agreement, and of course I could not leave her wan- 
 dering about by herself. You don't have to manage 
 your old people? " 
 
 46 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " No," and Jane shivered a little — suppose Mrs. 
 Saunders had heard him ! 
 
 " A petted darling; what a lucky person. Has Mrs. 
 Saunders made any plans for the summer? Will you 
 come to Hillside Springs?" 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 " Do you wish to come there? " 
 
 " I have not thought about it." 
 
 " It is a charming place ; quite simple, and yet very 
 smart people, and everything in the way of amuse- 
 ment. You play golf, of course." 
 
 "Of course; and tennis, and I dance, and ride, and 
 swim." 
 
 " All the trimmings ; and yet your cousin said that 
 you had not been thrown with young people." 
 
 " Cousin Henry is young enough; for the rest, I 
 have been taught." 
 
 " Dancing-school, gymnasium, swimming-pool — a 
 careful product." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He laughed a little. "And what do you think of 
 life? " 
 
 " I have not thought of it." 
 
 " Have accepted it just as it came to you? Have 
 you never struck out for yourself, never rebelled? " 
 
 "Why should I?" 
 
 He drew his hand down over his mustache and close- 
 clipped, pointed beard, then asked : " May I see what 
 you are reading? " 
 
 Jane handed him the book, which he turned over 
 slowly, reading here and there, then closed it over his 
 
 47 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 finger. " I must seem very ill-bred," he said, " asking 
 so many personal questions; and please forgive me, 
 but I have heard so much about you, and you are so 
 different from any girl I've ever met. You seem never 
 to have done anything, never to have tried to do any- 
 thing." 
 
 " I have studied very hard." 
 
 " And of course your reading has been selected." 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 " Then I may not offer any of my books." 
 
 " I am interested in my own books." 
 
 Mark returned the volume to her. " I am almost 
 tempted to ask your age," he said. 
 
 " Nineteen," she answered, frankly. 
 
 " I was expecting to hear fifteen." 
 
 " No one comes out so young as that." 
 
 "I remember; you are coming out this winter." 
 
 " A little bit this summer, too." 
 
 " Do you feel anxious about it?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " You are indeed a careful product. Have you ever 
 been out of Mrs. Saunders's sight? " 
 
 " I am out of it now." 
 
 "Very good," and Mark laughed a little; then— 
 " Please tell me what in all the world you'd rather do? 
 If set free at this moment what would you do? " 
 
 " Continue this voyage to New York." 
 
 Again Mark laughed. " Does Mrs. Saunders realize 
 half how loyal you are? " 
 
 "Loyal? It had not occurred to me. And now may 
 I look at your book? " 
 
 48 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Of course, and put me through a catechism, too." 
 For answer Jane opened the book he gave her. 
 Mark watched her as she read, smiling as she closed 
 and returned it. " You don't like it? " 
 " I do not think that I should like it." 
 " How deep your training has gone; but here comes 
 Mr. Saunders." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Witting, is your aunt quite comfort- 
 able, and will you take a walk with me and Janey? 
 We take a tramp about this time every day. We walk 
 for thirty minutes four times a day." 
 
 " Capital; something to do." Off they started, pull- 
 ing down their hats, buttoning up their coats, catching 
 step and tramping briskly until the color came clear 
 and fresh to the girl's cheeks and her eyes had a 
 brighter light in them. Mark Witting's many ques- 
 tions had worried her, and she was not sure that she 
 would like him, but now he was drawing Mr. Saun- 
 ders out in a way she had never heard before. She 
 was amused, surprised, interested, and all the while 
 Mark seemed to be caring for her. Moving chairs, 
 putting out a protecting hand when the ship lurched, 
 getting between her and the wind when they happened 
 to pause. Mr. Saunders always walked with his hands 
 in his pockets. If she stumbled, he cried, "Take 
 care." If she came to a chair, she had to walk round 
 it, and their conversations had been rather circum- 
 scribed. They had talked together so many, many 
 times that they found themselves reduced to comments 
 on their fellow-travellers. And even in this field Mark 
 had been unusually amusing, and Jane found herself 
 
 49 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 laughing as she had not often laughed. After the walk 
 he went off to tuck his aunt in, he said, and make a 
 report on the engine as a whole. Another time he 
 would give it to her piece-meal, with remarks on the 
 religious convictions of the chief engineer. 
 
 " A nice fellow," Mr. Saunders commented ; " he'll 
 lighten up the voyage." And he did. At the end of 
 twenty-four hours Mr. Saunders said : " If you are 
 going to be on deck, Witting, I'll go for a game of 
 cards." Of course Mrs. Saunders would not have done 
 such a thing; she would have found something for 
 Jane to go and do, and Mr. Saunders had never be- 
 haved in this way before, and Jane, musing over the 
 situation, thought that perhaps the talk of her being 
 a young lady had made him feel that she was capable 
 of taking care of herself. Whatever it was, she was 
 not responsible. Up and down, up and down they 
 walked, and Jane found it extremely pleasant. For the 
 first time she was experiencing the sensation of being 
 of importance, of being somebody. She had always 
 stood in the shadow cast by Mrs. Saunders. Many 
 pleasant things had been said of her in her hearing, 
 but only as a creation of Mrs. Saunders's. One mo- 
 ment a cross, the next a crown, she had been always 
 a sort of conductor of flattery to her cousin; now Mark 
 was making everything seem quite different, was mak- 
 ing her his first object. He tucked her carefully into 
 her chair, watched that her jacket was buttoned, read 
 aloud to her. He actually gave her orders in a quiet 
 way when Mr. Saunders was absent, dropping back 
 into his own place when Mr. Saunders returned. 
 
 SO 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Twenty-four hours out from New York, sitting in 
 Mrs. Saunders's cabin, Mr. Saunders casually men- 
 tioned Mark Witting. There was a pause, when Mr. 
 Saunders took out his watch, and Jane waited. Then 
 Mrs. Saunders said: "You have not mentioned him 
 before." 
 
 " No? Well, I've found him very pleasant. He 
 spends much energy on his aunt." 
 
 " I did not see them get on." 
 
 " Queenstown — they came aboard there." 
 
 " You have not mentioned it, Jane." 
 
 " Is it of such importance? " Mr. Saunders asked. 
 " I did not know that you thought so much of the 
 Wittings." 
 
 "The Wittings are nothing; it is that I am shut 
 away from your confidence; down here alone while 
 you are enjoying yourselves, and you drive me into 
 greater loneliness by hiding things from me." 
 
 " Awfully sorry, my dear, but there's nothing to tell. 
 The Wittings are aboard, and this fellow is twice the 
 man his father was, though nothing extraordinary. 
 Not very brilliant, but kindly and well-mannered. 
 Janey has been most exemplary, has done her train- 
 ing much credit, and gave me no trouble at all." 
 
 " I'm not aware that I have ever permitted her to 
 trouble you." 
 
 "Of course not; you've had what trouble there 
 was " 
 
 " Exactly, what trouble there was." 
 
 Mr. Saunders looked at his watch again. 
 
 " Pray don't stay if you've anything to do." 
 
 51 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Nothing special, only we take a walk at this time 
 every day; nothing that cannot wait." 
 
 " Don't let me interfere. Not that you lighten up 
 things very much when you do come, mentioning in- 
 teresting things only when uninteresting things have 
 failed you. You two are a puzzle. All the world be- 
 fore you to see and to enjoy, yet you add nothing to 
 the common fund of pleasure — nothing! " 
 
 " We must try to do better, Janey," and Mr. Saun- 
 ders rose; "but we are so accustomed to leaning on 
 you, my dear, to waiting for you to observe and ex- 
 plain, that we have forgotten how, literally forgotten 
 how. We'll keep a sharp lookout now, however, and 
 report again after lunch." 
 
 " I shall probably be asleep." 
 
 Mark Witting was waiting for them, and the tramp 
 began. " Only one more day," Mark said. 
 
 " Only one more day," Mr. Saunders repeated. " I 
 am really sorry; may we have another voyage to- 
 gether some day." After a little Mr. Saunders went 
 away to his cards, and Mark put down the book he 
 had been reading. 
 
 " Are you sorry that the voyage is over? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You did not say so." 
 
 " My opinion does not usually matter." 
 
 " It does to me — a great deal. I waited to hear you 
 say something." 
 
 " I am sorry, very sorry that it is over." 
 
 " Will you come to Hillside Springs?" 
 
 " I shall wish to come." 
 
 52 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 "You have no influence?" 
 
 " None. I shall not be consulted." 
 
 " What would persuade your cousin to come? Sup- 
 pose you begged her to go somewhere else? " 
 
 " I've never asked her for anything in my life." 
 
 "And won't begin. How have you kept yourself 
 so still; how have you so subdued yourself, or has 
 your will been broken? " 
 
 " Cousin. has never punished me in my life but once, 
 and then she seated me in a chair." 
 
 Mark whistled softly, then said, slowly: "I'm glad 
 that you have feeling enough left to regret the end of 
 the journey. I shall miss you — miss you awfully. May 
 I come to see you? " 
 
 " If cousin asks you." 
 
 " Practically, the voyage ends to-night," Mark went 
 on, " for the whole ship's company will be at break- 
 fast. I shall have to vacate my seat next to you, which 
 is Mrs. Saunders's, and go with auntie to the other 
 table. Will you grieve a little bit? " 
 
 " A great deal." 
 
 " Thank you. Will Mr. Saunders grant us a little 
 grace this evening? The moon will be so beautiful; 
 you cannot arrange it, of course, but I can." A lit- 
 tle farewell supper, he explained to Mr. Saunders. 
 Couldn't he and Miss Ormonde come on deck again 
 after bidding Mrs. Saunders good-night? It would be 
 only a little after nine o'clock, and as they all had 
 separate cabins their going down later would not dis- 
 turb Mrs. Saunders. Some champagne in the moon- 
 light, just a little " In Memoriam " to the happy days 
 
 53 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 that were done. And Mr. Saunders agreeing, the re- 
 past was had. It was for Jane an evening with a mark 
 set against it to differentiate it from all the evenings 
 of her life. She found herself surrounded by a thou- 
 sand little deferences, a wonderful thoughtfulness, and 
 even in the moonlight she lowered her eyes beneath 
 some of Mark's glances. It was quite twelve o'clock 
 before they went cautiously to their cabins, but it was 
 well into the dawn before the girl fell asleep. The 
 wine, or the moonlight, or something was sending the 
 blood throbbing through her veins. A great elation 
 was hers, her cheeks were burning, her eyes were shin- 
 ing, and even after she lost consciousness she seemed 
 to be once more lying back in her chair soothed by 
 the long roll of the ship, watching the high mast cut- 
 ting an arc against the sky, listening to Mark's voice 
 as he talked to Mr. Saunders, fearing Mark's eyes, yet 
 waiting for every look. 
 
 At breakfast all was changed. Jane was once more 
 in the background, Mrs. Saunders absorbing Mark and 
 Mark seeming quite willing to be absorbed. 
 
 " How lonely she must have been during the voy- 
 age," he began. " She was accustomed to that," she 
 answered, " and having taken time by the forelock she 
 had guarded against illness; she felt it to be her duty 
 so as not to trouble others." Mark bowed. " What 
 rare thoughtfulness," he said, with deep conviction, 
 and so on for the whole morning, until Miss Witting 
 came on deck, then Mrs. Saunders made him put his 
 aunt's chair next to hers, himself on her other side, 
 advising Jane and Mr. Saunders to go to walk. 
 
 54 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " All the way over," she said, " I have heard of noth- 
 ing but the necessity of their taking sufficient exercise." 
 
 Miss Witting grunted, and Mark said, in an imper- 
 sonal way, that Miss Ormonde looked in better trim 
 than when she came on board. 
 
 It was a dreary walk, even though they stepped 
 briskly; they had to keep up afipearances, and when 
 they passed Mrs. Saunders and Mark Witting, Jane 
 would find herself talking to Mr. Saunders. When the 
 thirty minutes were up Jane stopped at the other end 
 of the deck. Everything was being put in order; she 
 had seen it all before, but now she appeared to be 
 deeply interested in the movement about her. It was 
 a long, long morning, and she kept as far away from 
 Mark and Mrs. Saunders as she was permitted to do, 
 until, Mark being absent for a moment, Mrs. Saun- 
 ders said: 
 
 " I should like you to be at least civil to my friends," 
 and Jane had to come and sit with them. 
 
 Mark did escort her to the carriage when they 
 landed, but Jane did not look up at him, even though 
 saying all that politeness demanded. The drive from 
 the docks she found interminable, and was guilty of 
 fidgeting a little. 
 
 " Repose is the atmosphere of a lady," Mrs. Saun- 
 ders quoted, severely, " and if even these few days from 
 under my eye has so spoiled your manners, Jane, what 
 will your future life be? You cannot expect to have 
 me with you always." 
 
 Jane drew back into her corner of the carriage. She 
 longed to answer, and could not understand this long- 
 
 55 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 ing, which was a new one. The glimpses of Hfe which 
 Mark had given her, life as other people lived it, he 
 said, as other girls enjoyed it, had thrown new light 
 on her own life. Yet, think as she would, she could 
 not see in what other girls' lives, provided they were 
 her equals socially, differed from her own. The girls 
 she had met at the very exclusive dancing-school and 
 gymnasium which she had attended seemed to be 
 supervised just as she was. They did talk of lunches 
 and parties among themselves, interrogating her as to 
 why she was never allowed to accept an invitation, but 
 she had felt no wish to go to these gatherings. She 
 had not been especially attracted by any of the girls 
 individually, and she could not see how they would 
 give her pleasure collectively. But had she longed 
 ever so much she would not have been allowed to dissi- 
 pate in the very smallest degree. Jane must be abso- 
 lutely fresh when she came out, Mrs. Saunders de- 
 clared ; must form no intimate friendships which might 
 later on prove inconvenient; must not learn the mod- 
 ern slang, the modern hoydenish ways, the girl-of-the- 
 period walk or views of life. So she was kept apart, 
 educated at home, spending the last two years of her 
 girlhood abroad, where girls were kept in the kind of 
 subjection which Mrs. Saunders favored. 
 
 "A fair, fresh, innocent child," Mrs. Saunders ex- 
 plained, " who has never heard one evil word, who has 
 never read a questionable book, who has never had a 
 coarse companion. A girl trained daily and hourly 
 under my own hand and eye, who if she ever goes 
 wrong will do it because of heredity." Jane's manner 
 
 56 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 to Mark Witting, however, had given Mrs. Saunders 
 a moment of consternation. If the girl did not make 
 more effort to please than Jane had made when in 
 his company she would be a dead failure! After all 
 these years of training, of airing her theories, of money 
 spent in every direction, it was a disastrous possibility 
 to contemplate. Her teachers had declared the girl to 
 be clever; she could see for herself that she was grace- 
 ful, was distinguished looking; what if she had no 
 charm! What a fiasco! All-absorbing charm would 
 be inconvenient, but she must have some charm, must 
 at least be attractive. Must? — but was she? Mark 
 Witting, whom she had discovered to be a very know- 
 ing man of the world, who recognized a good thing at 
 once, had taken small notice of her, and yet he had 
 been on the same ship with the girl for a week. And 
 Jane had never struck her as being shy. Disastrous! 
 She must take a cottage; she must entertain a little 
 this summer; must try to make the girl as supple so- 
 cially as she was physically. 
 
 Meanwhile, as they drove, she was harping on Jane's 
 want of interest in people. The greatest charm a per- 
 son could have was an unselfish interest in the people 
 about them, a spontaneous sympathy. Southern peo- 
 ple prided themselves on being responsive; Jane was 
 a Southerner, Jane must be responsive. 
 
 " You scarcely answered Mr. Witting this morning." 
 
 " He scarcely spoke to me, cousin." 
 
 "When he did, however, you should have seemed 
 interested; you should have answered in a light, spark- 
 ling way ; have used a little badinage." 
 
 57 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Why waste all that ammunition on Witting? " Mr. 
 Saunders queried. 
 
 "How coarsely you put it, Henry; Mr. Witting is 
 a very agreeable man ; besides, good manners are never 
 wasted. To be popular, to be successful, to be an un- 
 selfish Christian, one must be gentle and gracious to 
 all who approach — to the very dogs and cats. Noth- 
 ing is so fatal socially as strong likes and dislikes. In- 
 deed, Christians should not have them; but if you are 
 so prejudiced as to indulge in them, for heaven's sake 
 don't show them. It is most extraordinary that, liv- 
 ing with me all these years, Jane should yet be so 
 deficient in these very rudiments of what is right and 
 proper." 
 
 " Let us give her another chance," and Mr. Saun- 
 ders nodded at Jane. 
 
 58 
 
VI 
 
 " For an evil blossom was bom 
 
 ■ • ■ ■ • • 
 
 Blood-red and bitter of fruit, 
 And the seed of it laughter and tears, 
 And the leaves of it madness and scorn ; 
 A bitter flower from the bud, — " 
 
 BEFORE many days it was revealed to Jane that 
 their destination for the summer was Hillside 
 Springs, and she felt her heart leap up as it had not 
 leaped before in her memory. Her life had been a 
 stagnant pool until that voyage, when it had seemed 
 to flow over the edge and become a running stream, 
 bubbling and sparkling in a way that was a revelation. 
 Suddenly it had dropped into another deadly still pool. 
 A week in the dismantled house, which had been closed 
 for two years, had been a dreary experience, more 
 dreary for the week of unwonted freedom and new 
 sensations just gone. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Saunders 
 being full of business, she was left without orders or 
 suggestions. Horses, carriages, servants, silver, and 
 all sorts of furnishings had to be sent forward. Mrs. 
 Saunders always made herself comfortable, and as she 
 could not be comfortable unless she had every pos- 
 sible thing that other people had, or that a person in 
 her position could be expected to have, it meant a 
 great expenditure of thought and money. 
 
 59 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " It is not exhilarating," Jane said to herself, and to 
 her astonishment found herself missing the formal 
 routine of her life over which she had so often yawned. 
 At least those dull functions had been something to 
 do. Now they were impossible, for, socially, Mrs. 
 Saunders was not in town. 
 
 " On the wing," she explained to an acquaintance 
 on the street. " Camping until our summer cottage is 
 ready. When you hear that I am without Simmons, 
 gone forward to arrange things, you will understand 
 to what straits I am reduced." 
 
 So Jane had much time in which to think. Her 
 nursery was still her room, and she had changed noth- 
 ing. The shadows of many successive governesses, 
 of many maids lingered there, but now that these peo- 
 ple had gone out of her life she did not mind their 
 shadows. In a way they had been vanquished. She 
 would sit in front of the doll-house just as when a 
 child, empty-handed, with the doors wide open. She 
 could think better so. 
 
 She was thinking now that her excitement that last 
 evening on the vessel had been silly. That they were 
 going to this especial place would not mean anything. 
 The pool of her life must bubble up a little, but what 
 then? As a young lady it was bound to be different, 
 but she need not expect anything that would at all 
 remind her of the sea-voyage. 
 
 She expected nothing, of course not, and yet when 
 she reached their summer cottage she found that it 
 was quite different from anything she had thought of. 
 She had lived in villas, in apartments, in hotels, but 
 
 60 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 never before in a cottage, and to her it had meant a 
 small house in a wood, and a little wildness about it. 
 Of course, if she had had any sense at all, she would not 
 have expected anything but a high state of civilization. 
 A fashionable drive, a fashionable promenade, a fash- 
 ionable park where there were buildings for the baths 
 and the springs, and their own large house was only 
 a bit of New York moved up, with trimmings from 
 Paris and London. The carriage met them at the 
 station; Simmons met them at the front door, and 
 dinner would be served in an hour. What a sameness 
 money put into life, and Jane walked up to her room 
 slowly. 
 
 She had often wondered at Mrs. Saunders's pleasure 
 in securing half of a parlor-car; seats for herself, Jane, 
 and Mr. Saunders in one end, with Simmons, Colby, 
 and the second maid at the other end; in sending 
 for them to wait on her, to open her bags when she 
 wanted a trifle, to fetch and carry in a thousand use- 
 less little ways, all the while shutting herself away 
 from other travellers behind newspapers and books, 
 behaving, indeed, as if the car was empty. Jane had 
 wondered at it, then hated it. Now she wondered a 
 little that a house had been taken — Mrs. Saunders so 
 enjoyed life in a hotel where she could be exclusive 
 in such an aggressive way. A house was to be really 
 shut off. Of course in New York a house was a ne- 
 cessity, but having a home and a foothold, a hotel life 
 was what pleased her cousin. 
 
 Standing at the window, dressed for dinner, she 
 thought all this, then fell to wondering at the stillness. 
 
 6i 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Deadly still, and the lamps on the road, that had at 
 this jpoint ceased to be a street, were very sparse. 
 
 Mr. Saunders seemed to have been thinking along 
 the same lines, for at dinner he said: "It's a pretty 
 big house, don't you think, and very far off? " 
 
 " I don't like to live in a bee-hive," Mrs. Saunders 
 answered, " besides, there is still some training to be 
 done on Jane." 
 
 " Isn't she done yet? " and Mr. Saunders smiled at 
 the girl. 
 
 " After dinner," Mrs. Saunders went on, " I wish, 
 Henry, that you will go to the inn and see who is 
 here, and order whatever paper is printed here." 
 
 " May Janey come with me?" 
 
 " Of course not. The first evening? You astonish 
 me. We are not settled yet. And have our arrival 
 put in the paper. This place is called ' Woodside,' 
 with commodious stables where our horses can be 
 made comfortable, and beautiful tennis-courts; also, 
 let your New York clubs be known " 
 
 " Just as if I were dead," Mr. Saunders interrupted. 
 " It'll be better to let a man come out and interview 
 you." 
 
 There was a pause, then, as the servants were in 
 the room, Mrs. Saunders turned to Jane and changed 
 the subject. " So glad we have open fireplaces," she 
 said ; " cool evenings come so often in the hills. And 
 I must find out about the baths to-morrow. Doctor 
 Merriam thought that they would be good for me. 
 He gave me a note to the physician here, who, of 
 course, must advise me. I shall see him to-morrow." 
 
 62 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Janey nor I will need the baths, will we? " 
 
 " I hope not, indeed ; for me, I must watch my- 
 self, and whenever by any chance I reach a place that 
 is suited to me I must make the best of it, if I have 
 time from my daily duties. So, if I can arrange it, I 
 shall take the baths. It will have to be before lunch, 
 of course, so please, Henry, keep yourself disengaged 
 for that time, for of course Jane must be looked after." 
 
 " You want me to play with Janey in the morning, 
 then? " 
 
 " If you will." 
 
 " Delighted, I'm sure." 
 
 " You thank me as if I never provided for your 
 pleasure. You will drive with me to the doctor's to- 
 morrow, Jane, at eleven o'clock. You will wear your 
 blue linen." 
 
 " Yes, cousin," and once more for Jane life had 
 come down to a natural level. 
 
 It was a pretty village, and the homes of the real 
 inhabitants did have the country look which Jane had 
 expected, but about the park and the hotels there was 
 the usual bazaar for Eastern stuffs, the usual "Art" 
 shop, embroidery shop, florist, confectioner, and the 
 like; Jane knew them all so well, they were every- 
 where that she had ever been in the summer, and she 
 was so tired of them. Mrs. Saunders stopped at the 
 florist's, leaving Jane in the carriage, then quite sud- 
 denly, as if he had been waiting his chance, Mark 
 Witting appeared. 
 
 " I heard that you were coming," he said, " and 
 have been watching for you. I'm so glad — ^but you 
 
 63 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 know that. You are not looking so well. You look 
 worn and out of spirits; what has happened? Noth- 
 ing? I take that with a grain of salt — forgive me. 
 And what quick work Mrs. Saunders made in getting 
 the cottage. Nicest one in the place, and will you be- 
 lieve I selected this house? I happened to be in the 
 fellow's office when Mrs. Saunders's letter came, and 
 I made him take this house away from a man — fortu- 
 nately the man had never seen it — and give it to you. 
 I really did, I wanted her to be comfortable, so that 
 she would spend the whole summer, and possibly take 
 it for next year. I'm bound to stay here, you know, 
 because Aunt Euphemia will not, any longer than is 
 possible, be separated from her friend, old Mrs. Cres- 
 wick. Quite romantic, was engaged to Mrs. Cres- 
 wick's brother some time back in the middle ages, so 
 far back that he was killed in the Mexican War. 
 Imagine such faithfulness, such romance, single and 
 solitary all these decades for the love of one man! 
 And the old ladies always shed tears when they meet. 
 Funny, isn't it? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I beg pardon, you are not of this workaday 
 world that has no sentiment, no soul to speak of, or 
 rather whose soul is an expedient, adaptable, almost 
 material thing. ' Flower of the flesh,' some writer 
 calls it." 
 
 " Here is Mrs. Saunders." 
 
 Mark turned quickly. " My dear Mrs. Saunders! " 
 
 " Why, Mr. Witting, pray put on your hat. If Jane 
 has allowed you to stand all this time in the sun with- 
 out it you'll surely have a stroke." 
 
 64 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Only a moment, dear Mrs. Saunders, and the sun 
 up in these hills does not seem hot at all. Do you 
 like your cottage ? And is there anything in the world 
 that I can do for you? " 
 
 " Two things." 
 
 " Delighted." 
 
 " Direct the coachman to Doctor Making's " 
 
 " Are you ill, dear Mrs. Saunders? Been doing too 
 much? Your eyes look tired." 
 
 " Doing everything, but I hope that I am not ill 
 Illness would be very trying with a young woman to 
 chaperone." 
 
 " Trying indeed ; but what is the other thing that I 
 can do for you? " 
 
 " Come and dine at seven this evening. I must 
 have someone to talk to. As for Jane and my hus- 
 band, well — ^is it not so, Jane? Mr. Saunders is mono- 
 syllabic, and Jane is taciturn in three languages — ^you 
 speak three, don't you, dear ? " and she laughed mu- 
 sically. 
 
 " Oh I Miss Ormonde, will you speak German with 
 me? I am so rusty." 
 
 " I'm afraid that her communication will be ja, ja, 
 and nein, nein; but you will come this evening. Be 
 sure to remember me to your aunt; and where does 
 Mrs. Creswick live? Same old place? Then she is 
 just beyond us on Elm Road. Thanks; good-by — 
 be sure to come — seven o'clock." 
 
 " You are looking better," Mark said to Jane, drop- 
 ping into a seat beside her for a moment after dinner; 
 " you actually have some color." 
 
 65 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 "The wine, probably; cousin likes me to drink a 
 little now so as to become accustomed to it." 
 
 "And of course you don't like it. Do you like or 
 dislike anything absolutely? " 
 
 " I see no use in formulating likes and dislikes." 
 
 " It would be of no avail? " 
 
 " It would be great discomfort for nothing." 
 
 " You must have a tremendous will." 
 
 " I have strong habits." 
 
 " A habit of self-control, a habit of aloofness. My 
 child, forgive me — I'm ten years your senior — you are 
 in a dangerous condition. Some day there will come 
 a grand finale, a grand explosion, when you'll smash 
 everything within reach." 
 
 " I'm afraid not. There's nothing to explode, and 
 nothing to explode about. Here is cousin." 
 
 " You do not smoke, Mr. Witting? I thought that 
 by this time you would have enticed my husband into 
 two-syllabled words at least." 
 
 " It was you who wanted someone to talk to, Mrs. 
 Saunders." 
 
 " True, but I did not know that a man could with- 
 stand a good cigar. This sofa is the least uncomfort- 
 able seat in the room," and she pointed to the place 
 beside her. " I like Doctor Malting so much," she 
 went on, "and this air is such a tonic that I verily 
 believe I'll take this cottage for another summer. At 
 all events I shall send for some decently comfortable 
 chairs, and some cushions, and things of that kind. 
 Now tell me about the people who are here, and the 
 amusements — ^the afternoon amusements, for I shall be 
 
 66 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 under treatment of one kind or another every morn- 
 ing. At last Mr. Saunders will have to do something, 
 he will have to look after Jane." Then the talk went 
 off to the country club, the golf-links, the tennis-courts, 
 and the affairs of friends who were in the place or ex- 
 pected, while Jane, who had changed her seat to one 
 nearer the lamp, embroidered silently. 
 
 The color in her cheeks that Mark had alluded to 
 had risen there when he so unexpectedly had come in 
 from the dining-room and had taken the seat beside 
 her. Now that he had changed his place, and was 
 entertaining Mrs. Saunders, the soft bloom was fad- 
 ing. He was talking to Mrs. Saunders, yes ; and 
 seemed to be absorbed, yes; was looking at her con- 
 tinuously and bending over toward her, yes; but his 
 voice was different, quite different. " My child," he 
 had said — " My child," and the tone had been a caress. 
 A ringing came into her ears, and the embroidery 
 blurred under her eyes. A wreath of passion-flowers, 
 conventional passion-flowers. She smiled a little, 
 everything about her life had been conventional, even 
 passion-flowers ! 
 
 " What are you thinking? " 
 
 She started violently. Mark was leaning over her. 
 " Mrs. Saunders has gone to speak to Mr. Saunders," 
 he explained. " What were you thinking? " 
 
 The lovely color came back at once. "That all my 
 life had been conventional," she said, " even to con- 
 ventional passion-flowers," and she spread out her 
 work. 
 
 " Conventional passion-flowers," Mark repeated, and 
 67 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 looked at her searchingly. "Remember that grand 
 finale," he said, " that grand explosion I warned you 
 of. Be careful, it would be better to kick over the 
 traces a little bit, to do something unconventional, just 
 to save yourself. Let me be your mentor, I who am 
 so old. You will be safe with me, may do giddy things 
 with me, and it will be all right, because I will under- 
 stand," and he drew her work from her hands. " Do 
 you remember on the ship when I buttoned your coat 
 for you so unexpectedly, how shocked you were? 
 That hard button close under your chin? That was 
 unconventional, but I had to do it, you were so tempt- 
 ingly proper. All the while on the voyage I was study- 
 ing you, but I never dreamed that you would have 
 any thoughts about conventional passion-flowers. A 
 new view of you who have so many sides. Do you 
 know that you are a dangerous young person, dan- 
 gerous because you are so cold, so calm, so piquantly 
 reserved. You tempt a man to all sorts of extrava- 
 gances in order to rouse you. I have to deprive you 
 of your work in order to make you listen to me." 
 
 Jane pushed her chair back a little. 
 
 " You need not be afraid of me ; I am an old man 
 of the world. You are not twenty, and I am thirty. 
 I am nearer to Mrs. Saunders than to you. She may 
 be forty, she does not look it, and is very handsome. 
 No, don't be afraid of me; I'll be your mentor, your 
 brother, so to speak, and I tell you these things more 
 to warn you than to make you vain." He had straight- 
 ened up now, and was looking at the embroidery 
 critically when Mrs. Saunders reappeared. 
 
 68 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Henry does not know," she said, " but I shall write 
 and find out. What is the matter with Jane's work? " 
 
 " Nothing; I am looking at the design, there is a 
 parable in it," and, returning the work to Jane, he 
 resumed his seat next to Mrs. Saunders. 
 
 " A parable? Jane, dear, go fetch that piece you 
 have just finished. A parable? " she repeated, looking 
 up at him. 
 
 " Conventional passion-flowers," and he bent over 
 her; " you are so — dear Mrs. Saunders, you are so — 
 but — here comes your young chaperone," and he rose 
 to look at the new piece of embroidery which Jane had 
 obediently brought. 
 
 The next morning Jane was sitting on a bench back 
 from the front and away from the house, that was un- 
 der some trees in the yard. At one end of the bench 
 there was a pile of bright cushions which Jane had not 
 utilized, on top of which lay a book at which Jane had 
 not looked. On the other end of the bench reposed 
 a tennis-racquet and balls ; at her feet, some golf clubs. 
 Her costume, from her hat to her tennis-shoes, was a 
 harmony that took its key from her gray eyes. Mrs. 
 Saunders had gone for her treatment, three hours ; Mr. 
 Saunders was reading the papers on the front piazza, 
 and Simmons, the butler, who surreptitiously had, 
 from Jane's first entrance into the house, played into 
 her hands, had this morning first suggested tennis to 
 her, bringing the tools, then came across the lawn with 
 the golf clubs, and again Jane had thanked him. 
 
 " The madam bein' gone. Miss Jane," he had sug- 
 gested, " it's sure Mr. Saunders '11 be glad to take 
 you." 
 
 69 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Yes, Simmons." 
 
 Later he came with the cushions, then the book, 
 bnt found Jane no further advanced toward a morn- 
 ing's pleasure. " Is it sick you are. Miss Jane? " he 
 had asked. 
 
 "No, Simmons; I don't want to move, that's all," 
 and so she sat until Mark vaulted the fence and came 
 lightly across the grass. 
 
 " What luck," he said, " sitting alone and still, and 
 yet with all the sporting gear at hand. Comforts, too, 
 that you have not heeded. Where is your guardian? " 
 
 " Reading the papers." 
 
 "Nice dragon that; I'm better than he. May I 
 arrange these cushions? I really came to take him 
 down to the club, and will carry out my intentions 
 when he discovers us; meanwhile we will not disturb 
 him. What book have you?" 
 
 " I do not know; Simmons brought it out." 
 
 Mark laughed a little looking at it. " Scarcely 
 yours," he said. " But do you never feel inclined to 
 look at the books Mrs. Saunders leaves about? Are 
 you afraid of her? " 
 
 There was a moment's pause, then in her turn Jane 
 asked : " Why do you question me about a person to 
 whom I owe so much?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon; indeed, indeed that was not 
 my stand-point. Forgive me, but you have so deeply 
 interested me; you are so dififerent from all the girls 
 I have known that you puzzle me; the whole situa- 
 tion puzzles me. Your face is so full of character, 
 your eyes of wistful questions, and yet you never assert 
 
 70 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 yourself — you never make an inquiry. Of course this 
 is remarkable, and I am puzzled. What has stilled 
 you; what has made you so subdue yourself? I am 
 not wishing to know your family affairs, nor wishing 
 you to criticise Mrs. Saunders, believe me. Most girls 
 would make a point of reading any book that was ad- 
 vised against or forbidden; you do not seem to see 
 them. Most girls kept as closely at home as you, as 
 carefully guarded, would treat men very differently; 
 you do not seem to see the men any more than you 
 see the books. You say it is all habit; how were these 
 habits formed? " 
 
 Jane waited a moment, then answered, slowly : " My 
 father and mother gave me to Mrs. Saunders when I 
 was a little child. She has done everything for me. 
 I have not thought about it much, but when a person 
 has done all for you it is only natural that in return 
 you should regard their wishes." 
 
 " Grateful and loyal," Mark said, almost as if to 
 himself, and turned over slowly the pages of the book 
 he held. Presently he rose. " I must really speak to 
 Mr. Saunders about the club," he said, and went away. 
 
 And the hour of noon found her still sitting on the 
 bench with all the implements, still untouched, about 
 her. Did gratitude and loyalty drive people away from 
 one? was the question she had been pondering. 
 
 That afternoon she was taken to call on an old lady, 
 where they met Miss Witting. " Dear Mrs. Creswick," 
 Mrs. Saunders said, " how glad I am to see you once 
 more. How well you are looking. This is my cousin, 
 rather, my husband's cousin, who lives with us. I 
 
 71 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 wanted her to know you, dear Mrs. Creswick. I've 
 brought her up, I've done my best for her; and now 
 as she emerges into the world I want her to meet first 
 all that is best." 
 
 " She's very deaf," Miss Witting said, dryly ; " she 
 has not heard you, but she understands that you are 
 introducing the girl." 
 
 The color rose in Mrs. Saunders's face. " Has she 
 a trumpet, or anything? " 
 
 " Oh, yes; and you can say it all over again if you 
 like, but she is just as well satisfied without it. She's 
 a simple soul, God bless her." 
 
 Mrs. Creswick, meanwhile, had handed the trumpet 
 to Jane. " I did not hear your name, my child." 
 
 "Jane Ormonde; I'm Mrs. Saunders's adopted 
 daughter, I am Mr. Saunders's cousin." 
 
 " So? I've heard about you then from Mrs. Ken- 
 net. So glad to meet you, my dear." Then the 
 trumpet was handed to Mrs. Saunders, and Jane, with 
 her color rising, heard herself spoken of as never be- 
 fore in her life. 
 
 " Modest? " Miss Witting suggested. " Never heard 
 yourself praised before? " then she grunted a little and 
 chuckled to herself. 
 
 " I think this is such a pretty country," Jane vent- 
 ured. 
 
 " Very pretty. Have you seen my nephew to-day? " 
 And Miss Witting had now lowered her voice. 
 
 " Yes, for a moment; he came to take Cousin Henry 
 to the club." 
 
 " So— doing the polite. Do you like him? " 
 72 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Of course, Miss Witting." 
 
 " Which means that if you did not you wouldn't 
 tell me." 
 
 " But I do, Miss Witting; we all like him." 
 
 " You cannot really need asseverations, Miss Wit- 
 ting," and Mrs. Saunders turned her lips away from 
 the ear-trumpet, then back again to explain the situa- 
 tion to Mrs. Creswick, and to add how much they 
 liked Mr. Witting, and how happy Miss Witting ought 
 to be to have such a dear nephew with her all the time. 
 
 Mrs. Creswick nodded. " Yes, and I am happy, too. 
 My dear Laurence — you know Laurence? — comes to 
 me every summer. With all the world tempting him, 
 he comes to his old grandmother." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders's eyes were suffused. " Listen, Jane," 
 she said; " how beautiful ! " 
 
 Once more Miss Witting grunted. " My boy," she 
 began, then she took the trumpet from Mrs. Saunders 
 — " My boy," she repeated, " is quite different from 
 yours, he sticks to me because he has nothing and 
 nobody." 
 
 Mrs. Creswick patted her on the hand. " You do 
 not mean that, Euphemia, you are such a tease. Mark 
 is a dear fellow." Then the trumpet was handed to 
 Mrs. Saunders, and once more Jane tried to talk to 
 Miss Witting, but it was up-hill work, and she was 
 not sorry when Mrs. Saunders rose. 
 
 " I don't visit at all," Mrs. Creswick said at the last; 
 " but Laurence will call at once — at once, my dear," 
 and she nodded to Jane, and once more Miss Witting 
 grunted. 
 
 73 
 
The Making of fane 
 
 "Old cat! " Mrs. Saunders said as they got into the 
 carriage, then no further word was spoken until, down 
 in the village, they met Mark Witting. The carriage 
 was stopped, and he came to them. 
 
 " Finish the drive with us," Mrs. Saunders said, and 
 he got in. " I've been calling on Mrs. Creswick," she 
 went on, " and your aunt was there." 
 
 " Is always there." 
 
 " Do you love her? " 
 
 "Not a bit; do you?" 
 
 " Has anyone ever loved her? " 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Creswick's brother loved her before the 
 Mexican War." 
 
 " Good heavens ! fancy the Mexican War as the date 
 for one's last love-affair." 
 
 " Rather mossy, but think of the romance, the faith- 
 fulness! Miss Ormonde would admire that." 
 
 " I do myself," Mrs. Saunders put in quickly, with 
 a toss of her head; " it is beautiful." 
 
 " In the abstract, but I could not live up to it. Have 
 you met Creswick? " 
 
 "Long ago, when he was at college; we've been 
 abroad so much — is he nice? " 
 
 "A model." 
 
 " I am very anxious to meet him. I suppose he will 
 call." 
 
 " He will, I heard him tell Mr. Saunders so this 
 morning at the club." 
 
 " And Henry did not tell me." 
 
 " Is it of such importance? " 
 
 " Not at all, only Henry and Jane have a way of 
 never telling me anything." 
 
 74 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Mark smiled at the girl. " You may be sure then 
 that she tells no one else anything. How safe; sup- 
 pose she babbled? " 
 
 " It would have been corrected long ago." 
 
 Jane was looking out across the hills and fields, it 
 was a way she had learned when Mrs. Saunders made 
 her the topic of conversation. Indoors she would stir 
 her tea or examine her glove-buttons. Now the color 
 rose slowly in her cheeks, and Mark changed the sub- 
 ject, asking what they would do the next afternoon; 
 if no engagement, would they take tea with him out at 
 the golf-links. Very comfortable club-house, and they 
 could play a little. 
 
 " You'll teach me? " Mrs. Saunders asked. 
 
 " With pleasure." Then the invitation was accepted. 
 
 Reaching home they found Laurence Creswick on 
 the piazza with Mr. Saunders. Tea was brought out, 
 Jane was put to make it, and Creswick took his seat 
 beside her. 
 
 " We've arranged a walk for to-morrow morning," 
 he said ; " the weather is so cool, and the hills are so 
 lovely. Mr. Saunders has consented to go; will not 
 you go also? " 
 
 Jane looked at Mrs. Saunders. "A walk?" Mrs. 
 Saunders asked; "why of course, yes. At what time, 
 Mr. Creswick? " 
 
 " Quite early, ten o'clock. Mr. Saunders is com- 
 mg. 
 
 " And Jane ; but I shall be unable to join you. I 
 undergo treatment every morning. Will you go, Mr. 
 Witting? " 
 
 75 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Mark shook his head. " I'm not a walker. But 
 when you have finished at the baths, Mrs. Saunders, 
 won't you drive out and meet them ? " 
 
 " And give you a Hft? Ah, Mr. Witting, lazy, lazy." 
 
 His chair was near to hers, and he said, bending 
 over his tea as he stirred it, " Do you think it all 
 laziness? " 
 
 "I'll stop for you at ten o'clock then," Creswick 
 finished; "and if we are belated we can get lunch at 
 a farmhouse. You will like that. Miss Ormonde? " 
 
 " Very much." Then the young men went away. 
 
 76 
 
VII 
 
 " Go practise if you please 
 With men and women : leave a child alone 
 For Christ's particular love's sake ! — So I say." 
 
 IT rained during the night, clearing toward morning 
 with a brisk wind that made it seem more like 
 autumn than early summer. " In white ! " Mrs. Saun- 
 ders remonstrated at breakfast, " and so cool." 
 
 " It is duck and short ; shall I change it ? " 
 
 " No ; it's hard on the laundress, though ; I was 
 thinking of her. I never forget my servants. You 
 must wear your white jacket and your black hat with 
 field flowers; thick boots, of course, and those white 
 wash-leather gloves." 
 
 " Can't she go barehanded in the country ? " 
 
 " No, Henry. I don't approve of this modern way 
 of girls going bareheaded and barehanded in the sum- 
 mer ; by winter they look like washer-women. I have 
 been most careful of Jane's complexion " 
 
 " You've been most careful of all of Jane," Mr. 
 Saunders interpolated. 
 
 " Of course ; and cannot let her spoil herself just as 
 she is coming out. Nor do I believe that in their 
 hearts men like hoydens. The womanly woman is 
 man's ideal still." 
 
 Mr. Saunders nodded at the girl. " So you'll wear 
 those gloves, and perhaps carry an umbrella." 
 
 n 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " No, her hat has an unwired brim which droops 
 a Httle. And remember, Jane, that Mr. Creswick it is 
 who asks you for this walk ; he is your host, and you 
 must talk to him." 
 
 And later Creswick thought that he had never seen 
 so flower-like a face as the one that looked at him from 
 under the drooping hat-brim. Other young women 
 of the party were, as Mrs. Saunders had said, bare- 
 headed and brown, nice healthy girls, but the slim 
 young thing who stuck so close to her guardian, whose 
 color came and went so rapidly as one after another 
 the walking party was introduced, who said so frankly 
 when Mr. Saunders walked off with one of the bare- 
 headed girls, " I am so glad I met you yesterday," 
 charmed Creswick, and he answered quickly, " Of 
 course, we are old friends. And then you know my 
 grandmother, too, and loved her at once." 
 
 " Yes, and she called me ' my child ' so gently. Miss 
 Witting was there, too." 
 
 " My grandmother and she are very devoted 
 friends." 
 
 " Yes ; Mr. Witting told my cousin of the love-story. 
 I thought it a pity to tell on her." 
 
 " You are quite right ; as the old lady has been faith- 
 ful and silent, her friends should be silent and faith- 
 ful." 
 
 " Do you like people who are grateful and loyal ? " 
 
 " Without doubt." 
 
 " Do men as a rule like them ? " 
 
 " I think so." 
 
 " A man said that I was loyal and grateful, then he 
 ran away." 
 
 78 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " He, probably, had not those virtues." 
 
 " Oh, I'm sure that he has ! " then changing the sub- 
 ject quickly, she asked the name of the point to which 
 they were walking. 
 
 " I don't know that it has a name, those hills yon- 
 der ; see ? " 
 
 " Those blue hills ? Have you ever read the poem 
 of the people who longed to go to some hills that they 
 could see from their homes? Where they lived the 
 hills were green, these far-off hills were blue, and 
 seemed so much more beautiful." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 " They sacrificed everything and journeyed on foot 
 to the blue hills, a long, long journey, and when they 
 got there they did not know it, because, you see, the 
 blue hills were also green." 
 
 " Poor souls ; we will call these hills the ' Blue Hills ' 
 then ; you've named them." 
 
 " I've thought about that a good deal," Jane went 
 on, " and wondered if all blue hills turn green when 
 once we reach them." 
 
 " What has been your experience ? " 
 
 " I've had no experience." 
 
 " You've never looked forward ? " 
 
 " Everything has always been arranged for me." 
 
 " Parents and guardians always do that, but that 
 does not prevent dreams." 
 
 " If I dreamed, I would want the things I dreamed 
 about, and if I could not get them, I'd be unhappy." 
 
 " You might get them, if you would tell Mrs. Saun- 
 ders." 
 
 79 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " She always has everything planned just as it must 
 be ; she says it saves trouble." 
 
 " And if all trouble has been saved you, what have 
 you had in life? " 
 
 " Maids and governesses, and all the things such as 
 teachers and clothes that everyone has." 
 
 " Only the few have these things." 
 
 " Cousin does not like me to hear about poor people," 
 Jane said quickly. " She says there are so many fads 
 about them ; that in America everyone has a chance to 
 rise, and if they do not it is their own fault. She says 
 that young girls are so apt to become romantic and ab- 
 surd over poor people, and bring diseases into nice 
 neighborhoods." 
 
 " I feel very differently about all that." 
 
 Jane looked up quickly. " Perhaps I have given 
 you a wrong impression," she said ; " perhaps I have 
 been talking too much. I do not often talk so much ; 
 sometimes I cannot talk at all. Cousin says that I am 
 taciturn in three languages. She has had me taught 
 two languages besides English. I hate them." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " They worried me so ; and I never liked any of my 
 teachers. Now I shall not have any more ; I shall go 
 into society." 
 
 "Do you wish to?" 
 
 The girl sighed. " I don't know ; everything will 
 be arranged just as it has always been, and from what 
 I hear, society seems rather difificult ; it may be worse 
 than the teachers. Do you know small talk ? " 
 
 Creswick laughed. " I suppose I do, but I'm not 
 very clever at it." 
 
 80 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " I am told that it is an art that has to be carefully 
 learned. The weather and a little touch of what you 
 hear is always safe ; but never say disagreeable things 
 of people, because it will be surely repeated ; and never 
 try to be smart or sharp, for that makes enemies, 
 and Christians should never have enemies, and should 
 always be popular. Is this what you think about it ? " 
 
 Creswick drew his hand down over his face and lips 
 where a smile was lurking. " I've never gone into it 
 so carefully, Miss Ormonde. The weather, of course, 
 and a little touch of what you hear, that's gossip, and 
 everybody is devoted to gossip ; that's as far as I have 
 gone." 
 
 " So you just talk about the weather and gossip ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid so." 
 
 " And does it answer ? " 
 
 " I am not considered a brilliant conversationalist." 
 
 Jane looked up quickly. " How do I talk to you so 
 easily then? I shall tell you the truth about it. 
 Cousin said that you were my host on this walk, and 
 therefore I must talk to you ; and I wondered and won- 
 dered what I should say to you ; and instead of being 
 embarrassed, I have not stopped a moment. I don't 
 understand it ; but it can't be my fault, for I've never 
 done it before. I hope that society will be as easy as 
 this." 
 
 " I shall be in society, you know, and you can always 
 talk to me." 
 
 "And all these girls and men?" with a gesture 
 toward the party. 
 
 " Not all ; some of them do not live in New York." 
 8i 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " And when I meet them I can talk to them of this 
 summer, this walk, of you ? That will be easy ; here- 
 tofore I have only listened." 
 
 " Then you should have known all about small talk." 
 
 The girl shook her head. " Cousin did not let me 
 stay to talk to the men, and the old ladies talked about 
 people I did not know." They walked in silence a 
 little way, then Jane asked : " Have you known Mr. 
 Witting long?" 
 
 " Off and on for some time. Do you know him 
 well?" 
 
 " He came over on the steamer with us." 
 
 " And was driving with you yesterday." 
 
 " Cousin picked him up on the street. I am sorry 
 for old Miss Witting and her lover. Do you think 
 that she cries about him in the night ? " 
 
 " Miss Witting? I am afraid not." 
 
 " Her blue hills were green." 
 
 " Yes, and your blue hills as to her tender heart are 
 also green." 
 
 " Somehow I did not think that she had a tender 
 heart exactly, for she is neither kind nor gentle; she 
 chuckles and grunts when people are talking, as if she 
 did not believe one word they were saying." 
 
 " She has lived in the world so long." 
 
 " And the world does not tell the truth? " 
 
 " Truth emerges finally." 
 
 " At the judgment-day." 
 
 " I believe in a multitude of judgment-days. I have 
 experienced many. Every summer when I meet my 
 grandmother it is a sort of judgment-day, because she 
 
 82 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 believes in me so entirely. A really good, true soul is 
 always a judgment-day to us frailer ones." 
 
 It was a pleasant walk, and up on the hills they 
 stopped at a farm-house and bought some bread and 
 milk, and, turning home again, Creswick still walked 
 with Jane, and they were so walking and interestedly 
 talking when they met Mrs. Saunders driving and 
 Mark Witting with her. 
 
 "How jolly you look," she called; "what a nice 
 color, JanCj and of course you do not want to drive 
 back." 
 
 " Of course not," Creswick answered ; " do you, 
 Miss Ormonde ? " 
 
 " No, no," Mrs. Saunders interposed. " Her color 
 means some little heat, and to drive under such cir- 
 cumstances would mean a cold. No, run on ; we will 
 drive a little farther and catch you before you reach 
 home." But they did not meet again, for the walking 
 party cut across fields, jumping fences and pushing 
 through hedges, being tired of the road, they said. 
 
 That afternoon they went out to tea at the golf-links 
 with Mark Witting. Creswick was there and Miss 
 Witting. " As stupid an amusement as ever I've 
 seen," the old lady declared ; " and of course, Mrs. 
 Saunders, you don't play; let the young people tire 
 themselves out with it; you stay here with me." 
 
 " But I have an engagement with Mrs. Saunders 
 to teach her." And Mark held out his hand to lead 
 Mrs. Saunders down the steps. 
 
 "Then you'll have to break it," his aunt retorted. 
 " I'm not going to sit here by myself, and Mrs. Saun- 
 
 83 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 ders is the only member of the party who can talk as I 
 like to talk; so come here, Mrs. Saunders, and we'll 
 have a nice time. I've got lots of social bones I want 
 to pick ; come. Go, Mr. Saunders, go, Laurence, go, 
 Mark; Miss Ormonde, please amuse them." And 
 they left Mrs. Saunders smiling and waving to them. 
 
 " Did you have a pleasant walk? " Mark asked Jane 
 during one of the pauses. 
 
 " Very." 
 
 " Have you taken my advice and done anything un- 
 conventional ? " 
 
 " I climbed some fences, and crept through some 
 hedges.'"' 
 
 " And Creswick helped you ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It seems an age since I last saw you." 
 
 " You had a nice drive with cousin." 
 
 " Of course, when you were walking with Cres- 
 wick." 
 
 After awhile they were together again. " You 
 snub me horribly," Mark declared. 
 
 Jane looked up. " Everyone prefers to talk to 
 cousin," she answered. 
 
 Mark laughed. " Mrs. Saunders is charming," he 
 said, " but you might pay me the compliment of look- 
 ing interested when I talk to her in your presence." 
 
 " You lower your voice." 
 
 " You imagine that." 
 
 " I had not thought so." 
 
 " And you seem not to wish to talk when on rare 
 occasions we are together." 
 
 84 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " It was you who left me on the bench." 
 
 "After a most awful snubbing; after I had been 
 made to feel myself a Paul Pry; it was trying, espe- 
 cially when nothing was farther from my thoughts." 
 
 " I only told you the truth as to why I should please 
 Mrs. Saunders." 
 
 " And the truth gave me an uncomfortable blow ; 
 that is a way truth has ; and I am afraid that you al- 
 ways tell the truth. Have you discovered what con- 
 ventional truth is/' he went on ; " the little civil fiblets 
 that make the social world go round? I believe in 
 that kind of truth, because it and the tellers of it amuse 
 me so. I like to upset it, too, by telling the real truth, 
 and then, ten to one, you are supposed to be joking. 
 But I am becoming afraid of you ; you and Creswick, 
 I suppose, tell the real truth all the time, and moralize 
 like two Sunday-school books. I'd like to be invisible 
 and listen ; two models." 
 
 " It's my turn," was all Jane's answer, and she drove 
 across the field. 
 
 At tea Mrs. Saunders talked to Laurence Creswick, 
 and Mark immediately took his seat on the steps where 
 he had placed some cushions for Jane. " Why will 
 you not contradict me a little ? " he asked. " I tried so 
 hard to be provoking and irritating this afternoon, and 
 you did not seem to see it." 
 
 " I do not know very well how to dispute," Jane 
 answered. " I don't know about badinage and rep- 
 artee; I have not learned it." 
 
 " You have lived a silent life ; you've listened, and 
 yet you read a parable in conventional passion-flowers." 
 
 85 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " That was an accident." 
 
 " An inspiration. I tried it on Mrs. Saunders and 
 she looked intense, as if she were looking through a 
 mill-stone. She has very handsome eyes. But what 
 will you do to-morrow morning? Sit on that bench? 
 And to-morrow afternoon?" 
 
 " Cousin has not told me." 
 
 " Heavens ! I warned you the other day about an 
 explosion, but sometimes I'd like to take hold of you 
 and give you a good shaking; forgive me, but your 
 passivity is the most tantalizing thing I've met with in 
 all my life. If your cousin should tell you to cut off 
 your pretty nose, would you do it ? " 
 
 Jane laughed. " She does not like ugly people," she 
 answered. 
 
 " And that is all that saves your nose ? " 
 
 " What are you talking about, Mr. Witting? " And 
 Mrs. Saunders leaned forward. 
 
 " Pure nonsense, Mrs. Saunders ; I'm only trying to 
 tease Miss Ormonde a little. She is too good, you 
 know; much too good." And Mark shook his head. 
 " She has bowled me over and battered me so severely 
 with lumps of truth, that I am morally black and blue. 
 She drives me into uttering sentiments which I do not 
 hold at all, then changes the subject in a gentle, firm, 
 but disapproving, manner. You ought to feel so safe, 
 Mrs. Saunders ; your training has gone so very deep." 
 
 " It has been so unceasing." 
 
 " I believe you." 
 
 That night as Jane's hair was being brushed, Mrs. 
 Saunders entered the room and dismissed the maid. 
 
 86 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " You are not pleasing me," she said when the door 
 was closed. 
 
 Jane looked up. 
 
 " You are making both yourself and me ridiculous," 
 she went on. " First, you must not speak of yourself 
 as my adopted daughter; I object to it. Again, you 
 must change your manner, must cease to be so literal, 
 must take people as you find them and not hold up ab- 
 surd standards. I would even prefer a little slang, a 
 little scandal; anything would be better than this 
 goody-goodiness. Of course you must be good, but 
 that need not make you hopelessly prim and old- 
 maidish. I must tell you quite plainly that I intend 
 you to be a social success ; that I have trained you and 
 educated you to that end, and to be a social success you 
 must be pliable; you must, when you go into a com- 
 pany, adapt yourself to it, or to the more important half 
 of it at least. The early Christians were commanded 
 to be all things to all men; this meant simply to be 
 pliable. You have met two young men ; each of them 
 has mentioned to me your wonderful adhesion to my 
 training. This makes me ridiculous, and I will not 
 have it. I wish you to be trained, not to talk about it. 
 The highest art is to be artless ; the best training is to 
 seem absolutely spontaneous. Mark Witting was ac- 
 tually impertinent about it this afternoon. Now, re- 
 member what I say. To-morrow morning you will 
 not go out ; you have been out twice to-day, and I do 
 not wish you to be always on view. And another rea- 
 son why I wish you to stay at home, is that the dogs 
 arrive to-morrow, and your Cousin Henry will h^ve 
 
 87 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 to look after them a little, and of course you cannot 
 go with him. I wish you to take the dachshund which 
 will come — he is a gift to your cousin — as your especial 
 dog, and attach him to you. He is named after a dog 
 in one of Matthew Arnold's poems — Geist — it is con- 
 sidered a very touching poem. I shall find it for you 
 to read, then you will know why you named your dog 
 Geist. I will send to the library in the morning for 
 the book, and you can memorize it while I am at the 
 baths. You will put on your pink dimity in the morn- 
 ing. In the afternoon we take tea at Mrs. Creswick's ; 
 at dinner we will have Laurence Creswick, Mrs. Ken- 
 net, and old Mr. DeLong." Then she kissed the girl 
 on the forehead and went away. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders had gone for her treatment; Mr. 
 Saunders had gone to receive the dogs — a pug, a toy 
 spaniel, pets of long standing, and the new addition 
 to the household in the shape of a dachshund, and once 
 more Jane sat on the bench under the trees. Simmons 
 had not tried to tempt her this morning, for at break- 
 fast he had heard the plans for the day discussed ; but 
 a little while after breakfast he had approached Jane 
 bringing a book. " Joseph has brought this from the 
 library, Miss Jane, and Mrs. Saunders said that you 
 were to have it at once." 
 
 Jane took the book from the tray, and now, under the 
 trees, she held it in her hands listlessly. Lessons were 
 not yet over, it seemed. The dog was to be named 
 Geist, and in this book there was a poem about Geist ; 
 she hoped it would not be long. On the page of con- 
 tents she found " Geist's Grave," that must be it. Alas, 
 
 88 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 twenty verses ! She sighed. Mark Witting said that 
 other girls were so different. They were ; on the walk 
 the other day she had seen that they were very differ- 
 ent. Which of them would be learning a long poem 
 this lovely morning? They were probably out on the 
 breezy golf-links — bareheaded. She looked up at the 
 drooping brim of her hat. What use to think about 
 it ; perhaps after the first season was past things would 
 be different for her, too ; and she turned to the poem. 
 
 She did not know how long she had been studying 
 when she was startled by a thud, and looked up to see 
 that Mark Witting had once more jumped the fence, 
 and was approaching her. 
 
 " I begin to believe in my luck," he said. " I begin 
 to believe in doing my duty. Piously each morning 
 I go to see my aunt, and as I return I find you sitting 
 on this delightful bench. Creswick, meanwhile, does 
 too much duty ; he is winding wool for his old lady. 
 What is this? Arnold's poems — whew! You care 
 for him?" 
 
 " I am just reading him." 
 
 " Not enough go for me. Will you mind commun- 
 ing with me instead of Mr. Arnold ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Thanks; what shall we talk about?" 
 
 "What is it to be pliable?" 
 
 " Mentally, morally, spiritually, or physically ? " 
 
 " Socially." 
 
 Mark laughed, throwing back his head a little. 
 "Good! That combines them all," he said. "That 
 means to know everyone's income and position; that 
 
 89 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 means to know when to be blind, and deaf, and dumb, 
 for we need always to be one of these things, and some- 
 times we need to be all. It means long training, infi- 
 nite tact, careful amiability, cultivated patience, end- 
 less endurance. It means to serve God and Mammon. 
 Do you wish to be socially pliable ? " 
 
 " Is it not necessary ? " 
 
 " If one could be it without being found out," Mark 
 answered, " it would be grand." 
 
 " I thought it was a great accomplishment." 
 
 " It is, if one has just the right quantity. Just the 
 right quantity, and people say that you have tact ; a lit- 
 tle more, and people call you politic ; to be always sweet, 
 always smiling, always flattering, and you are immedi- 
 ately discounted as a hypocrite." 
 
 " I suppose that it is tact that I need." 
 
 " Who says that you need anything? " 
 
 " It is not necessary that one should say it to me." 
 
 Mark laughed. " It is plain to see," he said, " that 
 ' Cousin ' has been lecturing you." And he put his 
 elbow on the back of the bench and turned more toward 
 her. " I am surprised," he went on, " that a woman as 
 clever as Mrs. Saunders is, should try to change you, 
 should not see how charming your simplicity is, your 
 quiet revelation of your approval or disapproval. Be- 
 cause I told her that you were so well trained, I sup- 
 pose ; I am surprised." 
 
 " I am always saying the wrong thing." 
 
 " Each word is perfect." 
 
 " I am prim and old-maidish." 
 
 "I see; well, I like you just as you are, please; I 
 90 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 like to be snubbed by you ; I am longing for that grand 
 explosion to come, but I will give you a lesson in pli- 
 ability if you like." 
 
 " Please." 
 
 " You must follow my lead in conversation absolute- 
 ly, remember ; when I pay you a compliment you must 
 blush and look coy; when I criticise your dearest 
 friends you must cap me; when I praise, you must 
 cap me there, too ; you must seem deeply interested and 
 answer look for look intensely." 
 
 " I am always interested when you talk." 
 
 " You did that admirably ; you are an apt scholar." 
 
 " But that is true — you know it." 
 
 " Capital ! " 
 
 The color rushed to the girl's face. 
 
 " Better and better ; I paid you a compliment, and 
 you are blushing most charmingly. Look at me now 
 — you won't? That is charming, too, but it compels 
 me to lean over you — round you — ^to see you." 
 
 Jane drew away, turning on him angrily. 
 
 " I've not seen a prettier bit of coquetry in many a 
 long day." And Mark himself drew back, putting his 
 head a little on one side and looking at the flushed girl 
 critically. 
 
 " You are laughing at me." 
 
 " On my soul, you are mistaken. You have no more 
 sincere admirer; but if Mrs. Saunders is not careful, 
 she will spoil you by making you conscious — that's a 
 bit of criticism, cap it — say ' I love her, I owe her 
 everything, but I cannot be blind, and cousin has her 
 faults. She simply dotes on taffy, and in order to get 
 
 91 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 all she wants, everything she does must needs be 
 praised — I am one of the things she has done ; I must 
 gain applause for her.' You won't say it? you loyal 
 little child ! Not even in joke ; won't you even say that 
 she is vain? that she would like a little flirtation, and 
 then look at me and smile knowingly, and nod ? " 
 
 Jane looked at him, but she did not smile. " You 
 are making very poor jokes," she said, slowly. 
 
 " Granted ; I'm only giving you an object-lesson in 
 pliability. You cannot be pliable ; don't try." Mark's 
 manner changed. " Child," he said, and laid his hand 
 on hers, " you don't understand your cousin, and she 
 makes a mistake in terms when she tells you to be pli- 
 able. She means only that you should be merciful to 
 faulty creatures like myself, not to reprimand me into 
 sorrow, not to snub me into hopelessness. Will you 
 mind if I straighten your hat a little? Just as you 
 have it now the drooping brim hides your face en- 
 tirely." And without waiting for any permission, he 
 pushed her hat gently. 
 
 Jane did not look up, and Mark once more, leaning 
 his elbow on the back of the bench, watched her, smil- 
 ing. The silence weighed upon her presently, and she 
 moved a little. 
 
 " I'm afraid that I have offended you," Mark be- 
 gan again ; " you will have to forgive me. You 
 seem a child to me, but I suppose I will have to 
 learn to treat you differently. And then you mind 
 such little things. I've tied girl's sashes, I've hooked 
 girl's gowns, I've done up a girl's hair, and many 
 other things that would be — well — straightening 
 
 92 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 a hat is nothing. Besides, we agreed that you were 
 to practise little unconventionalities on me in order to 
 prevent that grand explosion. All the same, I beg 
 your pardon. Let me see that poem you are reading." 
 He took the book from her and opened where her fin- 
 ger had held it. " ' Geist's Grave ' ; let me read it to 
 you." And as he read, it seemed to be quite a differ- 
 ent thing to Jane ; beauties came out that she had not 
 dreamed of; the words seemed to bloom, and the ca- 
 dences were full of music. He finished and she did 
 not speak ; he waited a moment, then rose. " Good- 
 by," he said. " Forgive me ; I have not meant to 
 offend." 
 
 The next morning on his way to his aunt's, Mark 
 found her standing at the gate with Mr. Saunders, 
 Creswick, and three small dogs. " Lovely ! " he said. 
 " Are they yours. Miss Ormonde ? " 
 
 " Only one." She stooped to pat a dachshund. 
 " This one ; his name is Geist." And she looked up at 
 Mark. 
 
 93 
 
VIII 
 
 " We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair ; thou art goodly, O 
 Love; 
 
 Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a flame of fire ; 
 Before thee the laughter, behind thee the tears of desire." 
 
 JANE had been taken to a number of afternoon en- 
 tertainments of late years, and as a looker-on 
 from behind Mrs. Saunders^ had found them un- 
 interesting ; but she felt that the tea at Mrs. Creswick's 
 would be a very different affair, and under careful di- 
 rections, dressed for it with some excitement. For the 
 first time in her life she was pleased that her gown 
 was beautiful ; that the maid pronounced her hat to be 
 a dream; that Mr. Saunders applauded when he saw 
 her. All this had happened before, and she had smiled 
 because the maid amused her, because she loved her 
 Cousin Henry, but now her pulse quickened; a light 
 came into her eyes and an exquisite color into her 
 cheeks. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders looked at her critically. " Very 
 nice," she said ; " but all my efforts will be useless, Jane, 
 unless you discover a little animation. Pray try to 
 make yourself agreeable this afternoon, and to every- 
 one, remember." 
 
 The tea was out on the lawn, and made a pretty pict- 
 
 94 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 ure as they drove up. Laurence Creswick came to 
 the carriage, and Mark Witting met them farther 
 up the garden walk, dropping behind with Jane. 
 Cousin ' has exquisite taste," he said in a low voice, 
 nodding at Jane ; " and she is wise not to let you ruin 
 your complexion. See how odd these sunburned 
 girls look in delicate summer fabrics and flowery hats. 
 ' Cousin ' is wise. You look like a lily in a great bunch 
 of sunflowers; and watch how the men will flutter 
 about you. And please appreciate the men; we've 
 labored unceasingly to get them. See, here comes old 
 Mr. DeLong, wonderful old person, at least two hun- 
 dred years old, but of course you have met him. Of 
 course, Mr. DeLong, you know Miss Ormonde ? " 
 
 " Only as a little girl, my dear Witting ; a very small 
 little girl, who was wonderfully quiet. So glad to 
 renew our acquaintance, Miss Ormonde; as a child, 
 you caused me much thought." 
 
 " As a young woman she is also causing much 
 thought," Mark put in. 
 
 " Of course, of course ; but as a child. Miss Or- 
 monde, you were so wonderfully good. You never 
 fidgeted, you made no noise, and your eyes were so 
 large and grave that they troubled me. Do you re- 
 member at all what you thought about us grown-up 
 people ? " 
 
 Jane shook her head. " It was all a great puzzle," 
 she said. 
 
 " And now, Mr. DeLong, she is a great puzzle." 
 
 " Naturally ; her sex always is." ^ And the old man 
 took off his hat with a little bow. 
 
 95 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Creswick was more with Jane than Mark was, but 
 the girl had a consciousness that Mark was never very 
 far away, and that his attentions to Mrs. Saunders 
 were but another method of attaching himself to her. 
 Nor was there anything conspicuous in the attentions 
 of Laurence Creswick; and yet Jane was made grad- 
 ually to know herself the centre and cause of the whole 
 affair. It was a new sensation ; it seemed to make her 
 blood run faster, her heart double its beats ; she felt as 
 if she were talking and laughing excessively, and more 
 than once glanced furtively at Mrs. Saunders. Mark 
 intercepted one of these looks, and laughed as he shook 
 his head at her. He was standing by Mrs. Saunders, 
 and the color deepened in her face. " She is such an 
 irritating girl," she said, coldly. " To see her look at 
 me, one might think me a tyrant, who had beaten her 
 black and blue. I have charged her not to look at me 
 at all when in company." 
 
 " Who can blame her for longing for your approba- 
 tion ? " Mark asked. " And who could think you a 
 tyrant? And how exquisitely you dress her; is she 
 properly grateful ? " 
 
 " Grateful ? I don't for one moment think that she 
 realizes what I have done for her." 
 
 "Truly?" 
 
 " Can you not see it ? But of course I have not done 
 it for gratitude. Wealth is a great responsibility, and 
 it weighs on me that I must dispense mine wisely." 
 
 " More wisely, more generously than anyone I 
 know." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Witting!" 
 
 96 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Do you not know it ? Do you not realize that in 
 your face, your eyes, you carry the story of your life ? " 
 
 " I who have tried to make my face a mask ? Don't 
 tell me that I have failed." 
 
 " Shall I tell you what I see ? Shall I say unsatisfied 
 longings ? " 
 
 " Why have we not known each other all these years ? 
 I who have no friend who could understand — and 
 now ? " 
 
 " Now we will — we will — never mind what we 
 will do." And Mark nodded encouragingly. " Other 
 people besides immature girls can be fascinating, can 
 have happy friendships ; is it not so ? " 
 
 " Jane is looking at me again." 
 
 " Smile and nod," was ordered, and Mrs. Saunders 
 obeyed. After this they found a bench, and Mark 
 brought her an ice, and when good-byes were said he 
 drove away with Mrs. Saunders and Jane. 
 
 From this time events seemed to move more rapidly ; 
 and as the weeks went on and the season culminated, 
 instead of letting Jane go out a little as she had planned, 
 Mrs. Saunders took her everywhere, and in addition 
 made her own house a centre. Lunches, dinners, after- 
 noons, followed each other in quick succession ; a con- 
 tinual round of something to do, that caused her to be 
 extremely popular. She still, however, kept a strict 
 watch on hats and veils for Jane, still drew the line at 
 the golf-links in the morning, still went for treatment, 
 leaving Jane close at home. The deep piazza was Mr. 
 Saunders's haunt, the bench on the lawn was Jane's. 
 Creswick was there sometimes, but much oftener it 
 
 97 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 was Mark ; and at last one day Mark said : " Unless 
 you prefer to be conspicuous, there is a pleasanter 
 place for this bench ; may I move it ? " And without 
 waiting for an answer, he picked up the bench and put 
 it farther back in a copse that sheltered it completely 
 on every side. The next morning Creswick came, and 
 looked about in vain until Geist, catching sight of him, 
 rushed forth, revealing the new retreat. 
 
 " How charming ! " he said, as he stooped under the 
 arching shrubs ; " how much nicer than full fronted on 
 the road." 
 
 Mark came, too, that morning, but lingered only a 
 moment to get a book, he 'said; later, he came back 
 with Mrs. Saunders in the carriage from the springs. 
 Again Geist barked, and Mark said," So ho ! the bench 
 is moved ; shall we find it ? " 
 
 " I must," Mrs. Saunders answered ; and they found 
 it, and Creswick, reading aloud to Jane. A startled 
 expression came into the girl's eyes and a little wonder 
 as she looked at Mark ; but he and Mrs. Saunders were 
 all smiles, and he said, " Geist did it." 
 
 Later Mrs. Saunders asked Jane, " Does Mr. Cres- 
 wick come often in the morning? " 
 
 " Quite often." 
 
 "Do you like him?" 
 
 " Yes." Then the color faded from the girl's face, 
 but no further questions were asked. 
 
 And so time sped until September came; and the 
 first touch of autumn in the air, and Mrs. Saunders 
 declared that she must go to the mountains before re- 
 turning to town. She had been keeping house all sum- 
 
 98 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 mer, and must have a little rest at some good hotel as 
 preparation for the winter's work. They were at the 
 inn listening to some music when she made this an- 
 nouncement, and Mark, sitting next to her, said: 
 " This has been the happiest summer of my life." 
 
 " And I have found a comrade," she answered. 
 
 " Do you really need to go ? " 
 
 "Yes; many things say go; go while people still 
 want you." 
 
 " What nonsense ! you know that you are always 
 wanted ; that you have been the heart and soul of the 
 summer to the whole community, and to " 
 
 " Surely the community is enough ? " 
 
 " Surely, if it satisfies you." 
 
 " Teased ; how easily." 
 
 " In your hands I am as wax." 
 
 " I shall, then, mould you into a patient man, who 
 will wait quietly until the winter." 
 
 " Mould me, rather, into a calculating machine, that 
 will count the days and the hours until the winter. But 
 you will not be so closely chaperoned in the winter, 
 will you ? " 
 
 " You nonsensical creature ! " 
 
 " You are hard-hearted." 
 
 " It is time to go home." 
 
 " You are cruel ; but you will come again next year? 
 The treatment has done much for your complexion; 
 it has moved from good up to perfect." 
 
 " Yes, I shall come again ; it is a charming place ! " 
 
 Jane had heard Mrs. Saunders's announcement as to 
 leaving the Springs, and had tried to hear more, but 
 
 99 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Mark's voice was low, and she could only hope that 
 he was persuading Mrs. Saunders to reconsider. He 
 had a strange amount of influence over her cousin, and 
 the next morning when he came to the bench she asked 
 him. 
 
 " I did my best," he said, " but she will go. You 
 will be sorry ? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " You'll miss Creswick? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You like him ? " And Mark laughed a little. 
 
 Jane nodded. " He's very nice." 
 
 "Only nice?" 
 
 " He is earnest ; I believe in him. He does not tease 
 one, and set one problems to solve ; he is restful." 
 
 " And nice." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I'm content." There was a pause, then Mark took 
 the embroidery out of the girl's hands and put it to 
 one side. " Look at me," he said, " and listen. You 
 are going away presently, and it is time you under- 
 stood certain things." 
 
 A tremor went over the girl, but her look did not 
 waver. 
 
 " I've taught you much this summer," Mark went 
 on, " and now the time has come for another lesson. 
 In his quiet, gentlemanly way, Creswick is in love with 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " and Jane drew back as from a blow. 
 
 " Yes, and soon he will tell you so." 
 
 All color left the girl's face. " Please ask him not 
 to," she pleaded. 
 
 lOO 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Mark laughed. " It's quite a triumph ; he's a great 
 catch," he said. " Don't be afraid, just say no ; but 
 do not hurt him; be gentle, not fierce, as very young 
 girls often are when they do not like a man ; be gentle, 
 and keep him your friend. Be sure you do that, else 
 you will have trouble. Now, mind me." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Of course I've known all along," Mark continued, 
 " how it would be, how he would love you, but be quite 
 unable to get your heart out of storage. You know — 
 realize — that your heart has been in cold storage all 
 these years? Has been frozen, has been torpid until 
 I came? Mrs. Kennet told me this, and I realized it 
 the moment I saw you ; I realized, too, that I could take 
 it out and warm it into life." 
 
 There was a look of startled wonder, almost of fear 
 in the girl's eyes, and the color had mounted up to the 
 roots of her pretty hair. 
 
 " And you need not deny that I have done it, child, 
 nor be afraid." He was leaning back, looking out 
 through the opening in the shrubbery. " And I've been 
 very wrong to do it," he went on, as if to himself ; " very 
 wrong, for you know I am a poor man ; not a pauper 
 exactly, but poor. At the same time," turning sud- 
 denly to face her, " at the same time I love you ; hear 
 me, I love you. I love you so that it nearly wrecks 
 me. Love you so that I can scarcely keep my head 
 to play my part in the daily round. I've read some- 
 where that long before any moral obliquity has been 
 shown in life or action, the character has been eaten 
 away ; my character, unknown to me, must have rusted 
 
 lOI 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 out long ago, for I am ready to do almost anything to 
 win you. Don't be afraid ; I shall not touch you — not 
 yet." 
 
 No snow was any whiter than Jane's face now, no 
 stars any brighter than her eyes, and her hands were 
 wrung together in her lap. 
 
 " No, not yet," and Mark clasped his hands on top 
 his walking-stick that was between his knees, and 
 leaned with his cheek down on them, looking at Jane 
 sidewise. " Not yet," he said once more ; " not yet ; 
 it is enough to have told you, enough to sit and watch 
 the color come and go, watch the light in your eyes, 
 and know that I can summon it. To look at your love- 
 ly, tender youth and know that you are mine. This 
 is enough for this time. Two bites of a cherry? I 
 believe in absolutely nibbling my cherry ; in holding it 
 up and looking at it in every light, in thinking about 
 it, before some day I crush the dear life-blood out of 
 it. Don't tremble, little one; don't be afraid of me. 
 How many times have I danced with you and barely 
 guided you ; how many times have I laid my hands on 
 yours in seeming friendship? No, I shall not touch 
 you, but I have something further to teach you. You 
 must trust me ; you must behave as if this had not hap- 
 pened, were not so, else I'll have to leave you. That 
 shakes you? Well, it is in your hands. Quiet your 
 heart that I see beating there under your frock, in your 
 pretty white throat. How it throbs, my heart ! It is 
 in your hands, sweet one, whether I stay in your life, 
 or leave you to Creswick and his quiet, gentlemanly 
 affection. You'll keep silent ? ' Cousin ' won't expect 
 
 1 02 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 you to tell her; she says you never tell her any- 
 thing — so you'll keep silent for a little while ? " 
 
 " Yes." It was only a sigh, but he heard it. 
 
 " And you'll treat Creswick kindly when he speaks. 
 So, now I must go ; ' cousin ' will soon be coming from 
 the springs. She's getting fatter, I think, but I'd not 
 risk my life telling her so. Here's your work; stay 
 here until you've thought it all over quietly. It would 
 not do for you to meet even Simmons looking as you 
 look now. You remember that I told you about the 
 grand explosion, the grand finale that would surely 
 come to you some day? You realize it now as Cres- 
 wick could never have made you realize it. I've been 
 wrong to do it — ^perfectly wrong — but then I seldom 
 do right. I am a bad man, child, do not deceive your- 
 self, a very bad man, and I've been training you up to 
 this for months, coolly and deliberately, and you will 
 never be the same again, never. But I love you, don't 
 forget that; I love you. We ride this afternoon, you 
 remember; to-night we dance at the inn. Do not be 
 surprised if I ride beside Mrs. Saunders, and if I do 
 not dance with you at all. I may only look at my 
 cherry until she becomes accustomed to being my 
 cherry." Then he took his hat and without one back- 
 ward glance went quietly away. 
 
 Slowly, as if out of a mist, Jane saw the shrubbery 
 about her resume its place in her vision. If her heart 
 would not beat quite so loud, if the rushing sound 
 would go out of her ears, she might realize things bet- 
 ter. She took up her embroidery which Mark had laid 
 on her lap ; her trembling hands made that impossible, 
 
 103 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 and she laid it down again. She would never be the 
 same again, he said; of course not; she would never 
 want to be the same again. And all his attentions to 
 Mrs. Saunders had been meant for her, Jane. Did 
 Mrs. Saunders realize this? Would she like it? He 
 knew better than she did, and he had said be silent. 
 Never the same again ; she had lived a whole life since 
 breakfast, how could she be the same? All this time 
 he had been loving her and making her to love him, 
 and she had not realized it. She had never read any 
 love-story like this, never ; the things she had read had 
 been quite dififerent, had been, in a way, religious. 
 Mark said that he was bad, a bad man ; was he ? Was 
 all that he had said and done wrong? She would like 
 to ask Laurence Creswick, he was always so sure about 
 right and wrong, but of course she could not, of course 
 not. She could only trust Mark and wait in silence. 
 
 She did not know how long she sat there before 
 Geist rushed out barking, followed closely back by 
 Mrs. Saunders. Jane had one second's warning, and 
 bent over her work. 
 
 " Alone ? " she said ; " truly, it is time for us to be 
 gone. You'd better come in; there's no use in your 
 waiting here any longer, especially as we have lunch 
 earlier to-day on account of the ride. Come in." 
 
 It was a beautiful ride that afternoon, and though 
 Mark rode beside her for a few moments only, riding 
 in turn with every member of the party, finishing the 
 last long home stretch with Mrs. Saunders, yet for 
 Jane that ride was filled with joy. She knew now 
 what Mark was thinking when he looked at her, and 
 
 104 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 somehow she could talk and laugh more easily; she 
 seemed to have more confidence in herself; and Mrs. 
 Saunders hearing her, said to Mark, " I'm glad to hear 
 that girl talking; she has evidently taken my warning 
 as to making herself agreeable. I found her sitting 
 alone in the arbor this morning, and I suggested that 
 it was time we were going away. When even Lau- 
 rence Creswick, who is too mild to require much hold- 
 ing, once he is attracted, when even he leaves her alone, 
 it is time that she exert herself." 
 
 Mark laughed. " Alone, this morning, did you say ? 
 Poor little girl ; I'd have come myself to entertain her ; 
 all the same, I think that Creswick is much attracted, 
 and in time he will propose." 
 
 " As you say," Mrs. Saunders went on ; " she chaper- 
 ones me tremendously." 
 
 " She does, indeed. Will she not have classes this 
 winter in the mornings ? It will not do to let her mind 
 go to waste." 
 
 " It would be bad." 
 
 " Or there is another solution." And he looked 
 boldly into Mrs. Saunders's eyes that were shining. 
 " Let me marry her." 
 
 " You — ^marry — ^her ! " 
 
 " Exactly ; think a minute, and you will see." 
 
 "You love her?" 
 
 " That's an unnecessary question. As her husband, 
 I shall be your cousin — son — brother." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders drew a long breath. " She is young 
 — as your wife " 
 
 Mark laughed lightly. "A bud is a hard little 
 knob," he said. " You can see into the heart of a rose." 
 
 105 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " You'd love to watch a bud expand? " 
 " I'd love to look into the heart of an expanded rose 
 — I read some verses once — 
 
 ' The rose has burst forth into gorgeous bloom, 
 And the sun kissing deep in the glorious gloom 
 Of its quivering heart, 
 Made it happy — ' " 
 
 and again he laughed lightly. 
 
 That night Miss Witting appeared at the inn to 
 watch the dancing; Mrs. Kennet was there, too, and 
 old Mr. DeLong, all of them sitting together. 
 
 "Jane Saunders holds her own wonderfully," Mrs. 
 Kennett said. " She does not look a day over thirty- 
 five." 
 
 " In another year she'll be hopelessly fat." And 
 Mr. DeLong shook his head up and down. 
 
 " She tells me that she is renewing her youth in her 
 dear girl." And Miss Witting chuckled. 
 
 " I suppose she was looking to the future when she 
 adopted her," Mrs. Kennet said ; " a flower for the 
 bees that one wishes to hive ; it seems to me just now, 
 however, to be your dear nephew with whom she is 
 renewing her youth." 
 
 Again Miss Witting chuckled. " He will have to 
 see me home," she said. " I'll ask him — I'll warn him 
 not to blight her young affections. I've never been 
 able to bring myself to believe in Jane Saunders ; she's 
 so false that she does not know it; would not know 
 truth if she met that lady face to face — Truth is a lady, 
 is she not ? " 
 
 1 06 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " By courtesy." And Mrs. Kennet smiled at Mr. 
 DeLong. 
 
 " I never contradict a lady." And he bowed. 
 
 " But you sometimes go against truth," Miss Witting 
 retorted. " However, I'll test Mark's manners in the 
 matter of truth. I really think that he always tells me 
 the truth; I really do." And going home, she said: 
 " You seem to be very attentive to Mrs. Saunders, 
 Mark." 
 
 " Of course, aunt ; don't you see the logic of it ? " 
 
 " But you need not talk to her until her eyes shine 
 and her cheeks get too red." 
 
 " Only sweet dalliance, auntie ; she's married ; she 
 loves her world and its good opinion." 
 
 " Of course ! of course ! I don't mind about her ; 
 but the girl, she's a sweet thing." 
 
 " And I love her ; I swear it." 
 
 " I've heard you say that before." 
 
 " This time I'll stake my life on it." 
 
 " What a risk ! But this time I'm interested, be- 
 cause I've taken a fancy to the girl; she must be al- 
 most a saint living with Jane Saunders so long, and I 
 insist on two things: first, if you hurt the girl, I cut 
 you off without a cent ; second^ I don't ' take my shoes 
 off until I go to bed,' and you must not marry a poor 
 girl, depending on me for your living. For the rest, 
 you can play this game as you like. I don't care a snap 
 of my finger for Jane Saunders ; but you should be care- 
 ful, Mark, for you are not a good man; remember 
 that." 
 
 " And never pretend to be." 
 
 107 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " But it's only if you behave yourself that I'll remem- 
 ber you — and maybe more." 
 
 " Of course more ; I carry on your family name, and 
 am the most presentable and successful of your 
 nephews. But bad as you think me, I love the girl. 
 Her eyes are like stars, auntie, pure, clean stars; and 
 her lips — I scarcely dare think of them." 
 
 The old lady sighed. 
 
 " You understand, auntie ? " 
 
 " Does the girl love you ? " 
 
 " I have great hopes." 
 
 " Laurence Creswick ? " 
 
 " Is my most dangerous rival. His fortune is sure, 
 you see; mine is not; and Mrs. Saunders knows it; 
 came here because the Creswicks were here. I'm 
 playing rather a dangerous game, and I will tell you 
 true, auntie, a game I could not play if I were a good 
 man." 
 
 " Or Jane Saunders a sensible woman." 
 
 " The root and ground of her offending is self," 
 Mark answered. " When we are our own centre and 
 circumference, we can sink to any depth of misdoing ; 
 we can rise to any height of folly. That's the reason 
 I've always made such a point of being unselfish, 
 auntie." 
 
 " Exactly ; what makes your wickedness so black, 
 Mark, is that you do everything so deliberately." 
 
 " Of course, else it would cease to be wickedness 
 and become folly; but here we are; you'll forgive me 
 and kiss me for good-night, auntie?" 
 
 " Yes, because you are interesting ; but if you hurt 
 1 08 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 that girl, I'll disinherit you, without fail ; on the other 
 hand, you must not marry on the strength of my will." 
 
 " I shall marry only for love," Mark answered ; then 
 he went back to the dance and told Mrs. Saunders that 
 his aunt had spoken of his attentions to her. " You'd 
 better let me be your cousin by marriage," he finished. 
 
 " Instead," she answered, " I'll go away." 
 
 109 
 
IX 
 
 " Alter ? when the hills do. 
 Falter ? when the sun 
 Question if his glory 
 Be the perfect one." 
 
 THEY had been back in town for some weeks; it 
 was Mrs. Saunders's day at home, and Jane sat 
 alone in the drawing-room, waiting for the first ring 
 of the bell. She was in no state of expectation as yet, 
 however, for it was early, very early ; far too early for 
 anyone to come, but Mrs. Saunders insisted that it was 
 Jane's duty to be in the drawing-room at this abnormal 
 hour. " It is the least you can do," she declared, " to 
 give me ease in this matter. Everything that I am do- 
 ing, I am doing for you, and it is hard if I can get no 
 help. All morning I am busy, and I must rest after 
 lunch." So Jane was at her post, walking about rest- 
 lessly, pausing to touch a flower, to look critically at 
 the tea-table, to stand a moment before the fire. 
 
 The winter had held some surprises for Jane. Many 
 times she had heard Mrs. Saunders say, " When you 
 come out, you can do this ; when you are a young lady, 
 that will be quite proper." So that gradually there 
 had grown up in the girl a feeling that she would have 
 much more liberty of action than it now seemed prob- 
 able that she would enjoy. She had found classes in 
 
 no 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 French and German arranged for her mornings; she 
 found herself taken to dressmakers and milliners with 
 as little consultation as in her childhood; she found 
 that in public she was more than ever kept close to 
 Mrs. Saunders's side, and further, she found herself 
 restless and lonely as she had never been before. There 
 were other arrangements, also, which, though small, 
 were surprising. Instead of a maid going with her 
 to and from her classes, she found that Simmons and 
 Joseph were to alternate in attending her, and Sim- 
 mons so fussy about breaking his routine before lunch, 
 and Mrs. Saunders so hesitating about giving him extra 
 orders. Mrs. Saunders, too, was different. Gayety 
 and hilarity such as Jane had never experienced in her 
 before, that made Mr. Saunders stare, alternated with 
 a gloomy coldness that was as trying as it was inex- 
 plicable, or an absent-minded dreaminess that in a 
 woman of Mrs. Saunders's alert, calculating temper 
 was astonishing. 
 
 But to Jane, the strangest part of these first weeks 
 in town had been Mark Witting. She had never seen 
 him alone, nor had had any talk with him since that 
 morning on the bench when he had made her betray 
 so much — that talk, that, though the memory of it still 
 made her face to burn, yet had come to seem almost 
 a dream. She had promised to be quiet, to trust him, 
 but whether she had promised or not, there was noth- 
 ing else now for her to do. He had come to the re- 
 ception that had introduced her to the world, he was 
 coming to the series of dinners which Mrs. Saunders 
 was now giving, he was always in the theatre parties, 
 
 III 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 and had been given a standing invitation to the opera 
 box once the opera began. He even came to their 
 afternoons at home; but never once had he alluded, 
 even by a look, to that last talk on the bench ; never 
 once had he sent her a note, never once a flower. 
 
 She had turned these things over and over in her 
 mind many, many times; she was turning them over 
 now as she walked restlessly to and fro. " I was wise 
 to make a rule against expectation," she said to her- 
 self. She paused in her thoughts; she had never 
 formulated what, in this case, she meant by " expecta- 
 tion/' and the color burned in her cheeks. It was an 
 odious suggestion to crop up, and she turned away 
 quickly, mind and body, from this confusion of 
 thought. She walked to the fire, and, taking up the 
 shining tongs, a thing she was never permitted to do, 
 she poked it. Instantly Simmons appeared, and she 
 looked up guiltily. " I was only so tired, Simmons," 
 she said. 
 
 " Sure, miss, that's natural ; but your hands, Miss 
 Jane." 
 
 " Your tongs would not soil them, Simmons." And 
 she sat down wearily. 
 
 The servant gone, the thoughts she had turned from 
 came back to her. The young men she was meeting 
 did not please her, and she was lonely, strangely lonely. 
 Perhaps if Creswick would come to town things would 
 be better; she wished that he would not stay so long 
 with his grandmother. But what use in thinking 
 about it; in reasoning or wondering; in putting the 
 rather bald reality of the winter down beside her in- 
 
 112 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 tangible but brilliant dreams. What use in trying to 
 deceive herself with the thought that the men she was 
 now meeting were not interesting? Whom did she 
 compare them with? Mark Witting, of course! and 
 there was no use in putting Creswick's name along with 
 Mark Witting's. No use in beating about the bush. 
 She could only be quiet. She had promised to trust 
 Mark, and Creswick was soon coming for the winter ; 
 then, perhaps, things would mend. He had come 
 down for the reception and for one or two of the din- 
 ners, and any day might be expected finally. He had 
 written her one or two notes and several times had 
 sent her flowers ; but to her great relief he had not as 
 yet fulfilled Mark Witting's prediction. That predic- 
 tion had made Jane uneasy for a time; had rendered 
 her constrained when in Creswick's company, a change 
 that had puzzled him, and that, of course, had influ- 
 enced him. Time, however, had worn away her ap- 
 prehension of an awkward moment, and in her present 
 state of mind, she often found herself thinking of 
 Creswick's quiet friendship with something like long- 
 ing. He had never failed her ; there had been no ups 
 and downs in their intercourse, and she hoped that 
 when he came she would cease to feel this loneliness 
 which she so frequently felt now. 
 
 So she was walking about and thinking, when the 
 portiere was lifted and Creswick himself was an- 
 nounced. In her preoccupation she had heard noth- 
 ing, and now started violently. 
 
 " How strange ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 "Why strange?" 
 
 "3 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " I was thinking about you." 
 
 " Telepathy, quite natural ; but you are not looking 
 yourself ; going too much ? " 
 
 " I don't think it is that." And they sat down. 
 
 " Then you are not happy ? " 
 
 Jane looked up quickly. " I've been lonely — every- 
 thing is different — the young men " The confes- 
 sion came hesitatingly, as if she were deciding for the 
 first time that these things were so. 
 
 " Your hills are green," Creswick interrupted, " and 
 as for the young men, they are young, that is all ; they 
 want the earth all at once, and don't know yet that to 
 give is to gain; but what has become of Witting? " 
 
 " He is in town, but I have seen nothing of him." 
 
 " So ? And what else has happened ? " 
 
 " I have lessons every morning." 
 
 " Really, you surprise me ; but why lessons ? " 
 
 " Cousin wishes me to keep up the languages. I 
 don't mind it, really, and rather enjoy the walk back 
 and forth." 
 
 "And you really see very little of Witting? Are 
 not he and Mrs. Saunders good friends ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, I believe so." 
 
 " I only meant that your seeing so little of him, he 
 and Mrs. Saunders might have fallen out. Witting 
 is so strangely frank, you know." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And I am sorry that your first winter has not been 
 all that you dreamed it would be." 
 
 " I cannot say that I had any dreams ; it was rather 
 the pleasantness of the summer that has made the con- 
 
 114 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 trast. The summer went beyond any hopes I had ever 
 indulged in ; it was charming." 
 
 " It was, indeed." Something in his voice made 
 Jane look up, and she saw that in his eyes which 
 brought back to her Mark Witting's prophecy. The 
 wretched, betraying color rushed to her face. 
 
 " Don't look away, Miss Ormonde," Creswick went 
 on. " There is no use in trying to avoid what I have 
 come especially to say, have come shamefully early on 
 purpose to say ; that is, if I were so fortunate as to find 
 you alone. You don't know at all how I am going to 
 put it; I promise you it will not be bad." And he 
 laughed a little. " Truly, truly I am not going to ask 
 you anything ; look this way, please. I am only going 
 to tell you something." 
 
 Creswick's amused laugh had given Jane a shock, 
 had made her cold with the dread that she had mistaken 
 his look, and for the moment she hated Mark Witting 
 because his prophecy had stuck in her mind. 
 
 " I'm only going to tell you about myself," Creswick 
 went on ; " tell you that I love you very much, and that 
 I hope some day to win you. You need not feel any 
 embarrassment about it ; indeed, if you had been a lit- 
 tle more experienced you would have seen it long ago. 
 I have loved you from that first walk, I think, and I 
 think as surely that I shall love you to the end of my 
 life. If you do not, if you never learn to love me, it 
 will be just the same, so that you need feel no uneasi- 
 ness. I am years older than you are, and I have a 
 habit of knowing my own mind; and my mind is to 
 wait, and watch, and love you, in the hope that some 
 
 "5 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 day you may come to love me, in the certain knowledge 
 that some day you will need a friend." 
 
 As he spoke Jane's self-consciousness, her misery 
 faded away. His face was so strong, his eyes were so 
 gentle, his voice rang so true. When he paused, her 
 eyes, that now were raised to his, were full of tears. 
 
 " You do not mind," he said, and held out his hand. 
 
 " I don't deserve it." And as simply as he did it, 
 she put her hand in his. One moment he held it, look- 
 ing down, as if communing with himself, then laid it 
 on her knee. " Thank you," he said slowly, " and God 
 bless you for your sympathy. You have not promised 
 anything, remember, and when I am gone, you must 
 not feel frightened or worried. I know that you do 
 not love me, but I wanted you to know that I loved 
 you — ^that you can always depend on me, and I shall 
 talk to you about it very often. Not on my knees, you 
 know, not swearing ' before high Heaven,' but only as 
 being the main element of my life. Anything that one 
 thinks about and feels about continually, must neces- 
 sarily come into one's talk with one's nearest friend; 
 besides, I think that it may be some protection to you 
 in your life in the world. You are so very young for 
 your years, you are so very ignorant, that, though 
 guarded and watched as you are, you yet may rush into 
 danger ; and if you will learn to look on me as a confi- 
 dential friend, as one who will always love you, will 
 always be on your side, even if disapproving, who will 
 never hesitate to stand between you and the world, it 
 may be a safeguard to you far more sure than any 
 watching. You will remember this, won't you, and you 
 
 ii6 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 will rely on it, turn to it? Give me your hand on it, 
 and good-by. I'd rather not meet anyone just now." 
 Then he went away so quietly that the closing of the 
 front door after him roused Jane with a shock. 
 
 She sprang up. " Mr. Creswick ! " But he did not 
 hear her, and she waited breathless, fearing that Sim- 
 mons had. And why had she called? What would 
 she have said if he had come back ? He had not asked 
 her to say anything any more than Mark had; Mark 
 because she had betrayed herself, and this one because 
 he only wanted permission to give — give the best that 
 he had. If he had come back what would she have 
 said? She sat down slowly. Her life had been so 
 barren of love, was that it — was it the novelty of love 
 that she found so — she paused for a word. She shook 
 her head; she could find no word for what she felt. 
 Her heart had been kept in cold storage, Mark Witting 
 had said, and it was true, and as true that he had taken 
 it out ; then how hopeless was Creswick's position ; and 
 she had promised Mark to be silent; Mark, who now 
 scarcely seemed to be aware of her existence. Her 
 restlessness returned, and when Mrs. Saunders came 
 down she was asked not to pace about like a wild ani- 
 mal in a cage. 
 
 " I have so often told you, Jane, that repose is the 
 atmosphere of a lady." 
 
 " Yes, cousin." 
 
 " I see Laurence Creswick's card in the hall." 
 
 " He would not let you be disturbed." 
 
 " He was dreadfully early ; has he come down for 
 the winter?" 
 
 117 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It's time his grandmother set him free. Ah, Mrs. 
 Brown, so glad to see you ! " And Jane released from 
 further catechism, took her seat at the tea-table. 
 
 At the dinner the next evening, Mark Witting sat 
 almost opposite to Jane, who had been assigned to 
 Creswick. " She is a charming looking girl," the 
 woman on Mark's right said to him. 
 
 "She?" Mark queried. 
 
 " Miss Ormonde ; you were looking at her? " 
 
 " I might not have been seeing her." 
 
 " Scarcely ; she is a picture to-night, and Larry 
 Creswick seems to be absorbed." 
 
 " Some people are like sponges." 
 
 " Are you jealous^ or simply spiteful? " 
 
 " Either ; both ; what does it matter when a fellow is 
 poor?" 
 
 " But she is the adopted daughter ; Mr. Saunders 
 told me so himself, and of course will have ample 
 dowry ; and then your aunt." 
 
 " As she elegantly expresses it — ' Will not take off 
 her shoes until she goes to bed ' ; and she may sit up 
 late, you know." 
 
 His companion laughed. " She is getting so tot- 
 tery I should think she'd like to move on and get some 
 wings to help her legs. It's wings we're to have, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Who knows. Legs are good enough for me if I 
 can afford horses. But Miss Ormonde is charming, 
 and if I were Creswick, with the ball at my feet, I be- 
 lieve I'd kick it in her direction." 
 
 ii8 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " How flattered she'd be if she could hear you ; but 
 she seems to have ears for Larry only. If she has any 
 sense she'll accept him ; he's the best fellow I know." 
 
 " It would be wise. He'd be good to her, and give 
 her more liberty in one day than she has had in all her 
 life put together. I came over on the steamer with 
 them this spring, and have seen something of them 
 this summer. My aunt, who knows everybody and 
 everything, says that from her earliest childhood the 
 girl has not claimed even her own hands and feet." 
 
 " Dreadful ! how much does Mr. Saunders claim ? " 
 
 " His legs — to get away on. All the same, I find 
 Mrs. Saunders most entertaining. She's one of the 
 cleverest women I've met in a long time. He is dull — 
 dull as the average ditch-water, but very good." 
 
 " ' With stupidity and sound digestion, man may 
 front much ' — he may not mind having nothing but legs 
 to get away on." 
 
 " Perhaps ; but I'd break her will or die in the at- 
 tempt." 
 
 " How transcendent ! Perhaps the poor woman has 
 been made into a tyrant by subserviency. Was the 
 money hers ? " 
 
 " Most of it." 
 
 " And I've never heard of her as clever." 
 
 " An admirable business woman." 
 
 " Oh, money-sense ! I thought you meant intellect. 
 I have money-sense myself." 
 
 " I'd consider myself enormously clever if I had 
 sense enough to get money." 
 
 " You have ; you have every requisite for marrying 
 a rich girl." 
 
 119 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " I've promised my aunt, my dear, virtuous aunt, 
 who holds the golden spoon just out of the reach of 
 my mouth, that I'd marry only for love." 
 
 " In this commercial day and generation ? You've 
 become morbid." 
 
 " Else she won't leave me her money." 
 
 " What an impossible old person." 
 
 " No, that's her fad. Some people have a fad for 
 dogs, some for doctors, some for religion, some for 
 stamps ; her fad is love. She was in love herself once." 
 
 " Pathetic." 
 
 " Most ; but according to her, I must neither marry 
 for money, nor marry depending on her money; so 
 you must kindly point out a girl with money, and 
 I'll fall in love with her." 
 
 " Miss Ormonde." 
 
 " I'm in love with her already, but am not sure 
 about that dowry ; and think what a disagreeable hus- 
 band I'd make if I were poor." 
 
 " Very true ; but Mr. Saunders told me that the girl 
 was his adopted daughter." 
 
 " And Mrs. Saunders holds the reins and the purse- 
 strings." 
 
 " I see ; but as you know Madame so well, why not 
 ask for permission to propose? Tell her your pros- 
 pects, and she'd tell you the girl's." 
 
 Mark laughed. " I'm not a lion-tamer." 
 
 "Afraid of her?" 
 
 " Deadly." 
 
 " How interesting ; then I'd better look elsewhere 
 for an heiress for you, and you had better begin to call 
 your heart home." 
 
 120 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " You are quite right." But after dinner he found 
 his way to Jane's side. 
 
 " You did not look at me once during dinner," he 
 said. 
 
 "Did I not?" 
 
 " And do not even realize it. I'm afraid that you 
 are losing faith in me; or is Creswick interfering?" 
 
 " Mr. Creswick is my very good friend." 
 
 "And I?" 
 
 Jane did not answer; did not look up. 
 
 " So, little one," his voice lowering to a tone of ex- 
 quisite tenderness, " the test has been too hard ? Child, 
 child, you do not know. My love has not wavered, 
 does not waver, will never waver; but if you choose 
 to throw me over I cannot help it. I cannot just now 
 behave any differently; things are against me. If I 
 could claim you before the world, God knows how 
 gladly I'd do it; but here comes Creswick." And he 
 went away to where Mrs. Saunders was making herself 
 agreeable to an important personage, leaving Jane in a 
 state of tremulous bewilderment that presently crystal- 
 lized into fear and a suddenly awakened conscience. 
 
 The phrase, " Claim her before the world," made her 
 see herself as plunged in deceit. Never in her life had 
 she willingly told Mrs. Saunders anything ; but neither 
 had she wilfully concealed anything since the days of 
 the " candy money." In the summer just gone, when 
 Mark had said, " Keep this quiet, your cousin says that 
 you never tell her anything," she had agreed ; and had 
 felt no qualms, had not realized her position; and 
 Mark's ignoring of her, after reaching town, had tmi^ 
 
 121 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 her feel that there was nothing to tell, had made her to 
 grow hot and cold over what Mrs. Saunders might 
 have said if she had betrayed herself. But now things 
 were coming home to her in a new light. Creswick's 
 avowal had been made at a moment when Mark's neg- 
 lect had reached a climax of hurt humiliation; when 
 she was lonely and was laughing herself to scorn for 
 having expected anything, for believing in any estimate 
 of herself other than Mrs. Saunders's, which was not 
 exhilarating. Mrs. Saunders had never commended 
 her that she could remember, save in a tentative way — 
 " I had hoped that you were improving, Jane ; that you 
 
 would be a credit, but now " Then all of Jane's 
 
 failings, from the first wiping of her eyes on her sleeve, 
 would be passed in review. 
 
 No, Jane had had no encouragement in vanity, in 
 self-esteem, until the summer just gone had brought' 
 her face to face with an astonishing suspicion that she 
 had possibilities of some kind within her. She had had 
 much attention, and two men of the world, men of un- 
 questioned standing, had declared their submission to' 
 her charms, and for the first time it had come to her 
 to look forward a little. But on coming to town all 
 this had failed her, and she had once more descended 
 into the valley of humiliation, there to wander until ' 
 Creswick's avowal had once again led her up into a 
 more soothing atmosphere and had left a comforting 
 assurance that her summer had not been a dream ; that 
 if Mark Witting had repented him, had found her dif- 
 ferent in a different environment, had wearied of her, 
 that Creswick, at least, was true to his summer atten- 
 
 122 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 tions. It had been a bitter period to the girl, though, 
 true to the habit of her life, she had made no sign, and 
 she was grateful to Creswick that he had poured balm 
 into her wounded self-respect ; but no sooner had this 
 been done, no sooner had she drawn a few calm breaths, 
 than Mark had once more stepped in and had thrown 
 over her the old bewildering glamour. There had 
 been a passionate tremor in his low voice, in his hurry- 
 ing words, and in his eyes a look that had set all her 
 pulses throbbing. He had meant all that he had said 
 in the summer; was holding her to her promise of 
 silence. Then across the quiet talk of Creswick which 
 she was not hearing, across the thrilling memory of 
 Mark's hurried words, there arose the horrid realiza- 
 tion that she was concealing something serious, was 
 wilfully deceiving Mrs. Saunders, was playing false to 
 Creswick. She made a half-smothered exclamation 
 and looked up guiltily at her companion. 
 
 He stopped suddenly in his talk. " What is it ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 She shook her head, the blood dyeing her cheeks, 
 her throat, her forehead. " Nothing," she answered 
 quickly ; " it is nothing." 
 
 Quietly and kindly Creswick went on talking, while 
 she made up her mind that she must tell him. She 
 must first ask Mark's permission, and if he did not re- 
 lease her from her promise of silence, she would break 
 it ; anything would be better than her present position. 
 
 It was at a ball that the moment came, and watching 
 Jane dancing with Creswick, Mark said : " My aunt 
 has heard further remarks about my attentions to you." 
 
 123 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " How is that possible ? " Mrs. Saunders returned 
 quickly. 
 
 " I don't know, unless, perhaps, it is servants' gos- 
 sip ; but I thought it would be wise if I should call on 
 Miss Ormonde once or twice ; if I should dance with 
 her more. Creswick's attentions are so favorably re- 
 ceived, that the world could only pity mine as being 
 hopeless. It will be wiser to heed public opinion, I 
 think." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders patted her foot on the floor impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 " You love your world, you know," Mark went on. 
 
 " How absurd you are ; what have I done to endan- 
 ger the opinion of my world ? " 
 
 " One need rouse only the faintest suspicion." 
 
 " And you think the suspicion has been roused ? " 
 
 " I have given you my grounds." 
 
 " Some stray remarks of your aunt, who is an old 
 cat." 
 
 " With sharp claws. Let me pay attention to some 
 other girl than Miss Ormonde, then." 
 
 " You are impertinent ; pay attention to whom you 
 please." 
 
 " Now you are speaking like a wise woman." And 
 immediately he moved away to where Jane was stand- 
 ing with an ardent boy, who, meanwhile, had suc- 
 ceeded Creswick. 
 
 " My dance, Miss Ormonde," Mark said quietly. 
 
 " Indeed — " the boy began. 
 
 " At least a share of it," Mark amended. " If you 
 have forgotten. Miss Ormonde, I have not." 
 
 124 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Oh ! I say," the boy began once more. 
 
 " It was all mine," Mark asserted ; " and to relieve 
 Miss Ormonde of embarrassment, I give you half my 
 dance." 
 
 " Then we'd better begin at once." And the boy 
 whirled Jane away. Mark waited, and when, for 
 the second time, they were passing him, he stopped 
 them. Jane had said no word in the matter, and now 
 when Mark moved off with her so quietly, so posses- 
 sively down the ball-room, she seemed to have stepped 
 into another world. 
 
 " I longed to thrash that doltish boy," he said, 
 " claiming my property and then the way he danced ! 
 He slung you about the room as if you had been a foot- 
 ball. I watched you dance as long as I could bear it ; 
 at last I had to come and take you." 
 
 " Someone will hear you." 
 
 " My child, I'm old in this sort of thing. I'm hold- 
 ing my head well up ; my eyes are watching coldly this 
 cyclonic crowd, that they may not run into you; my 
 mustache covers my lips, and no one, not even lynx- 
 eyed ' cousin,' would suspect that I am talking to you. 
 And you've never danced before, have you, darling? 
 Not even when with me have you ever danced like this. 
 Do you realize it? Do you realize how I long to dance 
 you through that door, pick you up bodily and rush 
 with you to the end of the world ? Only my unbound- 
 ed self-control keeps me in the midst of this staring, 
 gaping crowd. You do not speak, child; do I take 
 your breath away? I'm afraid so; you feel like a 
 trembling, fluttering little bird. Don't be afraid ; trust 
 
 125 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 me, love me — that damned music has stopped ! For- 
 give me," drawing her hand through his arm, " a man's 
 feelings will get the better of him sometimes, unless, 
 like Creswick, he has enriched his blood with skimmed 
 milk. Sit down in this window with me a moment; 
 no, we may not ; I see ' cousin ' coming, and Creswick 
 with her. I'd like to say about them what I said about 
 the music. Take the lights in out of your eyes, sweet- 
 heart, and shut your pretty lips so that they will not 
 tremble. We cannot betray anything yet. And I'll 
 leave you with them ; I cannot talk to Mrs. Saunders 
 just now. Ah ! Mrs. Saunders, have you been danc- 
 ing? That music is not good, and the room beastly 
 hot. I've tried to save Miss Ormonde, but I'm afraid 
 that she's exhausted. I really must get a breath of 
 fresh air ; will you excuse me ? " And he bowed him- 
 self off. 
 
 " The best-ventilated ball-room I've ever been in," 
 Mrs. Saunders commented. " You must not have en- 
 tertained him, Jane." 
 
 " Perhaps not," Jane answered slowly. Her voice 
 sounded faint and far away to her, and she wondered 
 if it sounded so to Mrs. Saunders, to Creswick. She 
 dreaded Mrs. Saunders's always suspicious inspection ; 
 she dreaded Creswick's quiet eyes. She had not 
 Mark's facility for coming back to the commonplace 
 world, coming back from the tremulous realms into 
 which he so easily swept her. Mark should have 
 stayed by her longer. 
 
 " You have lost your color," Mrs. Saunders went on. 
 
 " Perhaps Mr. Witting has exhausted Miss Or- 
 126 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 monde," Creswick suggested. " Perhaps the fauh of 
 non-entertainment lies on his shoulders." 
 
 " Perhaps," Mrs. Saunders granted ; " if he does not 
 choose to exert himself he can be hopelessly dull." 
 
 The color rushed back to Jane's face now, and she 
 longed to say a few words ; instead, she went off quick- 
 ly with a partner who had come to claim her. 
 
 And she had not asked Mark to let her tell Creswick. 
 Indeed, she had not said a word. In the rare moments 
 when they were together, Mark's breathless rush of 
 passionate declarations seemed always to tie her 
 tongue, to make her heart beat until she seemed deaf 
 and blind, but she would ask him — she must ask him ; 
 she could not be false to Creswick. When she finished 
 this dance she would take her stand by the door 
 through which Mark had made his exit. Perhaps he 
 would return that way, and fortunately Mrs. Saunders 
 was at the farthest end of the room. 
 
 " Let us stand here a moment," she suggested to her 
 partner. " It's a little cooler." And as she paused she 
 saw Mark out in the hall. 
 
 " You should not stand in a draught," he said, com- 
 ing at once to her side. Her partner made his bow, 
 and she turned to Mark. " I came here to look for 
 you/' she said. 
 
 " Indeed ! and now your partner has left you, I will 
 have to take you up to ' cousin ' ; and she will not like 
 that." 
 
 " But I wanted to ask you something ; and you can 
 sit me down by Mrs. Kennet over there." 
 
 " And you wanted to ask ? " 
 127 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 He was bewildering her in another direction now. 
 He was so cold, so almost rough; but this phase did 
 not take her breath away. " I wanted to ask you to 
 let me tell Mr. Creswick that " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " About us." 
 
 " Why, in Heaven's name ? " 
 
 " Because he would not then have any hope of win- 
 ning me." 
 
 Mark laughed. " Hope has never hurt anyone yet," 
 he said ; " and who knows but that he yet may win 
 you? Remember the tortoise and the hare. Besides, 
 what is there to tell ' about us ' ? " 
 
 " That is not fair." And Jane turned away. " And 
 now please take me to cousin." 
 
 " To Mrs. Kennet." 
 
 " As you please." He was cruel — he knew that she 
 was helpless, and he seemed to be taking advantage of 
 this knowledge. If he loved her truly he could not 
 have treated her so. 
 
 " You are looking very pale," Mrs. Kennet said. 
 
 " I'm tired," Jane answered. 
 
 For some time after this Jane saw Mark only in pub- 
 lic. She was proving a social success, and with re- 
 serves, Mrs. Saunders was pleased. Much attention 
 was paid the girl, and Creswick, always ready to fill 
 any vacancy, ever quietly and unostentatiously at hand, 
 built up in Jane's heart, in spite of the ever-present pain 
 of deceiving him, a sense of dependence. Mark, on 
 the contrary, always took sides with Mrs. Saunders 
 and laughed and rallied Jane if she seemed embar- 
 
 128 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 rassed, sometimes putting her into a fury of rebellion, 
 but at the last limit of her endurance there would come 
 a look that won her back, that quieted her like a 
 charmed bird. The long years of submission had not 
 fitted her to act with decision, to solve questions, and 
 now that she had reached a point where there was no 
 one to direct her, save Mark, whose directions were 
 not in line with her ideas of truth and righteousness, 
 she was unhappy. Sometimes she was almost ready 
 to break all bounds and tell Mrs. Saunders. Once or 
 twice Mrs. Saunders herself almost drove her to it by 
 repeating some criticism that Mark had made on her ; 
 but something always held her back from this height 
 of desperation. The trouble began to tell on her looks, 
 however, and Mr. Saunders remarked on it; the girl 
 was doing too much. But Mrs. Saunders pronounced 
 his opinion far-fetched, and said that Lent would soon 
 put an end to everything, and until then nothing could 
 be changed. Besides other considerations, it was her 
 ambition that Creswick should declare himself during 
 this, the girl's first season; that Jane, her creation, 
 should triumph in bearing away a much-sought-after 
 parti, but, though his attentions were steady and hope- 
 ful, they were most unobtrusive, and his ma-.ner was 
 so calm, so quiet, that she could not be certain even 
 that he cared for the girl ; and she would not for a great 
 deal have at this moment touched the course of events. 
 
 But Mark, also, saw the change that was creeping 
 over Jane's looks, and on one of the days at home came 
 very early, earlier even than Creswick had come. 
 
 " Mrs. Saunders is not down," Simmons said. 
 129 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " How soon will she be down ? " 
 
 " Not for an hour, sir." 
 
 " Miss Ormonde is down ? I will see her, then ; but 
 on no account disturb Mrs. Saunders." And he 
 walked in unannounced. 
 
 Jane started up. " I've come to see you," Mark said, 
 quietly. " Simmons tells me that Mrs. Saunders will 
 not be down for an hour; admirable! I'll have time 
 to give you a carefully prepared lecture. Don't rattle 
 the teacups ; no sane man would take anything at this 
 hour. I've come to beg forgiveness. I've tried you 
 too much, and it is telling on your looks. What do 
 you want me to do ? " 
 
 Jane paused a moment. " I have never deceived 
 anyone in my life," she said. 
 
 " Of course not ; and I hope that you are not de- 
 ceiving anyone now." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Do you mean our little friendship ? Impossible. 
 I've not done anything more than Creswick has done. 
 He has told you that he loves you. Have you told Mrs. 
 Saunders? Of course not; then why tell her that I 
 love you? There is no engagement between us any 
 more than between you and Creswick. What would 
 you tell her?" 
 
 " The cases seem quite dififerent to me," Jane an- 
 swered, slowly. 
 
 " Because you have not analyzed them, are not ac- 
 customed to analyzing, only to obeying. The only 
 difference in the matter is that I love you ten thousand 
 times better than Creswick, and that you love me ; and 
 
 130 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 if you tell now, we'll never see each other again. 
 Would that make you happy ? " 
 
 " You are not kind." 
 
 " Truth is seldom kind ; but if it will make you con- 
 tented to ruin me, why do it ; I love you well enough 
 even for that. I've asked Mrs. Saunders once already 
 to let me marry you." 
 
 Jane looked up quickly. 
 
 " And she laughed. To please you, I will ask her 
 again ; but on one condition, that you will not open your 
 lips on the subject. I will tell you her answer. I can 
 tell it to you now ; she will be angry ; she may banish 
 me entirely. Suppose I go away for a time, will that 
 relieve your poor little conscience? God knows I see 
 little enough of you ; still, if you say so, I will go. But 
 don't you think that my having asked her to let me 
 marry you makes things straight? Could I do any 
 more ? " 
 
 " Why didn't you tell me sooner? " 
 
 " I hoped that you trusted me ; but now do things 
 seem all right to you ? " 
 
 " Righter." 
 
 "Not yet righteous?" 
 
 " You puzzle me so," Jane said, slowly. " You are 
 so dififerent. You do everything to disconcert me, then 
 laugh at me because I am troubled." 
 
 " You simple little child, you are not more than ten 
 years old, and I'm a brute. Forgive me, little one, and 
 I'll behave better ; but when a man is as madly in love 
 as I am, and has to nail down the hatches, he must find 
 some outlet somewhere, and I find it, I'm afraid, in try- 
 
 131 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 ing to catch the different lights on my cherry. Be- 
 sides, you make me so horribly jealous of Creswick. 
 You look so quiet and contented while he is prosing 
 in your ear, quite as if you had never lost your breath 
 listening to me, quite as if you might like his twaddle 
 the better of the two. What can I do but torment you ? 
 Men have been known to kill the women they loved, 
 only because they loved them — I could do that." 
 
 Jane drew back from his look; then rising quickly, 
 walked away into the second room. Mark sat quite 
 still for a moment, looking about him. The doors in 
 the second room were all closed, and he followed Jane 
 to where she stood smoothing the leaves of a palm. 
 
 " Are you, after all, a little flirt," he said, standing 
 close behind her, " that you walk away and leave me ? 
 Come into this room where all the doors are shut 
 against the ears of the discreet Simmons." 
 
 Jane looked around as if for flight. 
 
 " Child, why are you afraid of me ? You torment 
 a man's soul almost out of his body with your timid, 
 retreating ways. Some day you will test me too far, 
 and I'll do something desperate, and do it in public. 
 Now I'm going to put one arm around you very gently 
 — so — don't cry! — and kiss you once — just once! 
 There, go ; positively you unhinge me, you tremble so. 
 Come, come ; I'll make you a cup of tea — I'll show you 
 pictures — I'll send Simmons for one of your dolls — I'll 
 do anything under Heaven to restore you. Sit on this 
 sofa and I'll sit opposite you and talk about the weather. 
 I'm not laughing at you, I'm not teasing you, I swear 
 it; I'm miserable for having terrified you; but who 
 
 132 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 would expect a girl of to-day to go to pieces over one 
 little kiss from the man she expects to marry? You 
 are like a wild creature ; how long will it take to tame 
 you? Have you ever taken a fluttering, frightened 
 bird into your hand, have felt how its heart throbbed 
 almost to bursting its little breast, and gradually quiet- 
 ed it, soothed it, stroked it with one finger because it 
 was so small, until at last it settled down, moved its lit- 
 tle feet once or twice deep in the hollow of your palm, 
 and finally nestled close, close to your hand on every 
 side, peaceful and trusting?" 
 
 Jane drew a long, sobbing breath. " If I belonged 
 to you," she said, " and everybody knew it, I don't think 
 I'd be afraid." 
 
 " If ' cousin ' knew ? If ' cousin ' should say, ' You 
 belong to Mark ' " 
 
 " Cousin would say Mr. Witting " 
 
 Mark laughed. " I beg pardon ; perhaps she would 
 — if she should say ' You belong to Mr. Witting, Jane ; 
 go and sit beside him, hold his hand, brush his shoes,' 
 you'd do it quite joyfully? Now I've made you angry 
 once more. I'll confess that I was trying to do it, child, 
 in order to restore you ; forgive me sufficiently to listen, 
 and please, little one, to heed. I am playing a game, 
 and I am playing for a high stake — yourself. I did 
 not mean to play a game, I drifted into it ; but now it 
 has become so deep that I begin to be afraid of it. A 
 more direct game, or no game at all, would have been 
 better ; but I'm afraid that I am a born gambler, and 
 this is a most original plan. Be that as it will, I am in 
 it and must now play it to a finish ; but if you betray 
 
 133 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 anything to anyone, you ruin me — you separate your- 
 self from me. This finale may come through other 
 means, but it is sure to come if you do not stand by me. 
 Creswick loves you and is trying to win you; I love 
 you and am trying to win you ; and the only difference 
 is that I have asked Mrs. Saunders to let me marry 
 you, and Creswick has not; and yet you seem to feel 
 no pain in your fair conscience about Creswick — ■ 
 why?" 
 
 " Because," Jane answered slowly, as if weighing 
 her words, " because his loving me is his secret ; but 
 my loving you is my secret." 
 
 " Good ! You have lots of sense, even if you are 
 afraid of me ; but do you tell ' cousin ' everything? " 
 
 " I never tell cousin anything ; but then I never hide 
 anything, not since I was a little child and afraid, and 
 she is free to know all that I do ; but this is different ; 
 I am hiding this." 
 
 Mark sighed impatiently. " Do as you please, 
 then ; tell it all and let me go — say — ' Good-by, Mark. 
 I have never told cousin anything in my life, but I must 
 tell her this even if it ruins you and separates us for 
 ever; good-by. I am very conscientious and loyal, 
 and though cousin is neither, I must, because of these 
 virtues, sacrifice everything to her.' And ' cousin ' 
 will call you an idiot, and laugh you to scorn. My 
 child, let it go on for a few months, until the summer, 
 and I will leave town indefinitely, and give you a rest ; 
 myself also ; will this do ? I won't even try to see you 
 again before I go ; I will say good-by now." 
 
 "And cousin?" 
 
 134 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Cousin ? O yes, I forgot." And there was a 
 laugh in Mark's eyes. " I'll call on her especially, 
 some morning when you are out of the way, and make 
 my farewell. And I'll not send you a line all the while 
 I'm gone ; you cannot ask any more than that. Good- 
 by, Miss Ormonde. I hope that you will enjoy the 
 rest of the season. Good-by." And raising her hand 
 to his lips, he laughed, bowed, and was gone. 
 
 The next morning he and Mrs. Saunders were in the 
 second drawing-room. The doors were shut, as on the 
 afternoon before, and she sat near the palm where Jane 
 had stood, and Mark stood in front of her. 
 
 " This is rather sudden, is it not ? " 
 
 " Everything I do is done suddenly. If you would 
 let me be your cousin by marriage, things would be 
 much simpler ; and I thought you knew human nature 
 too well ever to be jealous of a man's wife." 
 
 " You seem so eager about it." 
 
 " And why not ? I must go now, however, if I mean 
 to catch my train. Good-by." 
 
 " You will write to me^ Mark ? I see the letters first, 
 you know." 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 "And when will you come back?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " And you will be at the Springs this summer ? " 
 
 " I don't know. Good-by." 
 
 " You will tell me nothing? " 
 
 " Yes, one thing ; it is fatal to try to deceive your ser- 
 vants. For some time Simmons has refused my finan- 
 cial favors ; Joseph, his altcnate at the door, is more 
 modern, more civilized." 
 
 135 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " You've changed tremendously of late, Mark." 
 " I'm becoming very sick of myself ; hope you won't 
 suffer in the same way; it's as bad as sea-sickness. 
 Good-by." He did not even shake hands, but walked 
 out of the room and out of the house as quickly as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders had risen, and stood quite still for a 
 moment. She was very pale, and her hands were trem- 
 bling. She had been foolish, as foolish as a girl, and 
 now he was tired, he had changed. Of late he had 
 been coming very seldom. Would it be wiser to let 
 him marry the girl, make settlements on her and estab- 
 lish them at the other end of the town? Would it be 
 wiser ? Then when his aunt died. She began to walk 
 up and down hurriedly. When his aunt died he would 
 have the world at his feet, to go where he pleased ; Jane 
 would be richer than she! If Jane married Creswick 
 she would be that; but that was quite different. To 
 marry Creswick was to make a brilliant match; was 
 to prove Mrs. Saunders a success; was to give Mrs. 
 Saunders double prestige in society ; was to get herself 
 out of Mrs. Saunders's way. What an odd thing it 
 was that she had realized so late that the girl would be 
 in the way ; that she had to wait for Mark Witting to 
 reveal to her how greatly the girl chaperoned her ; that 
 she was still too charming a woman to need the mag- 
 net of youth at her side ; that he — no, he had never told 
 her that, had made no professions, save as to her at- 
 tractions as a hostess, her looks, her manner. His 
 words had seemed to mean more at the time; it had 
 seemed that more, far more was on the verge of being 
 
 136 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 said ; but now, in the light of his increasing sarcasm, 
 his almost rudeness, now, when after this sudden 
 shock of his going, she paused to count it all up, what 
 he had said amounted to very little, to nothing at all. 
 She was puzzled, she was troubled, she was afraid. It 
 meant so much to her; did it mean anything to him? 
 
 Would it be wiser to let him marry the girl ? Could 
 he possibly care for the girl? He had never given a 
 sign of it. Did the girl care for him? She had seen 
 no signs of that, either ; she would watch her now, and 
 see if his going had any effect on her. And this very 
 going, was it not to protect herself? Simmons had 
 been impertinent, but to dismiss him would be fatal; 
 so Mark had gone away to protect her from talk ; sure- 
 ly that showed some devotion. Suppose Mr. Saunders 
 should — she turned white down to the lips. In that 
 case, she would be afraid of him. And yet she had 
 done nothing, nothing, nothing ! 
 
 She was glad Mark had gone. He was wise ; per- 
 haps it would be best to let him marry the girl. If she 
 did all that he asked her to do, he would not speak 
 sharply to her ; perhaps he would return to his earlier 
 kindness, to his looks that meant so much, to the care- 
 less talk, when almost every word was double-shotted. 
 She drew a long breath ; she had lived then ; she had 
 lived for a little time after their coming to town, then 
 slowly, almost imperceptibly, things had changed. 
 Was he tired? She could not tell now; she would 
 wait and see if he wrote to her, would watch Jane. 
 When he came back she would show no wish to see 
 him; not for a moment suggest that he resume his 
 
 137 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 visits. Meanwhile, suppose Creswick should win 
 Jane? 
 
 Would it not be wiser to write to Mark to come back 
 at once and marry the girl ? She would have a perma- 
 nent claim on him then. Up and down, up and down 
 she walked until the clock chimed one. Jane would 
 soon come in; her husband; she must go up-stairs. 
 
 138 
 
" How the world is made for each of us ! 
 
 How all we perceive and know in it 
 Tends to some moment's product thus, 
 
 When a soul declares itself — to wit, 
 By its fruit, the thing it does ! " 
 
 THE season was over. Lent, with its modified 
 gayeties, its many services, had gone, and Mrs. 
 Saunders, having been the head of a sewing-class, hav- 
 ing done her share of afternoon services, having put 
 on black and spent most of Good Friday on her knees 
 in church, had at Easter sent flowers in every direc- 
 tion, and was now ready to run over to Paris for a 
 few weeks' recreation before she opened the cottage 
 at Hillside Springs. 
 
 Mark Witting had not come back, had not written 
 one line, had gone out of their lives as completely as 
 if he had never existed. Jane, trained through all her 
 days to passivity, to the absence of knowledge as to 
 the next move, brought this training to bear on the 
 question of Mark's behavior, and accepted it in silence. 
 She never spoke of him, she asked no questions con- 
 cerning him, and when his name was mentioned it 
 seemed to mean no more to her than any other name. 
 In vain Mrs. Saunders watched her, and as in vain 
 Mrs. Saunders wondered about Mark Witting. His 
 
 139 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 death, or marriage, or return to town she would have 
 heard, but this absolute silence was unaccountable. 
 
 She had been restless, and had thrown herself into 
 everything with redoubled vigor. When Lent had 
 come she had done everything that a woman in her 
 position should do in Lent, becoming quite exalte by 
 the end, quite risen to sublime heights, and had de- 
 clared for Paris, saying that an irresistible longing for 
 a great cathedral had overcome her. She spent most 
 of the first week in Notre Dame, then making it quite 
 plain that the necessities of Jane's summer outfit de- 
 manded her attention, she returned to her usual haunts 
 of milliners and tailors. 
 
 The week before they were to leave Paris they were 
 out driving and met Mark Witting. He also was driv- 
 ing, and with a woman. They were the width of the 
 drive apart, and he seemed to have no eyes but for 
 his companion. Mrs. Saunders started with a slight 
 exclamation, and Jane looking in her turn, the light 
 came slowly into her eyes. 
 
 " How strange that he did not see us," Mrs. Saun- 
 ders said. " Henry must look him up, he will relieve 
 the monotony." 
 
 But Mr. Saunders had no trouble, for the next day 
 Mark called. He asked for Mrs. Saunders, and Jane 
 was not sent for. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders held out both hands. " How did you 
 know that I was here? " she asked. 
 
 " Saw you driving," and Mark dropped her hands. 
 " Couldn't bow, you know; when a man's driven away 
 from all he knows he must take up what he can find." 
 
 140 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 "Mark!" 
 
 " You are not shocked, don't try to look it. How 
 is Miss Ormonde?" 
 
 " Jane is always quite well. When do you return to 
 America? " 
 
 " If you'll let me be your cousin by marriage I'll 
 return with you." 
 
 " I've been thinking about it — thinking about it on 
 my knees, Mark; all during Lent it was my prayer 
 that I should be directed." 
 
 " And have you had a cable what to do? " 
 
 "Mark!" 
 
 " It is not half as bad as your praying over a case 
 such as you think this is. I'm bad, but I don't deceive 
 myself about it; you " 
 
 " I am a poor starved heart — don't you see it? — 
 yoked forever with dull, unanswering clay " 
 
 " I'4 break the yoke or bury the clay, one ; but you 
 love your world and you love yourself — don't inter- 
 rupt me, I determined some time ago that if I ever saw 
 you again I'd give you a plain talk." 
 
 " Ever saw me again, Mark? " 
 
 " I had almost made up my mind not to when I 
 saw you driving, then you looked so very handsome 
 — all those prayers have helped you — and my little 
 bride looked so fair and tender " 
 
 " You love the girl? " 
 
 Mark laughed. " To use some vulgar slang," he 
 said, " I can ' get a rise out of you ' whenever I like. 
 May I come and dine with you to-night? Thanks. 
 Now I must go on with my lecture quickly, for I have 
 
 141 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 an engagement. And the first thing that I must insist 
 on is that to me you do not pose as a good woman. 
 You are not, you know; that is what attracted me, 
 the — I am going to say something you'll pretend is 
 dreadful — the cold-blooded devil I saw in your eyes. 
 Take you out of your environment, and there is noth- 
 ing you could not do, and would not do. Many 
 women are like this, and they are always the most self- 
 righteous. They bore me to death, however, when 
 they pose as good women. There, that is a hard say- 
 ing, but I had to say it. Try to get over it before 
 dinner, and think of that marriage, and I will think of 
 going home with you. You are sick all the way, 
 though, and of course I could not come to see you. 
 I'll send my messages by the little bride. By-by." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders sat quite still when he left her, with 
 a strange, new expression coming on her face, a 
 strange, new light gathering in her eyes. She looked 
 as one who saw unexpected things, as one who had 
 found freedom, had broken from a chrysalis. She smote 
 her hands together softly. She rose quickly and shook 
 herself as if she were throwing off trammels. The 
 man had revealed her own soul to her. Marry the 
 girl, of course he should, and there should be settle- 
 ments and a house that would make him absolutely 
 comfortable, and he should owe it all to her ! But she 
 would not tell him yet — not yet. She could hold him 
 a little longer in uncertainty. He had called her bad. 
 She paused a moment, then began a rapid walk, a 
 swaying, creeping walk, like an animal in a cage, round 
 and round the room. He had called her bad. She 
 
 142 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 stopped suddenly and looked up, raised her hands as 
 if calling high heaven to witness. " He has set me 
 free," she said, in a low voice ; " this is the truest mo- 
 ment of my life — I am bad ! " One moment, then her 
 arms dropped at her sides, and she breathed heavily. 
 " I am crazy," she whispered, " crazy ! I must be 
 careful," and she rang the bell sharply. 
 
 " A glass of wine," she said to the servant, " and a 
 biscuit, in my room." 
 
 The voyage home was one long dream to Jane. One 
 year ago she had gone over the same course with 
 Mark a stranger, now Mr. Saunders played his cards 
 incessantly, for Mark was always there to take Jane 
 ofif his hands, and Mrs. Saunders, down-stairs, was 
 handed a little note every day by the stewardess. 
 
 " I've asked her again to let me marry you," Mark 
 said to Jane, " and she promised to think about it." 
 
 " Did she ? " and Jane looked up at him with won- 
 der in her eyes. 
 
 " She did, so you need have no further torments on 
 the subject; but if you look at me like that, little one, 
 I'll pick you up and jump overboard with you. You 
 have the faculty of running me crazy as no other 
 woman has ever had it. I don't understand it." 
 
 " Mr. Creswick says that I have charm." 
 
 " Damn Creswick ! — I beg pardon, but how dare he 
 talk to you like that? " 
 
 " Just as you dare to talk to me." 
 
 " So, so, how spirited it is ! " 
 
 "That is why I begged you to let me tell Mr. 
 Creswick." 
 
 143 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " No, you must not tell Creswick — not yet. I want 
 to tell him myself; I want the pleasure of giving him 
 that bit of news. He has everything in the world that 
 I want and have not, and all the mothers have been 
 running after him. He has always treated me with a 
 politeness so distant that almost I needed a field-glass 
 to see it and him at the end of it. I want, with the 
 same long-distance courtesy, to tell him that I am 
 going to marry you; that I am going to take from 
 him the one pearl of great price for the possession of 
 which he would give all his fortune. To marry you 
 will be joy and happiness unspeakable, and, after this, 
 a great triumph over Creswick, and, further still, an 
 endless joke on ' cousin.' If there is one thing that she 
 has set her heart on it is your marrying Creswick — 
 your making a brilliant match. I am not a brilliant 
 match; I am not rich — I may be some day, but it is 
 doubtful, and she knows it. But Creswick is all that 
 her heart desires." 
 
 " I could not marry him," and Jane shook her head; 
 " I do not love him." 
 
 Mark laughed. "You would do just that but for 
 my interference. You could no more thwart Mrs. 
 Saunders than you could fly to the moon, and angel 
 though you be, darling, your wings have not sprouted 
 yet." 
 
 " I could not do it," Jane repeated. 
 
 "You would walk to the altar just as any other 
 lamb, and the position would have its compensations. 
 Creswick would adore you, would keep Mrs. Saunders 
 in her place, for he does not at all admire her, and 
 
 144 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 you'd have the distinct dehght of seeing her treat you 
 with deference, you could even reduce her to cring- 
 ing " 
 
 " I beg that you will hush," Jane interrupted, sharp- 
 ly; "I cannot bear to hear it, not only because you are 
 speaking of cousin in a way that I must not permit, 
 but also because it is not worthy of you — it is not 
 noble." 
 
 " Noble," Mark repeated, slowly, " no, I am not 
 noble. Noble means to rise above injury and injus- 
 tice — the knight who raises his fallen enemy; the man 
 who fires into the air; the man who keeps a promise 
 to his own hurt — no, I am not noble. I wait until I 
 can with profit to myself hit my enemy, and then I 
 hit him very hard. This was the primitive way, this 
 is the modern way, this is the successful way, this is 
 the world's way. I am a true child of this world, little 
 one, and this world is not noble." 
 
 " I don't beheve you." 
 
 " Thank you; people seldom believe you when you 
 tell the truth. It is the truth; at the same time I'll 
 promise to live up to your ideals whenever it is pos- 
 sible — whenever I won't lose money by it," and he 
 laughed as he bent forward to look into her eyes. 
 
 Jane would have been satisfied if that voyage could 
 have continued indefinitely. From morning until 
 night Mark was beside her; the weather was perfect, 
 the whole ship's company were, and continued to be, 
 strangers. The last day, when Mrs. Saunders reap- 
 peared, came all too soon, and the absolute change 
 that came always into Mark's manner whenever she 
 
 145 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 was present. It was distressing to the girl, as much 
 because it looked like deception as anything else; but 
 he had prepared her for it. " We must not let ' cou- 
 sin ' think that we have arranged anything," he said, 
 " for she does not like anyone to have a finger in her 
 pies; she likes to make them, and bake them, and 
 sugar them all herself, else she will throw them away. 
 This is one of her peculiarities to which we must bow. 
 She must not think that we have done anything 
 through all this long and lovely voyage but talk about 
 the weather and regret her absence. She must feel 
 that she is the sun of my universe, whose rising and 
 setting I watch with ardor; that she is the arbiter of 
 my fate, who is to ladle out to me my future pleasure. 
 And don't say that we shall be deceiving her ; we will 
 not; if she is so unknowing as to believe all these 
 things that is her look out; besides, it is not the thing 
 for lovers to seem to care for each other in public; 
 she and Mr. Saunders never spoon where anyone can 
 see them," and Mark laughed; " added to which," he 
 went on, " it will give her great pleasure to play fairy 
 godmother. Have you not discovered that ' cousin ' 
 wants all the tafly going, that she always wants an 
 audience? She works harder for tafify than most peo- 
 ple do for bread — her vanity is colossal. If you had 
 not been above it, you could have flattered her out of 
 anything she had, and into anything you wanted; but 
 then I should not have loved you. We always love 
 our opposites." 
 
 So he had talked, and when Mrs. Saunders came on 
 deck Mr. Saunders resumed his place at Jane's side, 
 
 146 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 a fact that absolutely hurt the girl. He should never 
 have gone to play cards, or he should have continued 
 to play cards. As it was she must seem to connive, 
 she must walk as of old with Mr. Saunders, and she 
 began to realize that tacitly she and Mr. Saunders had 
 been for years deceiving Mrs. Saunders. Her feeling 
 was almost that Mrs. Saunders needed protection ; her 
 impulse was to go and tell her everything, warn her 
 against everyone. Mark was lifting the curtain of the 
 life about her, and she did not like what she saw, she 
 was struggling not to believe what she saw. She hated 
 that her Cousin Henry was proving all that Mark in- 
 sinuated about people; she hated that Mark should 
 make such insinuations. It was only for a few hours, 
 however, that she had to bear it, then Mark said good- 
 by to them on the docks, promising to meet them at 
 the Springs. 
 
 For the first time in her life Jane experienced a sen- 
 sation of home-coming. The house in New York had 
 never seemed like home to her — too many memories 
 of her early misery dwelt there; but the house at Hill- 
 side Springs seemed to welcome her, seemed to re- 
 mind her that she had been happy there. What a 
 strange sensation to want to jump out of the carriage 
 and run up the path to the steps; how new that she 
 should want to rush from place to place and see if 
 everything was as it had been; how hard that she had 
 to go up-stairs and dress for dinner. But to be so 
 happy that she had to control it was so remarkable 
 that she was almost content to sit still and realize it. 
 And the next morning how beautiful the country sun- 
 
 147 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 shine was, how early she was up and out, how glad 
 the dogs were to rush after her, Geist, who seemed dis- 
 tinctly to remember the bench in the thick of the pro- 
 tecting shrubbery. At breakfast, where Mrs. Saun- 
 ders never appeared, Mr. Saunders looked at her in 
 some surprise. " How bright you look," he said, " as 
 bright as when I used to give you candy-money." 
 
 Jane looked up at him slowly, and a shadow from 
 her lonely childhood seemed to come over the day. 
 " Candy-money," she repeated. 
 
 " I used to wonder if you loved money," Mr. Saun- 
 ders went on. 
 
 " I have that money now," Jane answered ; " but I 
 don't love money. I had found out that father and 
 mother were poor, and at that age poor meant starv- 
 ing, and I was saving it, hoping to get enough to go 
 home and help them." 
 
 " And you did not tell me? I knew that something 
 was wrong; your eyes used to trouble me. If you 
 had told me, I would have explained. Poor little 
 child! " 
 
 Jane drew a sharp breath. " It's over and gone," she 
 said, quickly, " and I am happy now." Of course she 
 was happy, and nothing should mar it. All the cot- 
 tagers were back, Simmons had reported, and the 
 hotels were filling rapidly; Mr. Creswick had come, 
 and Mr. Witting. Of course it would all be as it had 
 been, she would pick up the threads of the old life 
 just where she had laid them down, and weave them 
 into a happier, more perfect whole. There were flow- 
 ers for her from Creswick, and for Mrs. Saunders from 
 
 148 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Mark Witting. She looked at his card a moment; a 
 part of his mysterious plan, she supposed. All should 
 be as it had been, and she went out to the bench. 
 Presently Mark would jump the side fence and come 
 up through the shrubbery. 
 
 The snap of the front gate and Geist's bark came 
 simultaneously, and going to the opening in the shrub- 
 bery she saw Laurence Creswick coming across the 
 grass. Her heart sank a little, but he found no fault 
 with her greeting. " I very nearly came to break- 
 fast," he said, laughing, and sat down on the bench 
 as of old. " Are you glad to come back? " 
 
 " I have never been so glad to be anywhere before," 
 Jane answered. 
 
 " Good; and you are looking so well. Did you en- 
 joy Paris? " 
 
 " Paris means only clothes, you know." 
 
 " And you had a pleasant voyage? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And I need not try to tell you how I have missed 
 you, and how glad I am to see you? " 
 
 Jane shook her head, smiling a little. " I wonder 
 you are not tired of saying such things to me." 
 
 " I wonder you are not tired of trying to discourage 
 me. It's no use, you know. It's going on until you 
 marry someone else; after that I shall be your friend 
 just the same as ever, until some day you will need 
 me. 
 
 " I don't deserve it, you know." 
 
 " I have had rather a lonely life," he went on, as 
 though she had not spoken ; " I was an only child, 
 
 149 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 and very soon an orphan. My grandmother was good 
 to me, but most of my life has been spent at schools and 
 colleges. All this means that I have lived much with- 
 in myself, and living within myself I have formed 
 ideals. Perhaps you may call me romantic, you may 
 even reduce me to the level of sentimentalism, but I've 
 known always that I could not love but once. Do 
 you remember the description of how Milton rever- 
 enced the poet within himself, how his whole life was 
 kept pure with this end in view? That is what I've 
 always felt about the love I had to offer the woman 
 I should marry." 
 
 " Then you would want to be a woman's first and 
 only love." 
 
 " Yes ; but I have faith that my love, kept so single, 
 would not fasten itself to a heart that was not true, 
 even though it might fasten itself to a heart that had 
 not just my ideals. In these matters girls are rather 
 helpless, you know; I've watched a great many of 
 them, and I'm sorry for them. The best chance, I 
 think, is for a girl to love her mother and to have faith 
 in her father." 
 
 " And I have not known my father and mother " 
 
 "Hullo! Oh!" and Mark Witting stood before 
 them. " How are you. Miss Ormonde — and Creswick. 
 Is Mrs. Saunders visible yet? May I go to the house 
 and inquire? Thanks. Good-by." 
 
 " Mrs. Saunders likes him very much? " Creswick 
 queried when Mark had gone. 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 " He's an odd mixture. He's a great deal at my 
 150 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 grandmother's house because of his aunt, who comes 
 there every summer, so of course I see something of 
 him; but I've never known him very well." 
 
 " You are very different." 
 
 " Very," Creswick answered, promptly, then the talk 
 languished, and he rose. 
 
 " Have you made any plans for the day? " he asked. 
 
 Jane shook her head. " Cousin does that, you 
 know." 
 
 " Yes? I'll come in again then." 
 
 " And I have not thanked you for the beautiful flow- 
 ers I found," and the color surged up in Jane's face. 
 She felt guilty because she was not grateful, because 
 she was glad that he was going. 
 
 " They greeted you for me, that was all they were 
 meant to do. Good-by." 
 
 She put the backs of her hands to her cheeks; they 
 burned like fire, they burned still more hotly when she 
 heard the gate shut; a little while went by, then Mark 
 stood in the opening, laughing at her. 
 
 " Run him away, have I ; glad I'm such a scare- 
 crow. Tip-toed into the house, fearing to disturb 
 ' cousin,' sat withdrawn in the parlor until I saw King 
 Midas go away. ' All things come to him who waits.' 
 You'll kiss me, won't you, because you are glad to 
 see me? How sweet you look; 'cousin' dresses you 
 like a dream — true; and you are not going to be un- 
 easy and unhappy this summer, because, you know, 
 I've asked for you, and ' cousin ' is thinking about ac- 
 cepting me as a cousin by marriage. Soon it will be 
 all settled, and I'll be giving Creswick that one be- 
 tween the eyes." 
 
 151 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " If you love me, you will not hurt Mr. Creswick." 
 
 "So? We'll have to think about that; but I'm 
 afraid I will have to give him one for presuming to 
 love you. Thank you, Geist, for that little bark. 
 Wonder who's coming now — so, the discreet Joseph." 
 
 " Mrs. Saunders wishes to speak to you. Miss Jane." 
 
 Jane rose quickly, every trace of color leaving her 
 face. " Very well, Joseph," and the man turned away. 
 " You will excuse me? " she said to Mark. 
 
 " I'll come with you." Jane hesitated. " On my 
 own responsibility," and Mark laughed. " I'm not 
 afraid of ' cousin,' " he said, " nor need you be in such 
 a mix. A bold front always scares a bully. Come 
 on. How do you do, Mrs. Saunders. I've been wait- 
 ing for you, for — " and he shook hands with her al- 
 most too heartily — "for hours. How late you are; 
 and I've made myself so disagreeable that I've run 
 Creswick away, quite away, and have terrified Miss 
 Ormonde. Don't you ever come down until eleven? 
 Will know better next time; but what I came for was 
 to ask for the day's plans, the week's plans, and if I 
 might be one of them." 
 
 " Of course. But, Jane, I sent for you about those 
 alterations that Colby must make in your blue crepe; 
 she's waiting now. Mr. Witting will excuse you." 
 
 " What a lamb she is," Mark commented when Jane 
 was gone, " and how deadly afraid she is of you." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders's eyes flashed. "I found her to be 
 both obstinate and secretive when she was a child," 
 she answered, "and I have had to watch her ever 
 since; she would never have told me that you had been 
 
 153 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 in the arbor, and you seem to have found a new way 
 over the side fence? " 
 
 "Short cut; I could not get here quickly enough; 
 as it is I found the bride talking to another man. Did 
 you watch long enough to see that I came directly on 
 to the house? " 
 
 " And did not ring. What did you do? " 
 
 "Sat in the parlor and waited; did not have the 
 courage to stir up Simmons. Do you know that I'm 
 becoming very tired of this sort. of thing, and am con- 
 templating another disappearance? " 
 
 Mrs. Saunders moved uneasily. "A long engage- 
 ment would be trying," she said; " we must announce 
 it in September — if I agree to it." 
 
 Mark laughed. 
 
 " And you can be married early in October, and 
 we'll join you in Paris and come home together in 
 December." 
 
 " If you agree to it," Mark said; " you must decide 
 that in twenty-four hours." 
 
 " If you will accept my terms I will decide it now." 
 
 " Your terms? " 
 
 "That you do not address Jane until September, 
 and that you will do as I have said about the marriage 
 in October and the tour and return in December." 
 
 " And let Creswick have his innings all summer? " 
 
 " Do you care enough for the girl to be jealous?" 
 
 " I hate Creswick." 
 
 "The longer Creswick's innings, the more severe 
 his defeat." 
 
 "There is something in that. Very well, I agree; 
 
 153 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 but I am not going to repeat last winter. You may 
 not think it, but I have a little self-respect; besides, 
 not to be pleased with myself bores me ; added to that, 
 I am not pleased with you this morning for interfering, 
 so I'm going. Good-by. It is unwise to let a man 
 know when you are trying to manage him ; and things 
 that happen are more interesting than things that are 
 arranged. Good-by." 
 
 It was a strange summer to Jane, and many things 
 that were done seemed to have no motive to cause 
 them, no meaning to give them weight. Mark did not 
 come so often in the morning as he had done the sum- 
 mer before; his temper was most uneven, and some- 
 times he was almost rude to Mrs. Saunders, and as 
 strange was it that Mrs. Saunders made no sign of 
 seeing it. The season was as gay, the weather was as 
 fine, the people were as pleasant, but somehow her 
 dream of happiness for this summer was clouded, and 
 in a measure it seemed to be Mark's fault. Mrs. Saun- 
 ders, too, was different, an indefinable difference. She 
 was pleasanter to everyone than to Jane, to her she 
 was more openly sarcastic, more exacting than ever 
 before ; sometimes she seemed to be almost vindictive, 
 and Jane, refusing to condemn either of these two, 
 was a little bit bewildered. It was disappointing, it 
 was wearing; but comparative peace came in August, 
 when Mark took himself off to Newport to keep an 
 engagement, and when, a little later, Mrs. Saunders 
 went to town to look after something she wished to 
 have done in the house — she must see to it herself, 
 she said, 
 
 154 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 It was very peaceful then, and Jane took herself to 
 task that she found it so. It was not long, however — 
 only three days — before Mrs. Saunders came back, but 
 Creswick declared to himself that even in that little 
 time Jane had gained both in flesh and color. Mrs. 
 Saunders, too, came back in a happier mood, and the 
 calm continued. The days and the weeks rolled on, 
 and August was drawing to a close, when, without 
 warning, a mysterious, unaccountable break came. 
 
 Mark Witting had returned, appearing suddenly, 
 standing laughing before Jane as she sat in the arbor. 
 Light flashed into her eyes, color into her cheeks, and 
 she rose quickly. 
 
 " So glad? " he said, and put his hands on her two 
 shoulders. " Have you missed me, little one, little 
 violet? I have walked in many rose-gardens, darling, 
 and have gathered more flowers than ever I wanted, 
 but never has any flower so held me, so charmed me, 
 so made me long to be better, so made me loathe my- 
 self, as my little violet, and for none, child, would I 
 have done what I have done to win you." His voice 
 was strangely grave for him, and Jane looked up anx- 
 iously. " And I'm so glad to be here again," he went 
 on, " that I'm a little bit afraid of myself. Three days 
 of my absence I was in town, haggling with importu- 
 nate creditors — nasty! But I am poor, you know, 
 and poor men are always in debt. ' I cannot dig, to 
 beg I am ashamed,' so I've been compromising — vile! 
 Don't look at me so, I'll go perfectly mad-crazy." 
 
 His hands were still on her shoulders, and she had 
 moved so that her back was to the opening, and as 
 
 155 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 the clear, unshaded light fell on his face, Jane started. 
 " You look ill," she said; "what is the matter? You 
 are worn, you are haggard." 
 
 " Never better in my Ufe," Mark answered. " It's 
 just the devil that's in me has been drawing lines on 
 my face. I'm bad, you know, very bad; and I've been 
 hating myself so desperately lately that I am losing 
 my looks. And those creditors, remember, and accept- 
 ing help where I despised it, putting myself in bonds, 
 as it were, paying for my past pleasures, that in the 
 light of your eyes, little one, make a sorry show. No, 
 I am well, and once let our affairs be settled and I 
 will be a better man — I will, indeed." 
 
 " You are not so very bad — no — for you are good 
 to your aunt." 
 
 Mark laughed. " Don't let us go into my virtues, 
 dear, they won't bear a microscope. I'm not worthy 
 of you, never will be; but if love can cleanse, some 
 day I will be clean, and, please God, it won't be long. 
 My plans are moving swiftly to their close, and then 
 — I'm so glad, I'm afraid, I'm just a little bit dizzy 
 with the thought of it. I love you, O child, never be- 
 lieve but that I love you — never ! I'm afraid to touch 
 you now any more than this, afraid to greet you any 
 more than to look into your eyes; but soon, very 
 soon, you don't know how soon, darling, we'll be away 
 — away " 
 
 Something made him look up. He drew Jane close, 
 hiding her face in his breast; he laughed, not a pleas- 
 ant laugh, then the vision he saw, two flaming eyes 
 set in a livid, drawn face, disappeared. He was trem- 
 bling all over now, and Jane drew away from him. 
 
 156 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 "You are ill!" she said; "sit down." He obeyed, 
 and the girl starting away, he caught her hand. 
 
 " Don't go," he said, brokenly, " it will be over in a 
 minute; just a little turn — don't go, don't speak." 
 His head drooped on his breast, and Jane, silent and 
 terrified, watched him with such a pain at her heart 
 as she had never dreamed of before. Presently she had 
 to sit down, and for a long time, an endless time it 
 seemed to her, they stayed there in absolute silence. 
 At last Mark drew a long sigh, a sigh so deep that it 
 seemed as if his life must go out with it. His hold 
 on the girl's wrist relaxed, let go, and his own hand 
 was thrust into his breast. Slowly he straightened 
 himself, but with his face turned away. 
 
 " It's all right now," he said at last, still looking 
 away from Jane; then he drew out his watch. "Time's 
 up," and he rose. He was looking at her now, differ- 
 ently from what he had ever done. " Do you think 
 that I could see Mrs. Saunders?" he asked, "just to 
 greet her — 'twould be civil, you know." 
 
 "Are you well enough?" 
 
 "Quite; only a little turn. At this moment I feel 
 as if I could charge a battery, could fight a whole regi- 
 ment all by myself. So I'll face ' cousin ' ; her gig- 
 lamp eyes are worse than a battery. I hate dark eyes. 
 Will you show me the way? " 
 
 Into the house, where Jane stayed with Mark until 
 Simmons came to say that Mrs. Saunders would be 
 down in a moment, then Jane turned away. " I'll go," 
 she said, " it will save cousin the trouble of sending 
 me." 
 
 157 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Yes, her account in that kind of lie must be heavy." 
 
 "Hush!" then Jane was gone, meeting Mrs. Saun- 
 ders in the hall. 
 
 " Why do you go? " she asked, and the look in her 
 eyes made Jane wonder. 
 
 " Mr. Witting came to see you," she answered. 
 "Shall I come back?" 
 
 " Why, do you suppose that I need you — ever need 
 you?" then she swept on, and Jane, going slowly up 
 to her room, felt a tardy rebellion rising within her — 
 scorn such as this she could not stand. 
 
 Very softly, but very closely Mrs. Saunders shut the 
 drawing-room door behind her, then stood still before 
 Mark. 
 
 " Good-morning," he said, smiling; " I must apolo- 
 gize for not speaking to you when you so gratuitously 
 peeped into the arbor, but it would not have been to 
 your credit, you know." 
 
 " I am surprised at your audacity in speaking to me 
 at all," she answered. 
 
 " I can scarcely believe that ; but please sit down, 
 it is so much more restful to converse sitting down, 
 and, if I mistake not, we have a few things to settle." 
 
 Her eyes were flashing, her close-shut lips were 
 white, she breathed heavily. 
 
 " You will want to ask me some questions," Mark 
 went on. " Do I love the girl? heretofore I've an- 
 swered, 'What a question to ask?' meaning that your 
 own eyes should have told you that no man in his 
 senses could help loving such a charming flower; now 
 I answer truly. Yes, I love the girl, and of course that 
 
 IS8 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 precludes all thought of your allowing the marriage. 
 I have loved her from the very first. We were to- 
 gether through two sea-voyages. I shall never forget 
 them, forget the sunshine and the wind, the wide seas 
 and wandering waves, and the little curls that blew 
 across her forehead, got into her pretty eyes. Last 
 summer I was with her every morning while you were 
 with your physician. I am awfully sorry for the 
 physicians of fashionable women. Every morning I 
 came. Simmons knew, that is why he was impertinent 
 last winter; he was quite in the right. Last winter? 
 Last winter was so long, was trying, but we had some 
 dances — ye gods! How close she was to me, how her 
 heart beat, how shy she was of any touch, any tone, 
 any look that in any degree expressed my feelings. 
 And I went away that spring for her sake; she was 
 tormented because you did not know; she wanted to 
 tell you. You are amazed? All this going on under 
 your very eyes, within reach of your hand? Control 
 yourself, and I will explain. I advise you to control 
 yourself. A scene will be perfectly useless, and most 
 undignified, and Simmons might hear; Joseph may be 
 at a key-hole." His voice, that for a moment had been 
 full of vibrations, had become laughing, and his eyes 
 seemed to sparkle with amusement. 
 
 " To make my explanation clear I must go back be- 
 hind all these beautiful memories that will never die, 
 and for which I thank you; you like people to be 
 grateful, don't you? To go back: Mrs. Kennet told 
 my aunt, everybody told my aunt, that the girl was 
 your adopted daughter, your heiress, and my aunt 
 
 159 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 being canny at once directed her steps to see you, and 
 brought me. She prepared me by telling me that she 
 remembered the girl as a child, and that you did not 
 let her call her soul her own; that she was a passive 
 instrument in your hands, and that such passivity 
 through so many years should have made the girl an 
 idiot; all this meant that I must first, having no cer- 
 tain pecuniary expectations, placate you. Instead of 
 an idiot I found a girl with a face full of character, a 
 heart full of misplaced loyalty, beautiful eyes full of 
 thought, and the most marvellous self-control. And 
 let me pause to warn you that she will not stay in your 
 hands forever. I was instantly attracted, and we came 
 over on the same ship." He paused, looking down on 
 the floor. " Glorious ! how soft her little chin was 
 when I buttoned her coat " 
 
 " You seem to have taken, and she to have per- 
 mitted, great liberties," Mrs. Saunders interrupted. 
 
 Mark looked at her slowly, and she quailed under 
 his eyes. " You came here," he went on after a mo- 
 ment, " your plan was for Creswick ; you amused me, 
 but I meant no evil. I saw at once, however, that to 
 win the girl I'd have to win you first, and, thinking 
 you of age to take care of yourself, I drifted into this 
 nasty snarl. As soon as my amiable aunt saw that I 
 was really in love with the girl, she informed me that 
 I must not depend on her, nor must I hurt the girl 
 if I wanted to inherit. The plan came to me bit by 
 bit, to keep you so interested that you would let me 
 marry the girl. What is it Balzac says about the last 
 love of a woman? Of course as soon as the marriage 
 
 i6o 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 settlements should be signed I would have told you 
 that all along I had loved you in a platonic way, as a 
 comrade. You remember you spoke of me as a com- 
 rade? And if those damned creditors had not crowded 
 me the other day, and you had not saved me by that 
 loan, I'd defy you and take the child away." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders drew a long breath, and an unpleas- 
 ant smile came on her lips, and she said, slowly : " But 
 the creditors did crowd you, and the loan was large, 
 and, remembering it, what will you do? " 
 
 Mark's eyes flashed. " Don't anger me," he said, 
 quickly; " remember, I can take the girl away in spite 
 of the loan, and you'd not be able to lift a finger." 
 
 " And then— starve? " 
 
 " With her I should not mind even that, but I have 
 a sentiment against stealing your money. Instead, I 
 will go away, not too suddenly, and write the usual 
 rot about change of feelings." 
 
 " You really are fine, Mark." 
 
 " Did you hope for the pleasure of hearing me rave, 
 of hearing me plead for mercy — mercy from you? 
 Knowing you, I've always counted on this possibility, 
 so was partly prepared as to what I should do. But 
 one thing you are to remember, if you are unkind to 
 the child, if you add one jot or one tittle to her pain, 
 you shall sufifer. Never fear but you will suflfer, and 
 at my hands. You cannot set the law on me, you 
 know, too many questions would occur to Mr. Saun- 
 ders. I have no mercy on you, because you do not 
 deserve mercy. I don't think that you have ever been 
 good, or tender, or true ; self-centred people never are. 
 
 i6i 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 All that you have done has been done for the praise of 
 this world; flattery is the breath of life to you, and to 
 get it you have pretended to much. I've had no com- 
 punctions in deceiving you, because you never hesitate 
 to deceive; you've deceived yourself for so long that 
 you have come at last to believe in yourself. As for 
 your husband, I'm not sure that he is as blind as you 
 think. He is tired, so he evades you as the easiest 
 thing to do. But the girl — poor child, poor child; it 
 is all so cruel. Many times I've wondered why a just 
 God should have permitted such a helpless, sensitive 
 soul as hers to come into such hands as yours and 
 mine. She is being saved at last, but through what 
 suffering. How could she need purifying fires? I'll 
 give her up as cruelly and brutally as is possible; it 
 will be all that I can do for her, God bless her ! It will 
 not need to be very coarse brutality either, even a lit- 
 tle thing that is not noble will cure her of the pain of 
 loving me; but as I have said, you are to keep your 
 hands oflf. If I ever hear that you have done other 
 than this I swear that I'll go straight to Mr. Saunders. 
 And another thing, I have not soiled her ears with any 
 hint of this ugly snarl; in her eyes you are as intact 
 as ever you have been. I'll come to dinner this even- 
 ing to keep up appearances, but do not have Creswick 
 to meet me — I should be sorely tempted to kill him on 
 the way home. And you will observe how magnani- 
 mous I have been, I have asked you no questions, have 
 not investigated your feelings, have not reviled you for 
 eavesdropping and peeping. Au revoir," and allowing 
 Mrs. Saunders no further word, he opened the door 
 and left her. 162 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 So it was that the break came, and of course Jane 
 could not understand it. The summer had been trou- 
 bled from the first because of the changes in Mrs. 
 Saunders, and now Mark began to change. The day 
 after his arrival he came to the arbor again; he was 
 plainly out of sorts, was moody and silent, and behaved 
 strangely, too. After he had been there some time he 
 lifted his head as if listening, he went to the opening 
 and looked up at the house, and she thought that he 
 waved his hand. Was he losing his mind? 
 
 He talked strangely, too. " I'm a bad man," he 
 said, " a false, black-hearted man ; I'm not worth one 
 sigh, one tear. The other day in town I sank so low 
 that I lost all my self-respect, and I don't deserve your 
 love, your confidence. I should not touch the outer- 
 most fold of your longest, widest gown," and softly 
 and slowly he put away from him her hand that he 
 had taken. After this he sat staring out of the open- 
 ing for a long time, and when at last she spoke he 
 answered her sharply. 
 
 " 111, of course not; you women are so concrete that 
 to hear you one would think there was nothing but 
 the body to be considered. Ill, yes, but of life; sick, 
 yes, but of everything and everybody. Save that there 
 is a person in this world whom I wish to torment, I'd 
 go at once and commit suicide." 
 
 His tone was so bitter, his eyes so gloomy that Jane 
 drew back. 
 
 " You are quite right," he went on, " draw away 
 from me as far as possible, as far as you would from 
 a leper." 
 
 163 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " I did not mean it in that way." 
 
 " Don't explain yourself, child, I read you like a 
 book, a book too good for me. You never mean to do 
 wrong, or to think wrong, or to hurt a living soul — I 
 know all that, and," leaning toward her, holding her 
 face steady with his two hands, looking at her with 
 devouring eyes, " don't let anyone know when you are 
 hurt — hear? I'm hurting you, I shall hurt you more, 
 I may wound you almost to death — ' Some of you'll 
 live, but most of you'll die,' remember? With a false 
 nature like mine you can never tell ; but whatever hap- 
 pens don't show your pain, not even to me. This is 
 one of life's little lessons. If you hear of me dead, with 
 a bullet or a dose, don't wince. I charge you, no tears, 
 and if you must be pale, rouge. Red ribbon and 
 cologne will do it. I'm not worth a tear, but you will 
 want to shed them ; nor a pale cheek, but you will let 
 yours blanch. When you go into lunch be gay. You 
 think that I am crazy? You are right. I'll go now. 
 I may not come to-morrow." He rose quickly. " Re- 
 member what I say. Stay here until you are quiet, and 
 at lunch — everywhere — seem cheerful, seem happy." 
 Once in the opening his whole look changed. He 
 smiled brightly and kissed his hand to her. 
 
 Jane sat quite still. Once she had sat there to re- 
 cover from the joy of his love ; now she was afraid to 
 think, she was afraid of she knew not what. Who 
 was it that would watch to see her suffer, who would 
 be glad of her pain? And why need she suffer, what 
 was going to happen, why need he hurt her? — really 
 and truly because he was so false ? No, he loved her, 
 
 164 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 he loved her. But her vamped up cheerfulness went 
 for naught, for Mrs. Saunders did not appear, and Mr. 
 Saunders had his papers. 
 
 She was glad that Creswick came for her to play 
 golf that afternoon, but surprised that Mrs. Saunders 
 ordered the carriage and took them out. Mrs. Saun- 
 ders did not play, but followed them everywhere, and 
 Mark Witting, who was out there, insisted on being 
 Jane's caddy. 
 
 " I've joined the Christian Endeavorers," he said, 
 " and I must do one kind act every day ; I'll caddy 
 for Miss Ormonde, and let Creswick, poor as I am, 
 give my just dues to that brown, greedy boy yonder 
 who longs to murder me for seeming to deflect his in- 
 come. Pay him at once please, Creswick, and send him 
 away. I am humbling myself, too, for I don't think 
 that anyone wants me here, except perhaps Mrs. Saun- 
 ders. She is always kind and charitable, always going 
 out into hedges and things hunting for poor humanity; 
 added to this, she is blind to wrong things, even though 
 they may be under her very eyes." 
 
 Creswick laughed. " If you talk so much," he said, 
 " we'll never get round." 
 
 " There it is again," Mark went on, " snubbed, and 
 by a gold-mounted worldling; so it ever is with earnest 
 piety — ^good! How you have improved, Miss Or- 
 monde — ^fine! We will go to that ball, come; will Mrs. 
 Saunders come, too? — of course. It's pleasant trailing 
 over the grass in the sunshine, pleasanter than ever 
 before — blessings brighten as they take their flight, and 
 I may have to ' flight ' to town. Think of it, that dreary 
 
 i6S 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 town in early September! This it is to be an orphan. 
 If only I had a father to toil all the year round in a 
 hot office I'd be in better case, and would not have to 
 run business errands for my aunt. I feel a great ad- 
 miration for the old Spartan way of having an age 
 limit — think how much more currency would be sent 
 floating about the world if my aunt's fortune were in 
 my hands ! As it is, I run errands, I compromise my 
 debts, and barter my soul. Soul is an immaterial 
 thing; still, so long as it is the fashion to think of it 
 as a valuable possession, I'd like to keep mine and be 
 in the fashion. But I am losing everything; I soon 
 shall be bankrupt, very soon; but someone says — is it 
 the devil or a Frenchman — that ' crooked sticks make 
 a straight fire,' see? I shall find my vocation in that 
 nice warm place that the pious have built for the peo- 
 ple whom they do not like." 
 
 Jane was distressed. She could not understand this 
 new kind of nonsense; she could not understand Mrs. 
 Saunders's manner either; her determined following of 
 Mark and herself; her smiles, that were so lacking in 
 all signs of amusement; her unusual silence. She tried 
 to stay with Creswick, and he, catching one look from 
 her eyes that expressed far more than she knew, made 
 a point after this of keeping his ball with hers, and at 
 the last insisting on her walking home. 
 
 " You must let her walk with me, Mrs. Saunders," 
 he said, quietly, and Mrs. Saunders acquiescing, Mark 
 Witting laughed and took out his watch. 
 
 " I'm sorry that I'll not be able to stay for tea," he 
 said, "but time's up; the unprotected orphan must 
 
 l66 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 go now, at once. Pleasant walk, pleasant drive to 
 you," and he left them. 
 
 Tea did not last long, then Mrs. Saunders drove 
 away, and Jane and Creswick went slowly homeward 
 across the hills, she thankful for the quiet walk, he 
 longing more than ever to take her away from the 
 surroundings that seemed so alien to her. 
 
 For two or three days Jane did not see Mark; then 
 one morning he came into the arbor, reluctantly, it 
 seemed, and after a few moments suggested that they 
 should go to the house, should sit on the piazza, the 
 chairs there were so much more comfortable than the 
 bench. 
 
 "Why, yes," Jane answered, and they astonished 
 Mr. Saunders by joining him. Creswick, passing 
 stepped in, and Mark proposed cards, and Mrs. Saun- 
 ders, appearing later, found a cheerful quartette. 
 
 The next morning Jane went out as usual to the 
 arbor, Creswick had said that he would bring a new 
 book. His reading aloud left her free to puzzle, to try 
 to account for Mark's peculiar behavior, for Mrs. Saun- 
 ders's sudden cessation of speech to her. She was 
 never spoken to now, save in the presence of a third 
 person, and there was a light in Mrs. Saunders's eyes 
 that roused in Jane a feeling that she must demand 
 an explanation, and yet how could she demand any- 
 thing of Mrs. Saunders? So the reading was a rest 
 to her. 
 
 Through the still air Creswick's voice travelled far, 
 travelled to the road, and Mark Witting paused in his 
 passing. The color left his face, then came back with 
 
 167 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 a rush. He set his teeth, stopped a second as if de- 
 liberating, then vaulted the fence. He looked up to 
 the windows of the house, deliberately scanning each 
 one as, with his hands in his pockets, he walked slowly 
 across the grass. Presently his look fastened on one 
 window, and he smiled insolently. At the opening in 
 the arbor he paused, taking ofif his hat. " Deeply in- 
 terested?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," Jane answered; "won't you sit down and 
 listen? Or if you want a comfortable chair," and she 
 actually smiled a little looking up at him, " you will 
 find Cousin Henry on the piazza." 
 
 An amused look came into Mark's eyes, that had 
 such marks of weariness about them. How well the 
 child did it, how more than ever he loved her. " I 
 hoped for another game of cards," he said. 
 
 Jane shook her head. " I'm too busy to-day," she 
 answered. " All summer I've been on this one piece 
 of embroidery, and I must finish it." 
 
 " Will you give it to me.'' " 
 
 " Yes, if you wish it." 
 
 Mark sat down beside her and took the work into 
 his hands. " This is not the conventional passion- 
 flower piece," he said; " I'd rather have that." 
 
 "Then you will have to ask cousin," and Jane 
 smiled; "that was hers." 
 
 " True? Then I'd rather have this one. You have 
 done it out here in the arbor, haven't you? So of 
 course have worked all the summer into it. I see a 
 likeness to Creswick in it, and to myself, and to Geist, 
 and to the arbor — ^yes, I must have this, and some 
 
 i68 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 time when I am far away it will do the magic-rug act 
 and bring me back to this spot and to all my friends. 
 Give it to me?" 
 
 " I never dreamed of doing so useful a piece of em- 
 broidery." 
 
 " When will it be done? " 
 
 " In a little while if you will give it back to me, then 
 it must be pressed and cut out." 
 
 " Not at all, I want it just as it is, fresh from your 
 hands, with those hoops in it, too." A little vehemence 
 had come into his voice, and Creswick looked at him 
 coldly. 
 
 " I'll come back for it before I go," Mark went on, 
 " and you must give it to me just as it stands ; and 
 please leave the needle sticking in the last stitch, which 
 must not be stitched. There's a pathos in unfinished 
 things, a mystery. You remember Michael Angelo's 
 statues in San Lorenzo, where those unfinished faces 
 look at you from out the stone? A parable of life. 
 You remember how I laughed at your books on 
 the steamer that first voyage, those finished books, 
 where all the characters come together at the last, 
 and the Mary-Anns marry the Peters, and the Maudes 
 marry the Arthurs, and all the fathers walk about with 
 three or four children on their shoulders, and all the 
 mothers sit under apple-trees and smile — all the vil- 
 lains being dead, of course, and all the villainesses hav- 
 ing been converted and become violent reformers and 
 presidents of asylums and cruelty-to-butterflies socie- 
 ties? Absurd; 'tis not so in life, we only catch 
 glimpses, and we know that real tragedy only begins 
 
 169 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 with matrimony. No, give me the mystery and possi- 
 bility of unfinished things, give me that embroidery 
 with that last stitch untaken. Good-by — I'll come back 
 for it." 
 
 There was a moment's silence when he left them, 
 then Jane, smoothing her work, said: " Please go on, 
 Mr. Creswick." 
 
 "And you will give it to him?" Creswick asked. 
 
 " Yes, why not? " and she smiled. " Please go on." 
 And all through Creswick's reading, all through her 
 own confusion and pain, she could hear Mark's voice 
 on the piazza, his laugh that seemed to jar, then Mrs. 
 Saunders's voice coming in later. Steadily she stitched, 
 steadily Creswick read, carefully and well until the end. 
 The story was finished, and he closed the book. Jane 
 looked up as if surprised, then seemed to come back 
 from a great distance. " Finished? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes; is the last stitch arrived at? " 
 
 " One moment, then we'll go and give it to him," 
 and Jane did not observe the significant fact that Cres- 
 wick asked no questions as to the book, suggested no 
 discussion. 
 
 " The last stitch," she said presently, and carefully 
 stuck the needle in. " It does look pathetic," and 
 Creswick saw that her hands trembled. He did not 
 understand, but as she bade him he followed her to 
 the house. They did not speak as they crossed the 
 grass, their footsteps made no sound, they seemed to 
 appear suddenly, and Mark sprang to his feet. Mrs. 
 Saunders smiled, and Jane looked up from where she 
 was mounting the steps. 
 
 170 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " I've finished," she said, " all save that last stitch, 
 and I've brought it to you." There was a smile on the 
 girl's lips and a quiet dignity in her look that made 
 Creswick's heart bound with pleasure, but it was per- 
 haps fortunate that Jane did not see the look in Mrs. 
 Saunders's eyes, instead she was looking straight at 
 Mark, and holding the work out to him. 
 
 He took it slowly; he did not look up. "The last 
 stitch that will never be taken," he said. 
 
 Mr. Saunders had risen, and stood looking over 
 Mark's shoulder. "What in the world are you talk- 
 ing about? " he asked. 
 
 " I'm giving that work to him," Jane answered, 
 " and he asked me not to finish it." 
 
 " You've left two stitches," and Mark handed the 
 work back to her; "please take one where I can see 
 you, and stick the needle in the other." 
 
 Her hands were not trembling now, not even to 
 Creswick's watchful eyes, and she took the stitch care- 
 fully, then pushing the needle into the last stitch, with 
 the same precision, she again held it out, smiling. 
 
 " Thank you," then Mark folded it carefully. " I've 
 left the touch of your hand inside, you see," and for 
 the first time he met Jane's eyes. How proud she 
 looked, how well she was doing it, and he turned and 
 smiled down on Mrs. Saunders. Jane looked, too, then 
 turned quickly away, and the party broke up. 
 
 171 
 
XI 
 " Knowledge by suffering entereth.'' 
 
 JANE was holding a note somewhat as if it burned 
 her fingers. All mail matter went first to Mrs. 
 Saunders, at least that was the order; but without 
 a word on either side, Simmons used his own discre- 
 tion as to Jane's letters and notes, and this missive had 
 been brought to her quietly just after breakfast. 
 
 She had had a number of notes from Mark Witting, 
 but they had been brought always by a messenger; 
 they had been always in a certain kind of very fine 
 envelope; this one was quite different. It was in a 
 very uncompromising stamped envelope, and had come 
 by post. She had looked at it a moment as it lay on 
 the tray, then up at Simmons. 
 
 " It came by the mail. Miss Jane," he said. 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " If there is any answer. Miss Jane," Simmons went 
 on, " I'm at your service, Miss." 
 
 " You are very good, Simmons." Then she took 
 her way up-stairs. Half-way she paused; Mrs. Saun- 
 ders was not dressed, so could not come to the arbor, 
 while Jane's room was just down the hall. She came 
 down and went out of the front door. If Creswick 
 came to the arbor it would be nothing if he found her 
 reading a letter. 
 
 172 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 A stamped envelope and through the mail, so that 
 Mrs. Saunders might have seen it. She paused a sec- 
 ond over this thought; then, if he had gone away, he 
 had mailed it before he left, for it was post-marked 
 " Hillside Springs." She turned it over. 
 
 Something was wrong, very wrong; something had 
 happened. The whole summer had been strange and 
 uneasy, and she had not been happy; but it had been 
 worse ever since Mark's return from Newport. The 
 greatest change had come on that very day. And this 
 note she was sure meant some further change. " I 
 am hurting you ; I shall hurt you more ; I may wound 
 you almost to death," he had said, so of course this 
 was something that would hurt her. There was a look 
 about the outside of the note as if he had lost the wish 
 to please her, as if anything would do for her. And 
 she must not let anyone see that she was pained, must 
 rouge to hide her whiteness! It might be better to 
 determine not to be hurt. If he had deliberately 
 planned to hurt her, she would defy him, and she tore 
 open the envelope. A single sheet of ruled paper and 
 a few carelessly written lines: 
 
 "Dear Miss Ormonde: 
 
 " Am sorry to leave without saying good-by, espe- 
 cially as I do not know when I shall see you again, 
 being gone ofif on important business. Anything sent 
 to my club, however, will reach me. Will write as 
 soon as I know my plans. 
 
 " Your very sincere friend, 
 
 " M. Witting." 
 
 173 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 She turned it over, she read it again, then slowly 
 she put it back into its envelope, and looked around 
 her as if dazed. Gone indefinitely, gone without a 
 word ! " Anything sent to his club — " her eyes flashed, 
 had she so belittled herself that he expected her to 
 answer this? There were no tears, there was no 
 blanching of her cheeks. If Mark could have seen her 
 he would have realized the futility of his suggestion as 
 to rouge. She was in a fury of humiliation and pain, 
 she loathed herself, she had succumbed so easily, she 
 had been as wax, moulded this way and that as he 
 willed. She had fallen so easily into his hands that he 
 did not value her, had thrown her away ! 
 
 She rose hastily. She could not stay in that place 
 where every inch of earth, every leaf and twig had 
 become hateful to her. There it was he had charmed 
 her, had hypnotized her, had befooled her! She could 
 not stay there; and yet, and yet — a dry sob broke 
 the stillness — he had loved her! He had been very 
 strange lately, and yesterday he had seemed beside 
 himself. The pathos of the unfinished — the last stitch 
 that would never be taken. She sat down again weak 
 and trembling. He had been so bitter of late, he had 
 been so cruel. If he had not loved her he would have 
 been calmly indifferent. 
 
 Perhaps he had gone away suddenly, had been 
 obliged to write at the post-office, at the station, and 
 on what paper he could get. Perhaps she had mis- 
 understood, had misread. She took the note out once 
 more, and again the blood rushed to her face. No, 
 she had not misread. Careless and cool, almost con- 
 
 174 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 temptuous, and " Dear Miss Ormonde " — it had been 
 " Little Cherry-Love," or " Little One," or " Hidden- 
 Violet-of-My-Soul " ; every word of his other notes 
 had struck her as having been carefully chosen for her 
 alone, and none of them, he had said, were good 
 enough to meet her eyes, nor strong enough to ex- 
 press his feeling. This was a studied insult. He 
 would write again, and again her eyes blazed. 
 
 He had said that he was not noble, and he was not; 
 there at least he had spoken true, and one other place ; 
 he had loved her, let no one deny that — he had loved 
 her. In his eyes, in his voice, in his touch, he had 
 loved her. Tired, no, he had not tired; something 
 strange had happened, something strange when he was 
 in town those days. He had fallen so low, he said, 
 that he had lost his self-respect. Why he had not told 
 her, she would have forgiven him. Again there came 
 the dry little sob, she would have forgiven anything. 
 Never would he have done for any woman what he 
 had done to win her. What? He had said that on the 
 very day he returned from Newport, the very day 
 the strange change came, and he had meant it. He 
 had been so glad that day, and now he had let her go! 
 Oh, this hateful, hateful note! She struck the flimsy 
 thing. " Anything sent to his club " — she got up 
 hastily, she could not live in the same world with that 
 note, and she went to the house. 
 
 Again, who was it would watch to see her pain? 
 Her Cousin Henry? — he had been always so kind. 
 Her world was a small one, and besides Mr. Saunders 
 there were no others save Laurence Creswick and 
 
 I7S 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Mrs. Saunders. Creswick, of course not, his one wish 
 was to make her happy; but she paused in her thoughts 
 and almost in her walk before the name of Mrs. Saun- 
 ders. She seldom saw her now, save in the presence 
 of others, and if they met on the stairway or in the 
 halls no word was said in passing. And yesterday, 
 yesterday what an angry look had been in her eyes 
 when Mark had taken the embroidery. Angry? She 
 repeated the word, then raised her head and looked 
 far away. Was it anger that she had seen there? 
 
 Her life had been so circumscribed, her experience 
 had been so extremely limited, she had been so or- 
 dered, so suppressed, and of her own motion she had 
 so forbidden herself to judge or to draw conclusions, 
 had so drilled herself into an honorable subjection of 
 all her faculties, that now from long habit she paused 
 before so reversing her life as to pass judgment on 
 Mrs. Saunders, the woman who had educated and sup- 
 ported her, who had trained her and clothed her, who 
 all these years had relieved her father and mother of 
 the burden of her support. 
 
 She walked on slowly into the house. She had not 
 passed judgment; this man who had left her, this 
 stranger who had forsaken her, should not tempt her 
 to disloyalty. Mrs. Saunders had done nothing, and 
 the look yesterday might well have meant that she was 
 provoked at the folly of the whole transaction concern- 
 ing the embroidery. 
 
 Her head was well up now, and the light in her eyes 
 and the color in her cheeks did not look like despair 
 or sorrow. In the hall she met Simmons. "There 
 
 176 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 is no answer," she said, handing him Mark Witting's 
 letter, " and will you burn this in the kitchen? " 
 
 The days went by, and Jane lived as in a dream. 
 She went every morning to the bench in the arbor, 
 taking a book and her work. If Creswick came he 
 read aloud to her while she embroidered; if not, she 
 read to herself. She could not have told what it was 
 she read, but she went through the mechanical part 
 of it, sometimes saying the words aloud. When Cres- 
 wick read she was conscious that she deliberately took 
 her mind up and put it down on the subject, compell- 
 ing it to stay there. He was not worth a tear, a sigh, 
 a pale cheek, Mark had declared, and she had decided 
 that he was not worth a thought. He had said that he 
 would write again; she would wait. 
 
 Meanwhile her training in self-control came to her 
 rescue. She went about her usual avocations in the 
 usual way, and Creswick, watching, came to the con- 
 clusion that the scene over the embroidery had been 
 some of Mark Witting's nonsense. Mark had never 
 seemed to be in love with the girl, his attentions had 
 been all in the direction of Mrs. Saunders, so much so 
 that it had been talked about a little. Nor had the 
 girl seemed to care for Mark. Once or twice he had 
 seen Mark look at her in a way that had provoked 
 him, but never had he been puzzled until Mark had 
 talked in such a melodramatic manner about unfin- 
 ished things. Jane's hands had trembled, too, but she 
 had gone on the porch so openly, and had explained 
 so clearly and so simply the facts of the case that it 
 could not have meant anything more than was on the 
 
 177 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 surface. And surely Mrs. Saunders would not have 
 allowed Mark Witting to pay any serious attentions 
 to the girl. He could not support her, and had been 
 talked about more than any man he had ever known 
 who had been permitted to remain in respectable clubs. 
 There could not be anything in it, and now that Mark 
 had gone away indefinitely, so Miss Witting said, the 
 whole thing would come to an end, and Creswick put 
 it from him, and came a little oftener to the bench. 
 
 It was early in September that Simmons, bearing a 
 tray with a letter on it, again sought Jane as she left 
 the breakfast-room. He made no explanation this 
 time, and she did not pause before taking it, for it was 
 a most correct letter in size and shape and material. 
 "Thank you," she said, then turned to the parlor, 
 where a fire was burning. 
 
 She had seen Mr. Saunders go out, and now she 
 knelt down on the hearth-rug. It was from Mark, 
 she had seen that at a glance, but she had made no 
 sign before Simmons that her heart seemed to be 
 choking her, and even now, when absolutely alone, 
 she steadied her hands before she broke the seal. It 
 was dated the day before and written from his club, 
 and began as the first note had begun — " My dear 
 Miss Ormonde." She paused a moment, then rose to 
 her feet — it was better to receive a blow standing. 
 
 "My dear Miss Ormonde: 
 
 " If you know me at all you know that I never beat 
 about the bush, that even in my indirection I am di- 
 rect. And if I know you at all, I am under the im- 
 
 178 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 pression that you, also, prefer directness. This letter 
 is to tell you, then, that with me everything has 
 changed, both within and without. That my conduct 
 is inexplicable goes without saying; I can only add 
 that it is far better that it should remain unexplained. 
 I am not worthy of you, and knowing this as well as 
 I did I should never have approached you. I make 
 no excuses, and hope that you will judge me as harshly 
 as it is possible for your gentle nature to do. I shall 
 not come near you again, but I have the temerity to 
 ask that you will permit me to keep the few memen- 
 toes which I possess of our intercourse. I shall never 
 forget it, or you. May God bless you more in the 
 future than He has done in the past. 
 "Yours very truly, 
 
 " Mark Witting." 
 
 Very slowly Jane read it through the second time. 
 She paused a moment, then touched a bell, and Sim- 
 mons appearing, she handed him the letter. 
 
 " Will you burn this also? " she said; " it will smell 
 disagreeably if burned in here," and she went quietly 
 up-stairs to her room. 
 
 She would not write a line to him, but she would 
 at once send back the few things that he had given 
 her. A book at Christmas, another he had brought 
 her that summer; the one or two flowers he had put 
 into her hands on special occasions she would burn — ■ 
 he must not know that she had kept them. With some 
 notes, the two books were all that she would have to 
 return. She laid the few things on her writing-table; 
 so few, so intrinsically without value, that yet had 
 
 179 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 seemed to represent such worlds of devotion, had 
 seemed the foundation of all her future life. 
 
 Her treasures, that by some trick of memory brought 
 back the treasures of her childhood, and their confis- 
 cation that had so rent her heart, that had so changed 
 her nature. The smirched rag-doll, and the dollar, and 
 the soap ! She had sent Fanny away virtually — Fanny, 
 who had been sorry — and she had later, at dififerent 
 times, destroyed the remaining contents of the work- 
 box. The thread she had dropped into the fire, the 
 scissors and thimble into the sea, and the box, broken 
 up bit by bit, she had burned, watching for opportu- 
 nity. They had been desecrated, and she hated them. 
 
 " May God bless you more in the future than He 
 has done in the past," Mark had written. Her bless- 
 ings had been dubious, and a look came into her eyes 
 as if her heart was sick — a look so forlorn, so forsaken, 
 that one watching would have been relieved if she had 
 washed it away with tears. Instead, she tied the notes 
 into a packet, and carefully cutting from the books 
 the fly-leaves where her name had been written, she 
 wrapped each one in a bit of tissue-paper, then made 
 a neat bundle of it all, tying it securely and addressing 
 it to the club from which his note had been written; 
 then went about putting on a walking-dress. She 
 would go at once, before Mrs. Saunders emerged, and 
 send off these things — they must go by return mail. 
 If he sent back anything, Simmons would burn it. 
 The embroidery with the needle in it — this was what 
 he had meant, and she paused in her preparations }; 
 the pathos of the unfinished. 
 
 180 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 She was standing before the looking-glass, and she 
 deliberately scanned the expression of acute pain that 
 had contracted her face. That was how suffering 
 looked. Not pretty; and why suffer? — it was all im- 
 agination, fancy. What was it to suffer? Cutting 
 one's finger had something tangible about it; but feel- 
 ings, heart, memories — what were these formless, im- 
 ponderable things that they should trouble her? What 
 did it matter? Life would go on as before, and in this 
 case there was no pathos of the unfinished, for now 
 the unfinished was finished, dead, and soon to be 
 buried; the books in the post-office — how unromantic 
 — and the flowers? Suppose she buried the flowers in 
 the arbor; they would return to earth, might nourish 
 other flowers for slack-principled men to give to wit- 
 less girls; the fire were better, they would go up in 
 smoke and come down in rain; that would make flow- 
 ers far more surely than if buried in that arbor that 
 was too shady to permit growth. Their decay might 
 nourish the shrubs of the arbor, but no one would 
 give one of those stiff branches as a token. Since in 
 the last analysis annihilation was impossible, she would 
 put them where they would return in the least harm- 
 ful form. 
 
 Slack-principled, that was Mark. How had she 
 thought of such a combination of words as that? 
 Slack-principled, ignoble. She would like to tell him 
 this, to write him this. He was not noble — of course 
 not — then why tell him? In order to mind it he would 
 have to feel nobility. He would know what the word 
 meant, but he would not mind, not being the thing 
 
 i8i 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 itself. No, she would not write it, would not com- 
 municate with him. He might misunderstand her 
 motives ; an ignoble man would be capable of suspect- 
 ing low motives. 
 
 A knock came at the door, and Simmons entered 
 with a card. " Mr. Creswick, Miss Jane, and will you 
 kindly take a walk with him? " 
 
 " Yes," then she paused a moment ; she could mail 
 the package. " Yes," she repeated; " I will be down 
 in a moment." Motion, something to do, that was 
 what she wanted. How fortunate that he had come. 
 
 It was an exquisite day, crisp and cool, and as they 
 went slowly down the front steps, Creswick said: "I 
 did not find you in the arbor; too cool, I thought, 
 and so I proposed a walk. Where shall we go?" 
 
 " To the post-office first," Jane answered, " after that 
 I do not care; any place will be beautiful on such a 
 day as this. Indeed to live is enough. We might just 
 sit down on the roadside and live." 
 
 " Someone might join us." 
 
 " Not if we select our seats with discretion — in the 
 mud, for instance." 
 
 Creswick looked down on her. " What has troubled 
 you? " he asked. 
 
 " Trouble? " the girl repeated, " that remark meant 
 imbecility, Mr. Creswick, not trouble." 
 
 "Shall we go to the 'Blue Hills'?" Creswick 
 went on. 
 
 "My word! but wasn't I romantic when I named 
 those hills. Do you remember, Mr. Creswick?" 
 
 "Of course, the very first time that I ever went 
 182 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 anywhere with you. A day just Hke this, though it 
 was in the early summer " 
 
 " Last summer; that seems ten thousand years 
 away," Jane interrupted. 
 
 " And you were in white," Creswick went on, " with 
 a white jacket " 
 
 " And a black hat trimmed with field-flowers," Jane 
 again put in. " Don't go into millinery, though per- 
 haps I ought to encourage that kind of memory in a 
 man. But I'd been reading a poem about people who 
 longed to go to the hills that were blue " 
 
 " And when the poor wretches reached the hills that 
 were blue," Creswick put in, " they did not know it 
 because they also were green." 
 
 Jane laughed. " Did I explain all that? " she asked. 
 
 "Of course; you used to explain everything to me 
 then, you were just out from under your pastors and 
 masters. You gave me much instruction as to small 
 talk, also. Shall I put your package in for you? " 
 
 Jane shook her head. " It is a bad luck package," 
 she said; "I'll put it in myself. What is your ideal 
 of a gentleman? " she went on when they had resumed 
 their walk. 
 
 " My grandmother is a very religious woman," 
 Creswick answered, " and she made me learn the fif- 
 teenth psalm as the creed of a gentleman." 
 
 " I do not remember it." 
 
 "The chief requirements are " 
 
 " I do not want the chief requirements, I want the 
 whole thing." 
 
 " Are to speak the truth from the heart," Creswick 
 
 183 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 went on, "and to keep a promise, whether made in 
 the letter or the spirit." 
 
 " I wanted to hear it all," the girl said, slowly, " be- 
 cause I want some light on the question of nobility. 
 Do you think a man can be a gentleman and ignoble? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Are all the men I know noble? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 "Then you are not sure that your friends are gen- 
 tlemen?" 
 
 " From that stand-point, I am not sure about my- 
 self." 
 
 Jane looked up at him quickly, and for a little while 
 they walked on in silence. They had left the village, 
 and were now on the country road, making for the 
 hills. The air was fresh and sweet with blowing over 
 the snowy buckwheat fields; the berries of the moun- 
 tain-ash were turning from gold to crimson; the hop- 
 fields, the orchards, were all ripe for the gathering, 
 and the old fences, overgrown with vines and briers, 
 were turned to massed sunshine by the golden-rod. 
 
 " It is enough to live on such a day as this," Jane 
 repeated. 
 
 Creswick looked about him, then down at his com- 
 panion. " You seem so different to-day," he answered, 
 irrelevantly, "so troubled; what is it? Who has hurt 
 you, you who cannot protect yourself? Why not put 
 your life into my hands, and have no more trouble?" 
 
 " Man is born to trouble," Jane answered. " No one 
 can rave another; we make our own shadows, you 
 know." She paused, then added: " I am sorry, but I 
 have answered that so many times." 
 
 184 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Yes, but I have never accepted your answer." 
 They were walking very slowly, and Jane was using 
 her closely rolled umbrella to hit aimlessly at the sticks 
 and stones that came in her way. 
 
 "You are making a mistake," Creswick went on; 
 " you should remember the saying, ' There is always 
 one who loves, and one who is loved.' The wise 
 woman marries the man who loves her." 
 " Is it never mutual? " 
 " Never absolutely balanced." 
 " And the woman who could stop to make that cal- 
 culation would not be worth having." 
 " I have made it for you." 
 " I cannot marry a man I do not love." 
 " Until you love someone else I shall persist." 
 " Now you are the unwise one, for I am perfectly 
 truthful when I say that I do not intend to marry at 
 all," and she thumped on the ground with her um- 
 brella as if for conviction. 
 
 " You all say that, and yet, what else will you do? " 
 Jane glanced up at him. " I've been thinking about 
 that," she answered, frankly, " and I don't know how 
 to struggle." 
 
 " Then why struggle? And when you get old? " 
 " There are plenty of old widows." 
 Creswick laughed. "At least it is not their fault 
 that they are not cared for," he said. 
 
 " It is their fault that they have not learned to care 
 for themselves," Jane retorted. 
 
 " Humanity has to take chances in everything." 
 "And that is just what I think I shall do," Jane 
 185 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 agreed. " But it is true," she went on, more slowly, 
 " people always say a man is making a fortune, and a 
 woman is making a living. I shall probably only 
 make a living — if that." 
 
 They had reached the top of the hill by this time, 
 and took their seats at the roots of a solitary elm. 
 " How lovely," Jane said. 
 
 " Yes," Creswick answered, " it is." 
 
 " But you are not interested." 
 
 " I've seen it before." 
 
 " You asked me once," Jane said, suddenly, " if I 
 had no dreams. I've begun to dream; will you be 
 interested in them?" 
 
 " Profoundly." 
 
 " I am thinking seriously of turning out to achieve 
 something — to make a fortune." 
 
 " Is it necessary?" 
 
 There was a pause, in which Jane seemed to be ab- 
 sorbed in the scenery, then, with her eyes still far 
 afield, she said: "Mrs. Saunders is my cousin only by 
 marriage. Her husband and my father were brought 
 up like brothers. Cousin Henry made some money 
 and married a great deal; my father did neither, his 
 wealth is in children, and to show his love for Cousin 
 Henry, I, the eldest one, was named Jane for Cousin 
 Henry's wife." 
 
 "A beautiful name." 
 
 " And Cousin Henry having no children," Jane went 
 on, " showed his affection by educating and in a meas- 
 ure adopting me. You knew that I was adopted? " 
 
 " I supposed so." 
 
 1 86 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 "And now the feeling is gradually taking posses- 
 sion of me," the girl went on, " that the time has come 
 for me to do something; to arise in my might and 
 declare myself." In her voice there was a note of bit- 
 terness that was absolutely new and that troubled her 
 companion; in the next words, however, it had dis- 
 appeared. " Nonsense aside," she said, " I must put 
 something into my life. They have given me an edu- 
 cation; have clothed me; have travelled me over the 
 world, and I — I have accepted it." 
 
 " What were you expected to do? " 
 
 Jane was silent. 
 
 Creswick smiled. " I can guess," he said, " you are 
 expected to marry well." 
 
 " And I do not want to marry at all," Jane put in, 
 quickly, " and I think that I ought to tell cousin this. 
 And then I am tired of this life, tired — tired! From 
 morning to night we earn our amusements by the 
 sweat of the brow, and when night comes we have not 
 been amused. You men dress in one costume, and 
 tear over the country after a tame fox or something 
 less; you put on another costume, and hit balls across 
 the grass, and still another in which to eat your din- 
 ners." 
 
 Creswick laughed. " Would it be more real if we 
 did not change?" he queried. 
 
 " Nothing can make it real," Jane answered, slowly; 
 " it is all a masquerade; you have nothing to do, and 
 you do it violently, but it brings you no satisfaction." 
 
 " I have not said so." 
 
 " You look it continually. And for me, I do no 
 187 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 more good now than when as a child on our wilder- 
 ness of a plantation I made gardens of cut flowers and 
 laid out dust cities. And_of course I must have been 
 made for something. Think of all the generations be- 
 hind me, of all the combined people that I am! You 
 are all this, too, and there must be something for us 
 to do, we must be good for something. I must tell 
 cousin. I feel as if I were living under false pretences 
 — deceiving her." 
 
 " And she will laugh and will not let you go." 
 
 " I'm not so sure of that," Jane answered, slowly ; 
 " she may agree to the truth that I have not come up 
 to the mark that she has set for me; if so, I'll go out 
 at once and make my fortune." 
 
 " How? " 
 
 " I do not know yet." She paused, then went on 
 more slowly : " Something is very wrong somewhere. 
 I seem to be realizing suddenly that my life is all a 
 mistake, that I am growing dull through pretending 
 that nothing is something, that this daily round of 
 absolute uselessness is of importance. I'd like to be 
 contented; I'd like to revert into the old-fashioned 
 girl that my mother must have been; go back to the 
 generation that really believed that ' Men must work 
 and women must weep.' I'd give a great deal to be 
 Uke that. From her letters I think that my mother 
 is like that," and she began to dig in the ground with 
 her umbrella. 
 
 " And she married," Creswick said. 
 
 " The man she loved," Jane answered, slowly, " and 
 risked far more than this worldly wise generation would 
 
 l88 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 think of risking. She knew that her husband was a 
 gentleman and a Christian, and neither she nor her 
 parents seem to have made any other requirements. 
 They were quite sure that they would be happy, and 
 they have been, though cousin, who told me all this 
 for a warning, does not understand it at all. Father 
 plants and reaps, and the bad years run him into debt 
 and the good years pull him out, and they love each 
 other, and love their children, and of course there are 
 lots of us. Everything that goes wrong is for their 
 good, and everything that goes right is a direct and 
 personal blessing from the Almighty." 
 
 " I envy them." 
 
 " So do I." 
 
 Creswick sighed and leaned back so as to rest on 
 his elbow. In this position his view of Jane was lim- 
 ited to the curve of her cheek and temple and the 
 back of one closely set little ear; for the rest, he could 
 see the back of her neck as it rose above a linen collar, 
 and her hair that waved naturally and trimly up, to be 
 lost in a coil. It was not much, but at least he could 
 look at it persistently, and look all that he felt. 
 
 " It is a strange thing," Jane went on, still prodding 
 diligently in the ground with her umbrella, prodding 
 with some force, for each prod jarred her a little and 
 changed the lights and shadows on her hair. " A very 
 strange thing that women seldom make a permanent 
 success, and yet they are as clever on an average as 
 men, do not you think so, Mr. Creswick ? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " I think it is that we strike too high ; we all go in 
 189 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 for art, or literature, or music, or the professions — at 
 least in our class of life. Of course there are women 
 in trade, but you seldom hear of a lady going regu- 
 larly into business." 
 
 " Groceries," Creswick suggested. 
 
 " Well, groceries; why not? What I mean is, going 
 seriously into business with a view of building it up 
 and making a fortune, not pottering along and posing 
 as a ' plucky little woman.' And, by the way, why is 
 it that a man always combines plucky and little when 
 he wishes to describe a woman who has done some- 
 thing? Never mind if she is ten feet high, they will 
 say ' a plucky little woman.' Why?" 
 
 " Perhaps they mean the plucky to apply to the 
 woman, and the little to what she has done." 
 
 Jane looked round on him slowly. 
 
 " That is not a chance shot," he went on, " that is 
 the result of long thought and observation. I knew 
 a woman once who was very large and very fond of 
 a bargain, and I used to hear her say : 'I had such a 
 nice little gown made the other day by a new little 
 woman I discovered.' It puzzled me at first, because 
 it would have been impossible for that big creature to 
 have a little gown, then I came to the conclusion that 
 ' little ' meant cheap. Applying this to your plucky 
 little woman, who is yet ten feet high, I draw the con- 
 clusion that little applies to what she has done. But 
 may I ask what has caused this sudden burst of dis- 
 content? " 
 
 " I wanted to tell a man that he was not noble," Jane 
 answered, frankly, "and I did not do it because I 
 
 190 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 thought that if he were not noble he would not under- 
 stand it or mind it." 
 
 Creswick paused a moment. The girl was puzzling 
 him greatly. She seemed to have changed radically, 
 and all in twenty-four hours, and was talking with a 
 freedom, an abandon that he had never before experi- 
 enced in her. She seemed to be letting herself go, to 
 be revealing all at once all of her stored-up observa- 
 tions of people and life, and with a touch of pathetic 
 cynicism that he had never suspected. It troubled 
 him greatly, and the last speech startled him unpleas- 
 antly. He sat up so that he could see Jane's face. 
 " Ought you not to tell Mr. Saunders? " he asked, 
 gravely. 
 
 " No," and the negative was sharp, and she drew 
 away from him as if he were the embodiment of his 
 unpalatable advice. "No, it is not worth that; but 
 out of it, and out of your fifteenth psalm has come the 
 question. Am / noble? And I do not think that I 
 am as long as I stay where I am as I am. Come, let 
 us go home," and she rose. 
 
 "And you will keep in mind what I have said?" 
 Creswick asked. 
 
 " Do not waste your life on me, Mr. Creswick." 
 
 " Waiting free until you may need me will not be 
 waste." 
 
 Jane looked up quickly, while the wind blew the 
 little curls across her brow, and a new light came into 
 her eyes. " You are noble," she said ; " such a love 
 helps one's self-respect — thank you." 
 
 191 
 
XII 
 
 " The skies seemed true above thee ; 
 
 The rose true on the tree ; 
 The bird seemed true the summer through ; 
 
 But all proved false to me ; 
 World, is there no good thing in you — 
 
 Life, love, or death — or what ? 
 Since lips that sang I love thee 
 
 Have said, I love thee not ? " 
 
 MRS. SAUNDERS herself had, that morning, re- 
 ceived a letter from Mark Witting saying good- 
 by. It was brief, and it was also a relief to her. She 
 had not as yet allowed herself to think of Mark Witting, 
 save to be glad that he was out of her sight ; but some 
 day he would come back to pay his debt, and before 
 that day Jane must be married to Laurence Creswick. 
 There was only the Hfe of one frail old woman be- 
 tween her and that event; for if Mark should inherit 
 to-morrow, to-morrow he would return. She almost 
 trembled at the possibility, for that return would mean 
 that he would bear Jane away in triumph. 
 
 She had covered her face a moment, then had shaken 
 off the thought. The only way to act sanely was to act 
 coolly ; and if she wished to remain cool, she must not 
 analyze too closely her feelings as to this complication 
 of circumstances. 
 
 Her best plan was at once to resume relations with 
 192 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Jane ; she had been silly to drop them ; and work to the 
 one end of the marriage with Laurence Creswick. Nor 
 must there be explanations with the girl as to the re- 
 sumption of the old habits ; she must simply take things 
 up where she had put them down, and if Jane had wan- 
 dered so far from her training as to ask questions, she 
 would say that she had been displeased with her be- 
 havior toward Mark Witting. 
 
 Colby reported that the girl had gone to walk with 
 Creswick, and though that act in itself pleased her, yet 
 that the girl had sent her no message, no intimation 
 of her going, showed as decided a change in the girl's 
 attitude toward her as was possible. A month ago 
 Jane would not have dreamed of taking such a liberty ; 
 but it was her own fault ; she had been absolutely silly 
 and — the rest did not matter, only the result, which 
 was that Mark having gone, she had recovered her 
 balance and must work while she yet had time. She 
 would watch for Jane's coming, and in giving orders 
 as to her costumes for the day's engagements, would 
 return to her old attitude of arranger and orderer of 
 her life. But it would be hard to be patient, to have 
 even a semblance of kindness in her manner. 
 
 Thus it was that she was waiting at the top of the 
 staircase when Jane, returning from her walk, began 
 to mount them. " Mrs. Cumming's tea is this after- 
 noon, Jane," she said. 
 
 The girl started and looked up. "Yes," she an- 
 swered, "yes, I had forgotten." She stopped, con- 
 fused with two wonders ; had her expression betrayed 
 anything in the upward look before her face had been 
 
 193 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 prepared to meet the face of another? and what did 
 Mrs. Saunders's sudden change of treatment mean? 
 and what was she, Jane, expected to do under the cir- 
 cumstances? Of course accept whatever Mrs. Saun- 
 ders chose to offer, do whatever Mrs. Saunders indi- 
 cated; where Mrs. Saunders was concerned, she had 
 no rights — she seemed to have no rights anywhere. 
 These thoughts rushed through her mind while Mrs. 
 Saunders was saying — " Your heliotrope gown will be 
 best for you to wear; it is too cool for either blue or 
 white." 
 
 Jane had reached the top of the stairs by this time, 
 and her doubts as to her course were set at rest by a 
 gesture of Mrs. Saunders, motioning her to follow into 
 the morning-room. 
 
 " The heliotrope is exceedingly becoming to you," 
 Mrs. Saunders went on, " and I wish you to wear it ; 
 and at the concert this evening you will wear the pink 
 and silver. You have been looking worn of late, and 
 need bright colors." 
 
 The blood rose slowly in Jane's face. Mrs. Saun- 
 ders had returned almost too completely to her old 
 treatment ; but what did it matter, as she, Jane, seemed 
 not to be able to direct successfully her own life? it 
 was well that there was someone to direct it for her, 
 and she answered, with a faint smile, " I must be get- 
 ting old." 
 
 " That you are losing your looks does not amuse 
 me," Mrs. Saunders answered, coldly. 
 
 Jane easily put away the smile, and began to follow 
 the pattern on the rug with her umbrella. 
 
 194 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " And this morning," Mrs. Saunders continued, 
 " you went out without telling me, and without asking 
 if there was anything that you could do for me." 
 
 " I did not think of it," Jane answered, wondering 
 if Mrs. Saunders had forgotten how she had been os- 
 tracised of late. " I suppose I thought of you as at the 
 baths." 
 
 " Impossible ! This summer I have been only twice 
 a week." 
 
 True, Jane remembered too late, and a fleeting 
 thought went through her mind that this might have 
 been the cause of some of the strange happenings of 
 the summer; but how? "It was just a piece of 
 thoughtlessness, then," she said ; " and you were not 
 up." 
 
 " And you could not have waited ? " 
 " Of course, if I had thought." 
 " And since you were in such a hurry to go out with 
 Mr. Creswick, what was it you had to do? " 
 
 " Nothing. We walked to where there was a view, 
 and rested a little while, then we came back. Like the 
 ' King of France and all his men, we went up the hill 
 and down again.' And the scenery was beautiful, and 
 the weather delightful." 
 
 It was now Mrs. Saunders's turn to think. There 
 was a new tone in Jane's voice, a spurious flippancy 
 in her answer that was absolutely unusual, that 
 amounted almost to carelessness of her and her pres- 
 ence, and swiftly to her mind came back Mark's warn- 
 ing — ' She will not stay in your hand forever.' It 
 was high time that their old habits should be resumed, 
 
 195 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 but more gradually than she had begun ; and alarmed, 
 she asked, in a kinder voice : " And what did you talk 
 about?" 
 
 " Many things," Jane quoted again, then stopped, 
 adding, slowly : " I said that you had educated and 
 clothed me from the best sources for years ; that I did 
 not think that I deserved it, and ought to go away." 
 And the girl flashed a quick look into the handsome 
 face opposite her. 
 
 " And what did Mr. Creswick say? " 
 
 " That he was sure that you would not let me go." 
 
 " He supposes that you are necessary to me," Mrs. 
 Saunders suggested. 
 
 " No, I did not let him think that," Jane answered, 
 quietly. She had returned to following the pattern 
 on the rug, and looking down did not see the glance 
 that Mrs. Saunders threw in her direction as she asked : 
 " What did you let him think? " 
 
 " That I had not at all reached the standard that you 
 had set for me, and that probably you would not ob- 
 ject to my departure." 
 
 " Very true ; but has it not occurred to you that you 
 ought to reach the standard which I have set for you ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And you will not try ? " 
 
 " I have not said that." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders's eyes flashed. Mark Witting had 
 understood this girl better than she did ; this was verg- 
 ing on rebellion. She must be careful. " And you did 
 not even think of taking the dogs for a run ? " was her 
 irrelevant next question. 
 
 196 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " If you wish me to take them, cousin, there is still 
 time before lunch." 
 
 " Have I ever allowed you to exercise the dogs as 
 a maid or a footman would? Will it trouble you too 
 much to ring- that bell ? " 
 
 Without answering, the girl leaned back and touched 
 the button in the wall behind her, which signal was im- 
 mediately answered by Colby. " I wish you to tell 
 Simmons, Colby, that Joseph must take the dogs for an 
 hour's run," Mrs. Saunders ordered. " Simmons will 
 have to arrange the work, but it is imperative that the 
 dogs should be exercised. They have not been look- 
 ing well lately. And doubtless Mr. Creswick would 
 have enjoyed the dogs," she went on when Colby had 
 disappeared. " Men are always fond of dogs." 
 
 Still following the pattern of the rug, Jane seemed 
 lost in thought, and made no answer. The change in 
 Mrs. Saunders's treatment was puzzling her, and why 
 should she not ask the wherefore of it. Not only had 
 Mrs. Saunders gone back to their old relations, but she 
 had gone back to the treatment which she had dealt 
 out to the girl in her school-days ; why should not she 
 ask about it ? She looked up, but Mrs. Saunders had 
 turned to her desk, and the training of Jane's whole life 
 laid a hand on her lips. 
 
 " Now for my notes," Mrs. Saunders said. " Mean- 
 while, Jane, you had better see if your heliotrope dress 
 needs anything done to it ; at least give it to Colby to 
 look over. If there is one thing more than another 
 that I have tried to impress on you, it is that freshness 
 is the backbone of a costume. Have you ever seen me 
 with a soiled ribbon or a bit of tumbled lace ? " 
 
 197 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " No," Jane answered, rising. 
 
 " Ah ! " And Mrs. Saunders looked up at her hus- 
 band, who had appeared in the doorway. 
 
 " Am I wanted ? " And Mr. Saunders looked from 
 his wife to Jane and back again. 
 
 " No," Mrs. Saunders answered ; " but, by the way, 
 Henry, don't call on Joseph for anything. I have had 
 to send him out with the dogs. I really think the dogs 
 are your business, you know, and Jane might have 
 helped me with them this morning, especially Geist, 
 her own dog, but she did not remember me in her ar- 
 rangements." 
 
 There was a pause, then Jane, saying, " I'll go and 
 see Colby, cousin," left the room. 
 
 When the last sound of the girl's step had died away, 
 Mrs. Saunders said to her husband : " What do you 
 think of Jane and Laurence Creswick ? " 
 
 "What is there to think?" 
 
 " First, that I am tired of this place ; it is stupid ; 
 and I have come here for two summers." 
 
 " By your own wish." 
 
 "And that, though Laurence Creswick's attentions 
 to Jane have been so quiet as not to attract public com- 
 ment, they have increased steadily until I think that 
 by this time they must mean something." 
 
 " I don't understand." 
 
 " That Laurence Creswick would be an uncommon- 
 ly good match for Jane." 
 
 " And you really think that Creswick is good enough 
 for her?" 
 
 " Good enough ! You astonish me. He comes of 
 the best people and is rich ; what more do you want? " 
 
 198 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Mr. Saunders pulled his mustache slowly, and 
 seemed to be following the pattern of the rug with his 
 eyes as Jane had followed it with her umbrella. " I 
 wish to keep Janey," he said ; then he added, bluntly : 
 " And I'll be hanged if I think any man good enough 
 for her." 
 
 " You thought yourself good enough for me," his 
 wife returned, crisply. " But," she went on, " you are 
 beyond me. Here for no pleasure of my own, simply 
 because she was your cousin, I have taken this girl and 
 trained, and educated, and clothed her from the best 
 sources, as she herself told Larry Creswick, and what 
 do you think is to come of it ? " 
 
 " You have gained an affectionate companion." 
 " I'm not sure that I wanted one ; at least not for 
 life ; and an old maid means failure. But that is neither 
 here nor there. Laurence Creswick is an admirable 
 match, and I am sure that his attentions mean some- 
 thing." 
 
 " I suppose he is in love with her." 
 " Then it is time that he declared himself." 
 " He may have done so." 
 " And Jane not told me ! " 
 " Of course not if she has refused him." 
 " Refused him — refused Laurence Creswick ! " And 
 Mrs. Saunders fixed her eyes on the desk in front of 
 her. Mr. Saunders glanced at her, then rising, went 
 toward the door. When he reached the hall Mrs. 
 Saunders raised her head, and he paused. 
 " I should advise you to leave this alone," he said. 
 
 " If she has refused Larry Creswick — if " Mrs. 
 
 199 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Saunders stopped and turned again to her desk. 
 Stone-still she sat until Mr. Saunders was out of hear- 
 ing, then she shut the door quietly, locking it. Re- 
 fused Laurence Creswick! and she struck her hands 
 together. Impossible ! And yet, and yet. Had Mark 
 known this, had he made the girl keep quiet about this 
 also? Had he, for his own purposes, managed this 
 whole thing so as to deceive her until " after the mar- 
 riage settlements had been made " ? Impossible ! 
 Creswick would never have continued his attentions if 
 Jane had refused him; he had been uncertain about 
 Mark and so had waited ; now that Mark was gone, he 
 would address the girl, would come to her for her in- 
 fluence on the girl ; he was so very conventional, that 
 he would never speak to Jane until he had asked per- 
 mission of Mr. Saunders or herself. She had fright- 
 ened herself unnecessarily, and this afternoon she 
 would put some questions to Creswick; she must find 
 out. Also, she would advise him to wait a little before 
 he approached Jane. As far as she knew, Mark had 
 not as yet written to break his' engagement with the 
 girl, had not written to her at all. Perhaps was going 
 to let silence and neglect do it for him. No, she would 
 sound Creswick, win his confidence, then advise him to 
 wait. In a little while Jane's pride would be aroused, 
 and on the rebound she would surely accept Creswick. 
 Decidedly the best plan was for Creswick to wait. 
 
 It was a long drive to Mrs. Cumming's, but Mrs. 
 Saunders did not avail herself of the opportunity to 
 approach the subject of Laurence Creswick, and when, 
 on their arrival, he made haste to join them, she held 
 
 200 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 out her hand to him with a smile that not only showed 
 all her milk-white teeth, but flashed as well from her 
 handsome eyes. 
 
 " A man at an afternoon tea," she said, " is as the 
 shadow of a great rock in a weary land. I am so glad 
 to see you." 
 
 " You are very kind ; and may the rock roll around 
 with you and Miss Ormonde ? " 
 
 " Of course ; as Miss Witting says, it is a great thing 
 for old people to be favored with the company of bright 
 young people. Jane, dear, verify my words that you 
 are young and bright. But here is Mrs. Gumming. 
 Oh, my dear Mrs. Gumming, how good you are to ex- 
 ert yourself at this season of the year to have afternoon 
 teas! And your place is such a joy; such a superb 
 view ! The air is so much better than the air at our 
 cottage; but Mr. Saunders and my cousin here have 
 become so attached to it that I am afraid that I am 
 doomed to it for all the summers of my life. You see 
 when a family numbers three, two is a majority. But 
 we stop the way ; will you take us for a stroll, Mr. Gres- 
 wick? Jane, my dear, rouse yourself; indeed, Mr. 
 Greswick, you do not know what I go through," laugh- 
 ing heartily. " Jane and Mr. Saunders are so averse 
 to exertion of any kind that I have not only to arrange 
 every detail, manage every department, but, in addi- 
 tion, do all the talking." 
 
 "Who could object to your doing all the talking, 
 Mrs. Saunders?" 
 
 " Flatterer ! " she cried, shaking her finger at him, 
 "and encouraging my obstinate cousin here^ in her 
 
 20 1 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 moody silence. Mr. Saunders smokes and looks as 
 wise as an owl ; Jane looks out of the nearest window 
 or examines the pattern of the rugs ; she does not look 
 as wise as her cousin, but she is just as silent. See 
 now how she is looking out across the hills. Poor 
 child; run away to the house, dear, if you are not 
 happy." 
 
 Jane turned, and Creswick paused in his walk. 
 
 " Do not go back with her," Mrs. Saunders inter- 
 posed. " I know her much better than you do, and she 
 would rather go alone." 
 
 " Thank you," Jane said quietly to Creswick, and 
 walked away without a look behind. Creswick was 
 troubled, and Mrs. Saunders turned to watch the girl 
 as she went. 
 
 " I have had her ever since she was a little child," she 
 said, as if to herself, " and yet I cannot make her out ; 
 she is moody; she is secretive." 
 
 " She is most frank and ingenuous," Creswick inter- 
 rupted, quickly. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders smiled indulgently. " You have 
 lived more than a quarter of a century," she said, " and 
 do you not yet know that women are one thing to men, 
 and another to their own sex? " 
 
 " Men are so also." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders looked away for a moment before 
 she brought her handsome eyes, with a liquid light in 
 them, to bear on Creswick. " In your heart you are 
 misjudging me," she said ; " I see that ; but under the 
 circumstances I forgive you. I have been watching 
 you for some time, and you love my cousin." 
 
 " Of course," Creswick answered, simply. 
 
 202 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " And have made the mistake of not taking the old 
 matron into your confidence." 
 
 " There has been nothing to confide. I love her and 
 she does not love me ; that is all." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders had to control a start, then, in the 
 same even tone, she asked : " And how have you found 
 out so much so certainly ? " 
 
 " I have asked her not once, but many times." 
 " Without my permission, without my influence ? " 
 " I did not wish her to be influenced." 
 " And may I ask what reason she gives for her ob- 
 duracy ? " 
 
 " She does not love me." There was a moment's 
 pause, then Creswick added, with slow decision, as if 
 refuting, once for all, some unheard accusation : " I 
 believe in Miss Ormonde as I never expected to believe 
 in any woman. I would stake my life on her." 
 
 " And yet," Mrs. Saunders said, slowly, " she has 
 never given me her confidence — as to you, for in- 
 stance." 
 
 " She regards this as my secret." 
 " And ever since her childhood I have cared for her 
 and loved her, have watched, and arranged, and 
 thought for her. But now," turning on him, " will 
 you tell me what you hope to gain by following Jane so 
 patiently ? " 
 
 " I hope to gain Miss Ormonde. A woman won 
 against her will is always worth more than the other 
 kind." 
 
 The color deepened in Mrs. Saunders's face. " And 
 your plan ? " 
 
 " To make myself agreeable to her, never to worry 
 203 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 or annoy her, and in time to become necessary to her. 
 In short, to become a habit — the Creswick habit." 
 And he laughed a httle. " Am I not humble enough ? " 
 
 " Too humble. I know no woman worth that labor." 
 
 " Allow me to differ." 
 
 " As you like ; but it is sad to be so misunderstood. 
 You have been in and out of my house constantly for 
 two years, Mr. Creswick, but you have never known 
 me, save, perhaps, from another's representations; 
 consequently you judge me harshly " 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Saunders " 
 
 She lifted a silencing finger. " I know what you 
 would say," she went on, " and thank you ; and doubt- 
 less Jane has said kind things of me; she has had no 
 occasion to say anything else; but when an outsider 
 sees two people together, the one in authority always 
 cheerful, and the one under authority always dumb 
 and obedient with the punctilious obedience of duty, 
 one is apt to judge the one in authority harshly as a 
 domestic tyrant — as the ' Iron hand in the velvet glove,' 
 and the rest of it. I forgive you, Mr. Creswick, for it 
 is quite natural ; but you had done better to have told 
 me your intentions." 
 
 " You are very kind ; but, as you say, until now I 
 have not known you." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders smiled. " We will not be sarcastic," 
 she said, " and perhaps some day you will be a kinder 
 judge. I forgive you; women forgive men almost 
 everything, you know. And now will you take me to 
 the house ? " 
 
 The drive home was an eventful one, for scarcely 
 204 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 had Creswick turned away from saying farewell at the 
 carriage, when Mrs. Saunders, as it were, pinioned 
 Jane with both eyes and tongue. She had found that 
 Laurence Creswick loved the girl — was determined to 
 win the girl, and under ordinary circumstances she 
 would have let things alone; but the impatience of 
 years, the jealousy of recent events had turned to fury 
 within her, fury that Jane had once more outwitted 
 her. So quiet, so calm, so unanswering, this girl since 
 her childhood had never winced, had never pleaded, 
 and now in silence had gone her own way, quietly hold- 
 ing both these men in leash, as it were, while she, her- 
 self, had been used as a screen ! Like a searing flame 
 this last realization had come to her, but she had con- 
 trolled the horrid knowledge, had refused to contem- 
 plate it; now, blindly in her anger, she was trying to 
 analyze what it was that stirred her so deeply. Mark's 
 love for the girl ? It was not only this that was driv- 
 ing her as with a whip of scorpions ; she seemed, be- 
 sides, to be possessed of an unquenchable desire to 
 make this insensate creature beside her show some feel- 
 ing, to make her acknowledge her supremacy ; and yet, 
 she must be careful ; this marriage with Creswick was 
 her punishment for Mark, her triumph in her own 
 world ; it must be accomplished ; she must control her- 
 self. 
 
 " I had a charming talk with Mr. Creswick," she be- 
 gan, striving to keep her voice from trembling. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And I think that we have obtained a better knowl- 
 edge of each other." 
 
 20S 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He acknowledges," Mrs. Saunders went on, " that 
 he has never known me except, of course, from the re- 
 ports of others." 
 
 Jane leaned back with a waiting look on her face. 
 
 " He seems to have regarded me as something of a 
 tyrant." Mrs. Saunders's voice was perfectly steady 
 now, and perfectly cold. " The ' Iron hand in the vel- 
 vet glove,' and the rest of it. An unpleasant thought 
 to be brought home to one, but like all men in love," 
 and the storm lightning began to escape from Mrs. 
 Saunders's eyes, " he takes all that you say for gospel 
 truth." 
 
 " I do not remember ever discussing you with Mr. 
 Creswick." 
 
 " Of course not ; I have brought you up too well for 
 that; but by not giving me your confidence you have 
 seemed afraid of me — ^have made me seem a tyrant. 
 The confidence I allude to is that you have refused him 
 not once, but a number of times." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Mere assent will not do in this case. I do not need 
 confirmation of Mr. Creswick's words ; what I wish is 
 explanation." 
 
 " I do not love him." 
 
 " And do you really think that I will take that as 
 an explanation ? " And the expression of Mrs. Saun- 
 ders's mouth was not agreeable. " You are quite old 
 enough to know why for two summers I have come to 
 this stupid place, why I have cultivated Laurence Cres- 
 wick's deaf grandmother." 
 
 206 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " You spoke of her always as your old friend." 
 
 " My dear Jane, have you not learned yet that it is 
 folly for you to try to fence with me? Because for 
 two years you have succeeded in deceiving me does not 
 prove that you have universal wit. Mrs. Creswick is 
 my old friend ; but one does not follow up an old friend 
 — a deaf old friend — through all eternity. As I say, 
 you have deliberately deceived me — ^have been know- 
 ingly trifling with the man I intended you to marry; 
 and what I demand is an adequate explanation." 
 
 " To refuse a man is not to trifle with him." 
 
 "You persist in answering me? then listen, and 
 learn that two can play at the game of secretiveness." 
 And she leaned forward so as to look directly into the 
 girl's face. " I did not ask for your confidence — ^your 
 confidence as to Mark Witting, but neither did I give 
 you my confidence ; now I will tell you. Now," smil- 
 ing a little, " I will tell you that he thought you an 
 heiress — my heiress." 
 
 Jane's dry lips stirred, but they made no sound. 
 
 " And I disabused his mind." 
 
 Jane bowed. 
 
 " Now," and Mrs. Saunders's smile vanished, " now 
 I demand to know if you held Laurence Creswick off 
 because of Mark Witting? " 
 
 Jane wiped her dry lips, but no word came. 
 
 " You are struck dumb to find that two can play at 
 keeping counsel? or is it shame? — and does not your 
 pride suggest that you accept this other man ? " 
 
 Jane's lips were deathly white and her eyes were 
 blazing. 
 
 207 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Is it worth while to split your gloves and to bend 
 the handle of your parasol so perilously — an expensive 
 parasol ? " 
 
 Jane's hands fell apart in her lap, and a dark ring 
 seemed to be settling around her lips. Mrs. Saunders 
 grasped the girl's wrist. Her touch had instantaneous 
 effect ; Jane drew away quickly, the color rushed to her 
 face, and Mrs. Saunders leaned back with a sigh of 
 relief. The girl had looked like sudden death. 
 
 "Well?" she queried. 
 
 " I have a home to go to," Jane said slowly, as if she 
 found speech difficult, " and I shall go." 
 
 " To a father who has eight younger children to 
 clothe and educate? And then where do I, and all 
 that you owe me, come into your calculations ? " 
 
 " You have wiped that out." 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 " I have tried to be grateful," the girl went on with 
 the same seeming difficulty of speech, " but now you 
 must let me go. What you have just done — has can- 
 celled everything, and I assure you that — that I will 
 never do as you wish — never! I want to go home," 
 she said, as she had said long ago in her childish mis- 
 ery — " I want to go home. I have been homesick all 
 my life, and — and " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " And I have never, never forgiven you since you 
 took away my soap and my money — never! And I 
 have never loved you — never ! " 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 " Never. And you threw away the key to my work- 
 box." 
 
 208 
 
The Making of Jane^ 
 
 "And the rag-doll?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "And Mark Witting?" 
 
 The girl turned her head away. 
 
 "Well?" Mrs. Saunders said for the third time, 
 her voice still holding the cold, low tone it had gained. 
 " And do you — do you really think that I will allow 
 this ? That I will allow you to go home and proclaim 
 me a tyrant? That I will allow my world to see that 
 having had a girl from her childhood, I have not been 
 able to inspire her with even common affection for one 
 who has been more than a mother ? That I will allow 
 people to say that under my care Mark Witting has 
 been able to jilt you, and Laurence Creswick to pass 
 you by ? " 
 
 There was a hunted look in Jane's eyes. 
 
 " Do you not see," Mrs. Saunders went on, " that 
 the only thing left for you to do, the only thing that 
 will show Mark Witting that he has not hurt you, that 
 will restore my confidence and your own self-respect, 
 is for you to accept Laurence Creswick? Do you not 
 know that the world will be very quick to say that both 
 these men trifled with you? And if you refuse Lau- 
 rence Creswick what will you do? No one else who 
 has been attentive has been seriously attentive, and 
 matrimony is the only way out of this snarl ; I can see 
 no other." 
 
 " Let me go home." 
 
 " Run away ignominiously ? Have you no pride ? 
 We have had a plain confession this afternoon, and 
 you have insulted me liberally; has not that more 
 
 209 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 than made up for what I did in telling Mark Witting 
 of your dependence? Ought you not rather to thank 
 me for unveiling him to you, and for showing you of 
 what stuff your dream was made? Money was what 
 he was after, and I knew it. Laurence Creswick is 
 after you. Poor fool, he thinks you are all wings, so 
 angelic do you seem to him, and is willing to serve any 
 length of time if at the last he may win you. I vent- 
 ured that no woman was worth such long toil, and 
 he differed with me promptly. What more do you 
 want than the unswerving, unquestioning devotion of 
 a man who is not only rich, but well-born, well-looking, 
 and upright — stupidly upright? Nor need you be in 
 any haste ; he is willing to wait as patiently as a muz- 
 zled beast! You ought to be proud of such a love; 
 especially as one cannot be even reasonably sure that 
 you deserve it. A girl who could be carried away 
 with the charms of Mark Witting does not cause one 
 to feel any enormous amount of confidence in either 
 her judgment or her taste. And do you reflect that 
 your father is getting old, that the burden of his family 
 is almost more than he can now carry, without the 
 weight of you added ? " She ceased, and the silent 
 girl, with her head turned away, was gazing out across 
 the rolling hills, where exquisite vistas of fields, of 
 peaceful orchards, passed unheeded, for her eyes looked 
 like blind eyes, her lips were dumb. And the silence 
 lasted until, arriving at home, they reached the upper 
 hall, where their ways separated ; then Mrs. Saunders 
 turned and said: 
 
 2IO 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Your dinner will be sent up to you, but I shall ex- 
 pect you to go to the concert this evening, wearing 
 your pink and silver, and I demand that this afternoon 
 remain entirely between us." 
 
 And Jane went away swiftly to her room. 
 
 211 
 
XIII 
 
 " Live — yet live — 
 Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all 
 Life needs for life is possible to will — " 
 
 TEN minutes before dinner Jane appeared in the 
 drawing-room, where Mr. and Mrs. Saunders 
 were sitting. Mrs. Saunders looked up quickly. 
 "You are feeling better?" she said, with admirable 
 ease. 
 
 " Quite well," Jane answered. 
 
 "Sick, Janey?" And in his turn Mr. Saunders 
 looked up from his paper. 
 
 " Not at all," the girl answered. " Cousin only 
 fancied that I looked worn." And passing by Mrs. 
 Saunders with a carelessness she had never shown be- 
 fore, she paused in front of the small wood fire called 
 for by the cool evening, and put her foot on the low 
 fender, drawing up her filmy draperies out of danger. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders drew a long breath softly between her 
 teeth, and once more heard Mark Witting's warning — 
 " She will not stay in your hand for ever." For the 
 first time in her life the girl had disobeyed her absolute- 
 ly. She had come down to dinner when told not to, and 
 had not put on the pink and silver gown; she must 
 be careful, and she said slowly, " Why not in pink and 
 silver? " 
 
 212 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " I thought that I had color enough to wear white," 
 was answered quietly. 
 
 " Color enough ? " Mr. Saunders put in. " Your 
 cheeks are like peaches." 
 
 " Not too much, I hope ? " And Jane turned to 
 smile down on him. 
 
 " Not a bit — not a bit ; you'll surely be the belle of the 
 ball." 
 
 " Concert," Mrs. Saunders corrected, crisply. 
 
 " Only a phrase, my dear." And Mr. Saunders went 
 back to his paper and Mrs. Saunders to her book. 
 Was the girl rouged? her thoughts ran; and what 
 spirit she had! Mrs. Saunders's eyes burned down 
 on the inoffensive print like dull, red flames, but she 
 read no word. The girl's color was brilliant and she 
 had no rouge — could not have gotten into her dress- 
 ing-room since the drive. She took a good look at her 
 as they went into the dining-room, and again under 
 the electric lights of the ball-room, where the concert 
 was to take place. She had never thought Jane any- 
 thing more than pretty until this evening ; now she was 
 positively handsome. Spirit, pride; how astonishing! 
 and this last must be her lever ; she must use it, work 
 on it, encourage it, and finally launch the girl as Mrs. 
 Laurence Creswick. What a moment that would be! 
 What joy to send those wedding-cards to Mark Wit- 
 ting! What a debt she owed him! Her own eyes 
 and color were brilliant that night, and it was re- 
 marked that Mrs. Saunders grew handsomer with 
 every year. 
 
 " Yes, and harder," Miss Witting added. " I won- 
 der that girl has kept her mind." 
 
 213 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " To-night she looks like some dumb creature at 
 bay," Mrs. Kennet answered, " but handsomer than 
 ever before. I wonder what is on foot." 
 
 Miss Witting grunted. " It might be anything with 
 Jane Saunders to the fore," she said, while in her own 
 mind she wondered if Mark had over-reached himself. 
 It was true that she had sent him away on business, 
 but he had been in a vile temper for some time before 
 that. Did the girl care for him, and had Jane Saun- 
 ders prevented the match? That would make her al- 
 most ready to endow the girl, and she grunted again, 
 or Mark. 
 
 Jane, meanwhile, was behaving most carefully; the 
 more so because she was as one on a rack. The words 
 she had said that afternoon in her pain, the pathetic 
 cry of her childhood — " I want to go home " — seemed 
 to ring in her ears ; seemed to be repeating themselves 
 over and over again in her heart; seemed to throb 
 through all the music. Her whole life seemed to roll 
 back on her; all the years of it to that winter's even- 
 ing when she had been taken away out of the old nurs- 
 ery, that for her was always filled with a red, warm 
 glow ; where Jim, dead so long ago, was always playing; 
 where Tom was always a baby, and Marion still slept 
 like the fairy princess. From there she had entered a 
 narrow strait of life with never an unwatched moment. 
 Homesick, troubled, bewildered by letters read to her 
 that seemed to confirm Mrs. Saunders's words that her 
 father and mother were poor and struggling, letters 
 that told the little child to be happy, to be appreciative 
 of the kindness of her cousins, and of her advantages, 
 
 214 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 she had gone from bewilderment to despair, from de- 
 spair to hopeless, unquestioning obedience. There 
 had been no other course open to her. And the flesh 
 of Mrs. Saunders's white hands was as hard as bone. 
 She knew now that she had always been afraid, and 
 she moved a little away from Mrs. Saunders's side. A 
 touch came on her gloved arm, but she did not move 
 back again. 
 
 " Mr. Creswick is going to sing," Mrs. Saunders 
 whispered, smiling and pointing down to the pro- 
 gramme; and the people about them — all people of 
 their own world — saw the little smile and gesture. 
 
 Jane raised her flowers to her face. Laurence Cres- 
 wick had sent them. She put them away from her, 
 and fixed her eyes coldly on the singer. A charity 
 concert for the benefit of a " Refuge " ; and what would 
 he sing ? How ridiculous — how ridiculous ! 
 
 " Love for a year, a month, a day — 
 But alas, for the love that loves alway ! " 
 
 What an absurd song for the occasion ; how grim life 
 was ; what a gruesome farce she was finding it. Why 
 had she not a refuge? Why could she not go to her 
 home? What explanation could she give? Her 
 cousin had thrown away her rag-doll, her cousin had 
 hard hands, her cousin had thrown away another rag- 
 doll? 
 
 " What a delightful voice he has." Mrs. Kennet, 
 who was seated in front of them, had turned round 
 and was speaking to Mrs. Saunders and looking at 
 Jane. 
 
 215 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Delightful ! " Mrs. Saunders answered. " I hope 
 he will give us another song." 
 
 Jane felt a pressure on her foot, and looked up. 
 " But what a ridiculous song to sing at a concert for a 
 refuge," she said, looking straight at Mrs. Kennet. 
 
 " What an extraordinary idea." And Mrs. Saun- 
 ders laughed a little uneasily. " Ah ! he is going to 
 sing again." 
 
 Mrs. Kennet turned away slowly, and Mrs. Saun- 
 ders, raising her fan, spoke behind it to Jane. " You 
 had better be silent," she said, " than make such 
 speeches as that." 
 
 Jane turned away. 
 
 " This is his last song," Mrs. Saunders went on, still 
 behind her fan, " and if he joins us, you must behave 
 properly." 
 
 Jane made no sign, but when Creswick approached, 
 she drew her draperies aside to make room for him. 
 
 " How generous you are, Mr. Creswick " — and Mrs. 
 Saunders leaned across Jane — " to give us two songs. 
 There is to be dancing later, is there not ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I came to ask Miss Ormonde if I might bring 
 her a dancing card." 
 
 "Do you feel well enough to stay, dear?" Mrs. 
 Saunders asked. 
 
 " Yes." And again Jane raised her flowers to her 
 face. 
 
 " Then I will secure the card at once." And Cres- 
 wick went away. 
 
 At this moment four young women were playing 
 on two pianos, and Mrs. Saunders took advantage of 
 
 2l6 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 the noise. " Please remember," she said, " that noth- 
 ing you can do can possibly hurt me or Mark Witting, 
 but only yourself; and remember, also, that unless 
 you are so peculiar as to wish your little story known, 
 you had better be very careful. Laurence Creswick is 
 your surest refuge from the world's tongues ; make the 
 best of him." 
 
 And Jane danced and danced; why not? She had 
 loved Mark Witting ; yes, she had given him her best 
 of faith, and of trust, and of love ; there was no shame 
 in that ; and she had believed in his love. She had be- 
 lieved in him up to that very afternoon. Was it that 
 afternoon? was it not years ago? She had called him 
 ignoble, but she had not truly meant it, for she had had 
 a feeling that he still cared for her ; but now she under- 
 stood. He had never, never loved her! Mrs. Saun- 
 ders had opened her eyes, had destroyed all her faith, 
 all her illusions, had drained all the sweetness out of 
 the little love-story — the little farce ! She shivered as 
 she danced. 
 
 " Are you cold ? " Creswick asked, making a motion 
 as if to stop. 
 
 "No; do not stop." Then laughing a little: "It 
 was only ' a rabbit ran over my grave,' " she said. 
 
 " What a dismal idea." 
 
 " Which, the rabbit or the grave ? " And she held 
 her head back to look up at him. 
 
 " The combination, that your grave should be free 
 to the rabbits. It makes one think of wild places, of 
 barren places." 
 
 " What matter ? We are dancing now. Let us dance, 
 
 217 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 dance, dance ! This music is good enough to make a 
 grave-stone skip, to make the rabbits stop and caper 
 over my future resting-place instead of scurrying across 
 it. I feel as if I should like to dance until I dropped." 
 
 And Mark had asked her to keep it all quiet from 
 Mrs. Saunders, her thoughts ran on^ keep it all from 
 the world for a little while, their own secret, the sweeter 
 the more secret. He had persuaded her to that. And 
 he had been so careful, for her sake, he had declared. 
 Attentive, but so quiet, so little to say to her in public, 
 all for her sake ! And he had told it all to Mrs. Saun- 
 ders — laid it all bare to Mrs. Saunders. He had never 
 loved her, never loved her. 
 
 On and on they flew, Creswick's own pulses catching 
 the excitement ; what ailed the girl ? At last he said : 
 " I think that Mrs. Saunders wants you." 
 
 " Don't think it," Jane answered, " but take me into 
 the refreshment-room." 
 
 Creswick obeyed, and found her a chair. " What 
 shall I bring you ? " he asked, and Jane looked away 
 from his eyes. 
 
 Then from behind her came Mrs. Saunders's low 
 voice asking, " Don't you think it is time to go ? " 
 
 Jane did not answer, did not turn. 
 
 " I think my cousin is dancing too much," Mrs. 
 Saunders went on to Creswick. " She has not been 
 looking well of late, but she will not come home." 
 
 A puzzled look came on Creswick's face. " Perhaps 
 some supper will be good for her just now," he said. 
 
 " I am perfectly well," Jane put in quietly, leaning 
 back in her chair, " and if you will bring me an ice, Mr. 
 
 2i8 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Creswick, that will be enough." Since she had thrown 
 down the gauntlet to Mrs. Saunders in the matter of 
 the pink and silver gown, she felt absolutely defiant; 
 she longed to dispute every point with her, to thwart 
 her at every turn. It could not be possible that only 
 that morning she had sat so humbly in the study to 
 be lectured; that only that afternoon she had turned 
 so obediently and gone to the house, leaving Mrs. Saun- 
 ders to talk to Creswick and to find out from him all 
 that she wanted to know. But she was not sorry for 
 that bit of meekness ; she was rather glad that it had 
 all happened; it was better to know the whole truth, 
 however bitter. 
 
 " We will stay a little longer then," Mrs. Saunders 
 granted. " I will wait for you in the ball-room." 
 
 And when at last Creswick put them into the car- 
 riage, Mrs. Saunders, in the gloom of her own corner, 
 had no word to say to the girl. Jane, however, still 
 in the whirl and turmoil of her cruel awakening, that 
 with every moment of thought grew more cruel, hardly 
 knew whether her cousin was speaking or not. All 
 the talk that evening had come to her mind as a con- 
 fused and senseless jargon, and it was no better now. 
 The rumbling of the wheels, the thud of the horses' 
 hoofs had as much sense as anything else, and the 
 silence of her own room was a painful vacuum. She 
 dismissed the maid at once, and locked her door. She 
 tossed her flowers into the waste-basket, her filmy 
 draperies on to a chair, and cast herself, face down- 
 ward, on the bed. 
 
 Hour by hour her eyes had been opening more clearly 
 219 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 to the perspective of her past. Her childhood with 
 Mrs. Saunders had been destitute of tenderness, her 
 days barren of anything that could make a happy 
 memory. All her life she had been schooling herself 
 to a gratitude which she had never been able to feel. 
 In the midst of all the luxury and careful duty done 
 by her, she had been always hungry for a living, breath- 
 ing love, a love that would have given her self-respect. 
 She had no self-respect; she had been patronized all 
 her life, had been made to feel herself a poor thing 
 come of poverty-stricken parents. 
 
 Now, suddenly and without warning, she had broken 
 from all her moorings, and all the landmarks of her life 
 had been swept away by a flood of indignation that, 
 unknown to herself, had been gathering in her pent-up 
 heart. Her whole nature was up in arms against Mrs. 
 Saunders, against herself. Her cousin for views, for 
 years of insinuations, herself for permitting them, for 
 accepting everything from a person who held them. 
 Her father and mother were not failures ; a large family 
 and a small income did not mean beggary ; poverty was 
 no disgrace, and she should have resented this long 
 ago. And yet, what could she have done? Her life 
 had been given into the hands of Mrs. Saunders ; she 
 had had no right to be anything but grateful and obe- 
 dient; and must she not believe that in her own way 
 Mrs. Saunders loved her ? 
 
 Grateful! Love her! She had betrayed her; had 
 trampled on every tenderest belief of her heart; and 
 the sudden fury of outraged faith had swept her whole 
 nature into revolt against her protectress. Grateful? 
 
 220 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 How ignoble the state of things that had brought her 
 to this position, how spiritless her acceptance of endless 
 favors that had at last merged into an almost contempt- 
 uous patronage. Patronage bred contempt far more 
 surely than familiarity. Could she ever win to herself 
 any respect for herself? Could she ever build up an 
 individuality ? Must she always despise herself so ab- 
 solutely? Could she not go out into the world and 
 support herself? Women did it every day. Only 
 that morning she had talked to Laurence Creswick 
 about it. She had been wrought on by Mark Witting's 
 note ; she had felt that she must change her environ- 
 ment; that she must get away from these associations 
 that had become so dreadful. She had been so wound- 
 ed, so humiliated, even then, and she had known only 
 the half! 
 
 Even in the empty room she covered her face with 
 her hands. She longed to cry out and tell all that grad- 
 ually she was realizing of what she had missed, of 
 what lately she had suffered. If she could only make 
 herself independent, could find work, hard work, per- 
 haps she could throw off this desperate humiliation 
 of obligation to a woman whom she all but hated. 
 Could she ever forget that cold voice, " He thought 
 you an heiress — my heiress." All but hated? The 
 only people whom she hated more were Mark Witting 
 and herself. 
 
 She got up and began walking about the room. She 
 was to blame, not Mark Witting. It was not his fault 
 that she had idealized him. If once she had had the 
 sense to look at him with clear eyes, she would have 
 
 221 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 realized that a man who was dancing attendance on 
 an old woman, in the hope of inheriting her money, 
 could not at the same time be the ideal she had set up. 
 What a blight to fall on a harmless life, an unprotected 
 head! 
 
 Fool! how could she live with herself, and all her 
 life lay before her, her long life ? Work, that must be 
 her saving, not retreating to her home ; she would have 
 to explain if she went there, to answer questions ; she 
 could not do that, not yet. Work was the thing ; work 
 must be her salvation ; put all her strength into making 
 this future a success. And if she succeeded, Mrs. 
 Saunders would say it was due to her training. 
 
 She went back to her bed. She must not think of 
 Mrs. Saunders, of Mark Witting; it put desperation 
 into her heart. Why had she not trained herself for 
 something? She sighed wearily. Had she ever been 
 her own mistress for one moment of her life? And 
 what could she do ? first, how could she get away ? 
 
 She sat up quickly and clasped her hands tightly, 
 looking at the lamp with a wide, unwinking stare. 
 Her candy-money, her birthday money, would not this 
 help her ? It was so little ; she wrung her hands ; help 
 her to what ? To run away ! 
 
 She looked around as if startled, as if someone had 
 said the words, "Run away." Run away; why not? 
 Find a position. Her childish plans rushed over her ; 
 a maid like Fanny, a governess, like that first little gov- 
 erness; but how? Answer advertisements. How 
 could she manage this? She racked her brain until 
 at last weariness conquered her misery, and she fell 
 
 222 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 asleep where she was, leaving the lamp burning, and 
 only awakened when the maid knocked in the morning. 
 
 As Mrs. Saunders never appeared at breakfast, Mr. 
 Saunders and Jane were free to bury themselves in 
 their papers, which were only the papers of the even- 
 ing before, but which suited Jane's purposes perfectly 
 as to the advertising columns. Maids, governesses, 
 housekeepers, saleswomen, typewriters, stenographers ; 
 column after column, and all must be experienced, all 
 must be recommended. She had experience in noth- 
 ing; she could give no references. If she could see 
 the people and talk to them, she might win a place. 
 But in order to see the people, she would have to be 
 in New York. Would it not be wiser to wait until 
 she returned to the city ? She could manage it all so 
 much more quietly there ; and meanwhile she could use 
 a little of her allowance in advertising. She could 
 advertise under her initials, to the care of the paper, 
 so many of the advertisers seemed to do that, then the 
 paper would forward the letter to her. All the mail 
 passed through Mrs. Saunders's hands. Simmons 
 had brought her her letters of his own motion some- 
 times, but she could not ask him to do it ; and a business 
 letter in an unknown hand he would be sure to think 
 an advertisement, and not bring to her. All day long 
 she pondered, going through her duties in a perfunc- 
 tory way, but with a steady quietness that kept in Mrs. 
 Saunders's mind Mark Witting's warning; and after 
 lunch she went up to her morning-room very thought- 
 fully. 
 
 All the excitement had gone out of the girl's manner, 
 
 223 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 and the misery and defiance of the evening before had 
 given place to a preoccupied intentness that needed 
 explanation. What was she contemplating? And the 
 elder woman was uneasy. So carefully had she al- 
 ways watched and ordered Jane, and Jane had been 
 always so implicitly obedient, that she had not dreamed 
 but that she knew everything of importance that came 
 into the girl's life. She had forgotten — perhaps she 
 had never realized — that the searching wind of surveil- 
 lance unavoidably causes one to draw the cloak of re- 
 serve more and more closely about one. More than 
 this, she had made the mistake of putting Jane's un- 
 failing observance of her wishes down to stupidity ; 
 had, in a measure, despised her for it, only to find her- 
 self to be the dull, unseeing one. " A fool," she said 
 to herself, " an old fool ! " And she struck her writ- 
 ing-table with her closed hand, her white hand from 
 which the child Jane had always shrunk. " An old 
 fool ! " she repeated. Mark had stabbed her with the 
 assurance that he had not soiled Jane's ears with the 
 knowledge of this ugly snarl ; he had taunted her with 
 " the last love of a woman " ! She put her head down 
 on the table. He had not believed that her heart had 
 been empty; he had not realized that she had to be 
 trampled on before the best in her would come out; 
 and that in all her life he was the only person who had 
 dominated her, who had put his foot on her neck. 
 Wealth had brought her subservience. She paused in 
 her thinking. Look back as she would, with all the 
 new light of late developments to help her, she could 
 not find one place where Jane had truckled to her, had 
 
 224 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 flattered her. Jane had not been subservient ; she had 
 been obedient, and she realized now that this had 
 angered her. She had never broken the girl's spirit 
 or will; the girl had voluntarily put them aside, or, 
 rather, had bent them through a sense of duty. " Such 
 a fool ! " she whispered. She had been so sure that 
 her husband and his family were trying to make some- 
 thing, trying to gain money and favor from her. 
 
 " She had tried to be grateful," the girl had said, 
 " but all was cancelled." What had she meant? What 
 could she do? And to think that she had so quietly 
 and so often refused Laurence Creswick while still 
 holding his love; had made no show of it, apparently 
 taking it as a matter of course. Plainly Creswick did 
 not know that the girl loved Mark Witting. Yet, why 
 should she be sure that even that knowledge would 
 have quenched his hope and loyalty? What power the 
 girl had! and she found her respect for her growing 
 with every minute. She rocked her head back and 
 forth a little on the table. And Mark had declared the 
 girl to be loyal; she had been miserable because of 
 the deception, and he had gone away to give rest to her 
 conscience. 
 
 She rose quickly. He had not gone to save her good 
 name, then ! and a flame seemed to light in her gloomy 
 eyes. " Such a fool ! " she said again ; " such a fool ! " 
 
 She began to walk about the room restlessly. A 
 gulf lay open across her path; she must be careful. 
 Her idiotic fury, her stupid blindness had betrayed 
 her into the wildest folly. She should never have 
 breathed even to the walls her knowledge of the affair 
 
 225 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 between Jane and Mark Witting. Jane and Mark 
 Witting. She stopped short in her walk and wrung 
 her hands together above her head. " Oh, my love — 
 my love ! " she cried under her breath, and covered her 
 face with her hands. " Do not try to pose to me as a 
 good woman/' he had said, and the words had seemed 
 to set her free. That he had pulled down all the veils, 
 all pretences, had seemed a relief; after that it was 
 she who had gone forward; he who had contradicted 
 her, had ridiculed her. And she loved him. She did 
 not spare herself in her arraignment, but when she 
 lifted her face again, new lines seemed to have been 
 drawn about her lips; and the anguish in her eyes 
 should have made atonement for much. 
 
 It seemed not to be the anguish of repentance, how- 
 ever, for when once more she had resumed her seat, she 
 said aloud : " I lost my temper, and that is usually 
 fatal." What pure folly it had been. Perhaps it 
 would have been wiser to have allowed the girl to 
 marry Mark Witting. To let people have unhindered 
 way was usually a sure revenge. Perhaps it would 
 be wise to send Jane home, and ask for the second girl, 
 Marion. She shook her head; her being sent home 
 might be interpreted as punishment, she was afraid. 
 Already she had risked too much. If Mark Witting 
 should ever know of that drive from Mrs. Cumming's ; 
 she turned pale at the thought. No, Jane must not 
 be sent home ; then there was the possibility that Cres- 
 wick might catch the girl on the rebound. Again, to 
 send the girl away would be to acknowledge failure; 
 she had failed, but why publish it ? It would be wiser 
 
 226 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 to wait, in the hope that pride would send the girl to 
 Creswick. His love and money would give her lib- 
 erty, would revenge her on Mark, would put ' cousin ' 
 out of her life. Anyone but Jane would count up all 
 these advantages. 
 
 Again she got up and moved restlessly about. 
 " And yet I meant well," she said aloud. " I did mean 
 well in taking the child." Passing the window, she 
 caught sight of Jane and Creswick going off with the 
 golf clubs. She stopped. She had not been consult- 
 ed ; she had not been even notified ; it was flat rebellion ! 
 She walked toward the bell, as if to ring for a servant, 
 then turned aside. There were times for blindness, 
 and this was one. The girl had declared her independ- 
 ence, but what more? The saving clause was Cres- 
 wick's presence and patience ; she must keep her hands 
 off and let this do its work. 
 
 How exasperating! and where was Mark Witting? 
 near enough to watch her? She shivered a little; 
 easy-going men like her husband could be terrible ; she 
 had roused him once, long ago, and ever since, in her 
 heart, she had been afraid of him. Why had he not 
 beaten her, trampled upon her? she would have been 
 a happier woman. A brute-beast she would have 
 loved, or a sneering, scornful cynic like Mark. She 
 struck her hands together. Mark, Mark, Mark! she 
 would like to strangle him slowly ; would like to tor- 
 ment him. He loved the girl, but that tortured her 
 as well as him. She could not hurt him without hurt- 
 ing herself, except by marrying Jane to Creswick ; that 
 would be an almost mortal wound. 
 
 227 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 He owed her money; that hurt him. Once more 
 she covered her face with her hands; how he had 
 fought her that time in town, and yet he had taken the 
 money — ^because he loved Jane! She lifted her face; 
 she need not brood over his love for the girl, she must 
 accept that as a fact. She had heard it that day, when 
 she looked into the arbor; she had seen it in his eyes 
 as he returned her look, his angry, miserable, defiant 
 eyes. She must realize clearly that he loved Jane, and 
 work with that always in her calculations. Marry the 
 girl to Creswick, that was the plan ; and another punish- 
 ment would be through the money she had lent him ; 
 he rebelled against that ; she had that hold over him ; 
 she laughed a little. " That ring in his nose," she said 
 aloud. 
 
 She would not send Jane home; but sending for 
 Marion to spend the winter was a good idea ; it would 
 soothe Jane, and perhaps mend her own mistakes ; and 
 in the spring she might send Jane home instead of 
 Marion. It was worth thinking of. 
 
 Creswick, too, was puzzled concerning Jane, espe- 
 cially when one day, about a week after the concert, 
 he came upon her in the post-office paying the post- 
 master money and receiving a box-key in return. The 
 color rushed into the girl's face when she saw him, but 
 she made no explanation during the walk home, and 
 he wondered if Mrs. Saunders knew that the girl had 
 a private box. Of course it was all right, he said to 
 himself over and over again, still it was rather extraor- 
 dinary. Indeed, everything had been queer since that 
 walk he had taken with Jane — she had never gone with 
 
 228 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 him again — and since Mrs. Cumming's tea. Perhaps 
 he had made the mischief by confessing his -affairs to 
 Mrs. Saunders, only that Jane had been queer before 
 that, and since that Mrs. Saunders had been unusually 
 cordial. 
 
 Nor had Jane been so meek as heretofore ; she now 
 boldly differed with Mrs. Saunders, and Mrs. Saun- 
 ders permitted it — laughed at it — made light of it. 
 She plainly was not coercing Jane ; the tables had been 
 turned in some way, and now the girl was hiring a 
 post-office box ! It was all right, of course, but what 
 did it mean ? And Witting seemed to have gone per- 
 manently. Mrs. Saunders spoke of him occasionally; 
 Jane, never. Was he the man she had declared to be 
 ignoble? What could he have said or done? She 
 surely did not care for Witting, surely! Of course 
 not ; but why did she want a private box, and why did 
 she seem so preoccupied ? And she had lost her girlish 
 frankness when with him, and was holding him at such 
 a tremendous distance; and why did she seem now 
 to live in a world of her own, and to have such a set 
 purpose in all that she did? In the mornings, when 
 he strolled over to the Saunders's, he always found Jane 
 studying, and sometimes quite simple things. At last 
 one day he said : " Do you purpose opening a school ? " 
 
 " I don't know," she answered, quietly, almost taking 
 his breath away. 
 
 " Entering college, then ? " 
 
 She shook her head. " You remember my talking 
 one day," looking up at him, " about supporting my- 
 self, and the dreadful conclusion I came to that I did 
 
 229 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 not know how to do anything? Since then I have 
 thought it would be wise to prepare myself to teach at 
 least. I think that I could teach very little children." 
 
 " Will Mrs. Saunders let you go ? " 
 
 " She says not ; but — at all events there is no harm in 
 being prepared, is there ? " 
 
 " None in the world." Then picking up one of the 
 books, " I might help you." 
 
 The color rushed into Jane's face. " Would you ? " 
 she said eagerly, " and — and then you could give me a 
 reference." She had lowered her voice as if afraid. 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 "And it would be just between you and me? " 
 
 " Mrs. Saunders could not object to so laudable an 
 effort." 
 
 " It is not her objection — " Then Jane stopped. 
 " She likes you very much, indeed," she finished after 
 a moment. 
 
 " She is very amiable ; and if not against the wishes 
 of anyone, we can study very nicely these idle morn- 
 ings." 
 
 " I am not sure about her wishes," Jane answered, 
 slowly, " and I shall not ask her ; but you will be very 
 kind to help me — the kindest friend I have ever had." 
 
 A smile flitted across Creswick's lips hearing the em- 
 phasis on " friend," and looking straight into the girl's 
 eyes, he said : " What are friends made for but to 
 help one another ? If you would tell me your difficul- 
 ties, they should be sacred, and I might help you." 
 
 The tears rushed into the girl's eyes, but she turned 
 away her head quickly. " Play school-master," she 
 
 230 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 said, with a quavering laugh, " and when I need a refer- 
 ence, let me come to you. Really, I don't know any 
 arithmetic at all." She had winked her tears away by 
 this, and looked up at him with shining eyes. 
 
 " Arithmetic, then ; can you say the multiplication 
 table?" 
 
 " Seven and nine always worry me." 
 
 " Very well ; have it all ready for me when I come 
 again, and do examples from every division in the first 
 part of the book. You may know it all, of course, and 
 this is only a preliminary canter to see what you can 
 do. Of course you went to a fashionable school." 
 
 " No ; I had governesses." 
 
 " And so will have everything to learn." 
 
 " I know French and German." 
 
 " How are you in history ? " 
 
 " Very weak." 
 
 " I will go home and get some books, then." And 
 taking his hat, he went away. 
 
 Something was wrong, very wrong, he pondered; 
 and what was it? Perhaps she would tell him some 
 day; meanwhile the lessons were an admirable idea. 
 And two or three mornings out of every week found 
 him and Jane really at work. Her eagerness, her in- 
 tense earnestness puzzled him more than ever. She 
 bent all her energies to the tasks he set her ; confessed 
 her ignorance frankly, yet was continually surprising 
 him with some odd corner knowledge that was totally 
 unexpected. 
 
 He was careful not to go to the arbor any oftener 
 than usual, and Mrs. Saunders's maid reporting faith- 
 
 231 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 fully every few days that Mr. Creswick and Miss Jane 
 were reading on the bench, or on the piazza, or in the 
 parlor, as the weather demanded, Mrs. Saunders com- 
 pelled herself to let what seemed " well enough " alone, 
 and put off suggesting that Marion should come. 
 Mark Witting being safely away, this constant inter- 
 course looked favorable for Laurence Creswick. 
 " Calf-love " did not often live or wound very deeply ; 
 it was " the last love," as Mark had sneered. Cres- 
 wick's plans for winning the girl were excellent, under 
 the circumstances, though not wise, as a rule of life, for 
 lovers. Indeed, the only mistake had been her med- 
 dling; and her best plan now was to keep quiet. For 
 this autumn she would not change their resort for Oc- 
 tober, but remain where she was until they could return 
 to town. She found herself strangely weary, strange- 
 ly averse to movement; neither must Jane's affairs be 
 disturbed ; and whatever it was that she and Creswick 
 were maundering over every morning, she would let 
 them alone to work out their own salvation. Yes, she 
 would give herself physical rest, at least ; give up for 
 a time until it was necessary to take a fresh hold on life 
 and the world. 
 
 And to Jane life was a new thing. " I've struck on 
 a rock," she said to herself, " and have knocked a hole 
 in my side " — and she laid her hand on her heart, smil- 
 ing a little — " and the cold, bitter water of experience 
 has rushed in ; has it put out all my fires, I wonder ? " 
 Her heart had been kept in cold storage, Mark had 
 said; and when he laid his hand upon it, it had an- 
 swered, as to the touch of a creator. He had frozen it 
 
 232 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 again with equal facility. But now in place of love a 
 purpose had come to her, and she was working with a 
 will. She would make herself independent, she would 
 build herself up ; and after achievement, she would win 
 for herself some self-respect. Work, action, strife, if 
 necessary, but no more submission, no more gratitude, 
 no more love. Work was best. She remembered some 
 words she had read — " Men say crowns for foreheads, 
 God says ' Sweat.' " God's gift was best ; she would 
 work ; and so occupied was she that she scarcely heed- 
 ed the repose that had come into her days through the 
 cessation of Mrs. Saunders's exacting supervision. 
 All that was different in her environment and treat- 
 ment she put down to her own change of feeling; to 
 her defiance of Mrs. Saunders, while Mr. Saunders was 
 too much of a philosopher to ask questions about such 
 a solid advantage as peace. 
 
 So the weeks moved along with apparent quiet 
 straight up to the time when the move to town for the 
 winter was at hand ; then one day Jane experienced a 
 sensation that, though hoped for, was unexpected, and 
 was a decided shock. She had gone to the post-office 
 to give up her box-key, when she found a letter. She 
 looked at it a moment, as if afraid, then, slipping it 
 quickly into the inside pocket of her coat, she glanced 
 from side to side anxiously. It took only a moment 
 to deliver the key to the post-master, then, going home, 
 she shut herself into her room, locking the door. She 
 took the letter out and laid it on the table, and a sudden 
 terror came over her. What was this thing she was 
 going to do? This common looking letter was a call 
 
 233 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 to her ; a letter that looked as if it should belong to a 
 servant, might decide her future. She could not go 
 to common people ; she could not ! How dared she go 
 at all? How dared she go out from her carefully 
 sheltered life into this unknown world? She had 
 never been permitted to think for herself; she was 
 ignorant, timid, weak. 
 
 She got up and put away her hat and coat, laid her 
 gloves carefully in their box. She was all this, but she 
 need not be silly as well. Then, with exaggerated de- 
 liberation, she opened the letter, and read — 
 
 " J. O. In answer to your advertisement I write to 
 ask if you will consider a position out of New York? 
 If so, will you call on me as soon as possible? I shall 
 require at least one good reference. 
 
 " (Mrs.) Margaret Fenser." 
 
 The peace of the weeks since her outbreak had 
 calmed her ; the work with Creswick had absorbed her ; 
 this call from the outer world, the possibility of which 
 had faded into a dim chance, seemed to turn her whole 
 life upside down by its unexpectedness, and frightened 
 her. Her hands were trembling when she put the let- 
 ter down — this letter that did not look in the least like 
 the letter of a lady, that was not the letter of a lady — 
 and repugnance was added to all the whirl of conflict- 
 ing emotions which now possessed her. 
 
 She had fought steadily against any thought of 
 Mark Witting ; the hurt was too deep for words, even 
 with herself; but now in this moment of decision the 
 
 234 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 first thought was of him. To be out of New York was 
 to be out of sight and hearing of him. It swayed her 
 for a moment, then she put it aside ; she must not be so 
 weak but that she could face that contingency. This 
 must not influence her ; this move must be a matter of 
 principle, not passion. 
 
 To remain would be a virtual acceptance of Mrs. 
 Saunders's terms, which meant marriage with Lau- 
 rence Creswick. A tremor went over her, then she 
 sat still for a moment. Why could she not go home ? 
 All her dreams had centred round that old nursery, her 
 lost fairy-land where so long ago the " trailing clouds 
 of glory " had been torn from her ere their rightful 
 reign was done ; go back to where, perchance, she might 
 yet find some fragments of her lost birthright of love 
 and tenderness. 
 
 The tears welled up and over, but she did not move ; 
 this thing must be decided quietly. To go home to be 
 a burden would be wrong; to go there only to come 
 away again would be a useless struggle; indeed, it 
 would be impossible. Her father would never allow 
 her to go out into the world as a worker. Nor would 
 they ever understand why she had left Mrs. Saunders, 
 because they must never hear the story of all her lonely 
 childhood. Let her parents hear the story of Mark 
 Witting if Mrs. Saunders chose to tell it, but this other 
 knowledge would be for them a bitter and lasting self- 
 condemnation. 
 
 She took a picture from a stand near by. What a 
 strong, patient face ; she must deserve his respect ; but 
 how careworn. " ' Little to earn and many to keep,' " 
 
 235 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 she whispered. " Poor father." And Jim, her dear- 
 est playmate, who would have helped her father now, 
 had been dead so long — so long. How worn and grave 
 his face, how white his hair ; no, she must not let her- 
 self add to that burden ; she must work. 
 
 A decision reached, all excitement seemed to leave 
 her, and very quietly she took up her pen and wrote — 
 
 Mrs. Fenser : 
 
 " I am quite willing to go away from New York, and 
 will see you on next Tuesday morning. I am unavoid- 
 ably out of town until that time. 
 " Very truly, 
 
 " J. Ormonde." 
 
 That would do, and she would mail it immediately, 
 for fear of reaction. She would see this woman, 
 whether she took the position or not. 
 
 " This must be our last lesson," she said to Creswick 
 the next day. " We are leaving on Monday morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " So Mrs. Saunders tells me ; but unless you are pres- 
 ident of a college before the New Year, I don't see 
 why we may not have some sensible mornings this win- 
 ter ; or will you have classes again ? " 
 
 " No, there will be no classes," Jane answered with 
 the quiet decision she had acquired of late ; " and the 
 sensible mornings may be possible, but remember, you 
 have promised to give me a good reference if I need 
 one." 
 
 " Of course ; like this : ' For probity and ability, 
 
 Miss Ormonde has no equal ' " 
 
 236 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " It must not be a joke," Jane interrupted, gravely. 
 
 " You will not trust me with your plans ? " 
 
 " I trusted you that morning on the hill. I told you 
 that I did not think it was honorable to stay with my 
 cousin and yet have no intention of carrying out her 
 views." 
 
 " I see." And Creswick looked deep into the fire. 
 Mrs. Saunders's views were matrimony, and he — he 
 had made a mistake in talking to her that afternoon at 
 Mrs. Cumming's. 
 
 " And you will give me a really serious reference ? " 
 Jane interrupted his thoughts. 
 
 " Yes ; and anything else under heaven that you can 
 ask, if only " 
 
 " Thank you," she said quickly ; " you will help me 
 very much indeed." 
 
 237 
 
XIV 
 
 " Even so we leave behind, 
 As, chartered by some unknown Powers 
 We stem across the sea of life by night. 
 The joys that were not for our use design'd ; — 
 The friend for whom we had no natural right, 
 The homes that were not destined to be ours." 
 
 IT was sleeting, and with all his training Simmons 
 could not conceal his surprise when, on Tuesday 
 morning, Jane told him to order a cab for her. It 
 was a most unheard-of proceeding, and, in addition, 
 her expression was so strange that almost he felt it 
 his duty to report to Mrs. Saunders. This, however, 
 would please Mrs. Saunders and hurt Miss Jane; and, 
 reflecting that the cab would come from a stable where 
 the family was well known, and that a word from him 
 to the coachman would insure safety, he let her go 
 with only a "Yes, Miss Jane," when she said that if 
 Mrs. Saunders asked for her she would be back in 
 an hour. 
 
 Jane had dressed herself in her simplest clothes, she 
 had put on her oldest set of furs, and had provided 
 herself with a written card, yet with all her effort Mrs. 
 Fenser was decidedly surprised and a little over- 
 whelmed at the apparition who came as the original 
 of the advertisement. She looked expensive; there 
 
 238 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 was about the girl a finish that meant the best things 
 of this world; a repose that disconcerted Mrs. Fenser; 
 and she came in a coupe, that, though not a private 
 one, had evidently come from a very reserved stable. 
 It had a mysterious look. 
 
 " It's dreadful weather," Mrs. Fenser began. 
 
 " Yes," Jane answered, looking from the window 
 as if she had not before observed the weather. 
 
 " I'm not in the city for long," Mrs. Fenser went 
 on, " and I wanted good weather to go about in." 
 
 "When do you expect to leave?" 
 
 " I am not sure." 
 
 "And will you want me immediately?" 
 
 " It isn't I who want you," Mrs. Fenser answered, 
 quickly, and a wave of relief swept over Jane. 
 
 The hotel was one of which Jane had never heard, 
 and though it seemed a respectable place, it had given 
 her something of a shock. Then the woman herself 
 was a little appalling. She looked to be a good wom- 
 an, and in good circumstances, and her clothes were 
 in the latest fashion, but the very first glance had made 
 the girl almost ready to turn back. 
 
 " Last winter," Mrs. Fenser went on, " I was or- 
 dered South for my health. I didn't like the place 
 the doctor sent me to, and I moved to another place 
 in the same region of the country. It's in the middle 
 South, a little town, but I liked the people, and I prom- 
 ised them that if they could raise the money I would 
 select a teacher." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "They are plain people, but they are kind people, 
 
 239 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 farmers and the like. They make a difference down 
 there between farmers and planters, you know." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, these are farmers, and they — a few of them 
 — want something better for their children than the 
 free school." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And I don't think that you'll do." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because — ^well, you'd not be satisfied. You look 
 as if you'd been accustomed to a good deal." 
 
 Jane looked down at her clothes. She had felt rather 
 shabby in her present attire, and in consequence a lit- 
 tle depressed, a sort of foretaste of the poverty she was 
 courting. Now a momentary wish swept over her to 
 take this woman home with her, take her into Mrs. 
 Saunders's presence just for a glance! It was only 
 for a second, then she said : " They want a teacher, 
 and I am willing to teach them; I think that is the 
 only question." 
 
 "And after they've paid your way down there, and 
 you don't like it, what then? " 
 
 Jane drew herself up a little. " I don't think that 
 there is any question of my not fulfilling my agree- 
 ment." 
 
 Mrs. Fenser, more puzzled than ever, asked for a 
 reference. Jane drew from her muff a card-case, whose 
 gold-mounted simplicity was exquisite, and from it a 
 slip of paper bearing Laurence Creswick's address. 
 "This is a gentleman under whom I have studied," 
 she said, " and he will satisfy you, I think, and I will 
 
 240 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 call again on Saturday morning." She rose, then 
 added: " If you are satisfied with my recommendation, 
 when will you wish me to go? " 
 
 " They are waiting for you, and the sooner you go 
 the better," Mrs. Fenser answered, while she studied 
 the address. She had hoped for a city address, where 
 she could have asked questions. " Everything is ar- 
 ranged," she went on, " and they will take anyone I 
 send." 
 
 " And you will wish me to leave at once? " 
 
 " The minute I am satisfied about you." 
 
 " Very well; good-morning." 
 
 And Mrs. Fenser, watching from behind the win- 
 dow curtain, decided from her air as she crossed the 
 pavement and gave her orders to the coachman that 
 Jane was decidedly somebody. 
 
 Jane herself was a little breathless. She might have 
 to leave on the next Monday, and she wondered how 
 she would accomplish it. As they had just arrived, 
 her trunks were still in her room; that would simplify 
 matters a good deal. She would pack one trunk with 
 her plainest things; pack all her finery into her other 
 trunks, and hope that Mrs. Saunders would send them 
 to her sisters. And she would not take anything that 
 Mrs. Saunders had given her as presents, but all that 
 her Cousin Henry had given her, especially such things 
 as could, in case of necessity, be sold, and she shivered 
 a little thinking of being so poor as that. 
 
 She might have to go on Monday; she would have 
 to go on Monday, for of course Laurence Creswick 
 would answer promptly and favorably. She began to 
 
 241 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 look out of the windows of the cab with a new-born 
 love for the familiar streets; the ever-shifting crowd 
 grew suddenly dear; the roar and the rush, the clang- 
 ing bells, the thud of the horses' hoofs was suddenly 
 almost like music. She could telegraph Laurence 
 Creswick not to give a favorable reference? 
 
 Reaching home she wrote Creswick warning him of 
 Mrs. Fenser's coming letter, adding: "And will you 
 kindly forbear to tell her anything about me save that 
 I am respectable and able to teach? You have been 
 very good to me, and, believe me, I appreciate it very 
 deeply. Wherever I go I shall write and tell you about 
 it. And do not have any qualms of conscience as to 
 what you are doing, it is all right." 
 
 From this time Jane moved straight on to the ex- 
 citing climax of Saturday morning, when she went to 
 meet Mrs. Fenser. She had had a reassuring note 
 from Creswick, and had no reasonable doubt but that 
 she would be engaged. She would have to find out 
 about trains, and would have to buy her own tickets, 
 and check her own baggage. How would she manage 
 it. Would it not be better and braver to tell Mrs. 
 Saunders, and leave openly? She shook her head. 
 Mrs. Saunders would never permit it; would never 
 permit her to leave; would telegraph her father; would 
 stop at nothing that would prevent this step. No, 
 she must get away as quietly and as quickly as pos- 
 sible; must take a morning train so as to leave before 
 her cousin was up. Fortunately, Mrs. Saunders in- 
 sisted on an early breakfast for Mr. Saunders and Jane, 
 because of the servants, she declared, and because Mr. 
 
 242 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Saunders and Jane had nothing to do, and ought to 
 get up early. This manifest injustice was now de- 
 cidedly in Jane's favor. The expressman should come 
 for her trunk at an early hour, even if it had to be held 
 somewhere until her departure, and she would tell 
 Simmons that it was a trunk which she was sending 
 South. A perfectly true untruth, and she blushed a 
 little; if only she had not to tell the story to a servant! 
 She would find out all about the trains from Mrs. Fen- 
 ser, and see about tickets and the like on her way 
 home. She would leave a note for Mrs. Saunders, en- 
 closing a copy of the explanatory letter which she 
 would mail to her father on Monday morning. She 
 was determined as far as possible to save appearances 
 for Mrs. Saunders. She had no wish to retaliate; her 
 only desire was to save her self-respect, to get away. 
 
 Mrs. Fenser was waiting for her; was perfectly sat- 
 isfied with the recommendation which she had re- 
 ceived, and was inclined to be very patronizing. She 
 wrote down for Jane the route which she was to take, 
 the probable expenses of the journey, and said that 
 she had already written, and would telegraph as to the 
 time of Jane's arrival. That the salary would be fif- 
 teen dollars a month, her board and washing and her 
 ticket from New York. The other travelling expenses 
 Miss Ormonde would have to pay for herself. Adding 
 that as Jane had not said anything as to salary on her 
 first visit, she did not suppose that money was as much 
 of a consideration as a home. 
 
 Money meant very little to Jane. All her life things 
 had been provided for her without her even knowing 
 
 243 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 the cost; so now she did not know whether the salary 
 offered was the usual salary in such a case, but she 
 did not say so, because having shown her ignorance 
 in not asking about the remuneration to be received, 
 she did not want to show any further signs of help- 
 lessness. 
 
 "A home and independence is more to me than 
 money," she said, gravely and so quietly that Mrs. 
 Fenser at once began to feel a regret that she had not 
 tried to get her for less. Not that Mrs. Fenser lost 
 or gained by the transaction, but only that it seemed 
 wrong to her for one to pay any more than one was 
 obliged to pay. Then reflecting that Jane would have 
 to pay for the sleeping-car, she felt that she had not 
 made such a bad bargain after all. 
 
 Jane, meanwhile, wanting to ask a thousand ques- 
 tions, was filled with regrets for her own ignorance. 
 How helpless she was; how she had lived in a dream 
 until that she would have to depend on the man at 
 the ticket-office to instruct her. And now that she 
 was put to it, she did not even know where the ticket- 
 office was. She must go there, however, directly from 
 Mrs. Fenser's, and ask all the questions at once, so 
 that on Monday morning she would know exactly 
 what to do — any hitch might cause discovery. And 
 walking boldly up to the cabman, she said : " I wish 
 to ask about routes to the South; drive me to the 
 proper office," and without a pause they trotted away 
 briskly down the street, Jane sitting well back, afraid 
 of being seen by some chance acquaintance. 
 
 She was excited and very nervous, and when she 
 244 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 reached the ofiSce she could scarcely ask her questions. 
 Indeed, she scarcely knew what to ask, and ended by 
 showing the clerk the route which Mrs. Fenser had 
 written out for her, and saying that she wanted a ticket 
 to that point. 
 
 " We can sell you a ticket only to this point," and 
 the man put his pencil down on the next to the last 
 name on the list. " From there you take a local train. 
 By leaving Monday morning you'll get there Tuesday 
 evening; ticket, twenty-three dollars ; sleeping-car, six. 
 You'll have time to get your ticket on Monday morn- 
 ing. Leave this side at ten-fifty." 
 
 "This side?" 
 
 " Yes, ferry. That man back there attends to bag- 
 gage." 
 
 Jane was a little bewildered, but went to the man 
 designated to ask further questions. Again she showed 
 Mrs. Fenser's directions. Yes, they would send for 
 the trunk at nine o'clock on Monday morning; would 
 check it at the house; she could pay now or then. 
 She paid at once, and returning to the cab was driven 
 home. 
 
 Nine o'clock. Mrs. Saunders would be safe enough ; 
 but Mr. Saunders would be reading his papers in the 
 study. He never left the house until just before his 
 wife came down-stairs. Why could she not excuse 
 herself from breakfast that morning? It would cause 
 too many questions. Mr. Saunders would have to be 
 told just what she had decided to tell Simmons; it 
 was a trunk being sent South. They would think that 
 it was going to her mother for the younger girls. Mrs. 
 
 245 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Saunders always sent Jane's worn things down to be 
 done over for her sisters. 
 
 Already she felt tired and harassed with the un- 
 usual sensations of deciding and acting for herself, 
 while at the same time she was surprised that she 
 could act for herself; she did not realize that the self- 
 control of all her life had gone to make character, but 
 only that she was doing more than she had thought 
 herself capable of doing; as it was, the load of respon- 
 sibility seemed terrible. How she got through Sun- 
 day she scarcely knew, and in church she was in a 
 state of nervous terror lest by some chance Mrs. Fen- 
 ser should appear on the scene. But she got home 
 safely, and declined to go to the afternoon service. 
 Never before in her life had she ventured on such 
 action; not even since her revolt, which had been 
 passive rather than active; and the color deepened in 
 Mrs. Saunders's face. She refrained from words, but 
 decided to send for Marion at once. Jane was becom- 
 ing dangerously restive and must be kept quiet until 
 the spring, then if she did not marry Laurence Cres- 
 wick she could be sent home and Marion adopted. 
 This would have no look of failure for Mrs. Saunders, 
 or of hard treatment in the eyes of Mark Witting, and 
 from the proceedings of Laurence Creswick and Jane 
 up to the time when Jane returned to town Mrs. Saun- 
 ders drew the conclusion that an engagement between 
 them was only a matter of patience. 
 
 So now, though angry, Mrs. Saunders swept away 
 in silence to church, and Jane sat down to write her 
 letters of explanation. She wrote and rewrote; she 
 
 246 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 tore up many sheets of paper, but at last she found 
 herself with three notes lying side by side on the desk 
 before her. 
 
 " My dear Father: 
 
 " I am taking a step of which I am afraid you will 
 not approve. I cannot rest any longer in useless idle- 
 ness, and I am going out as a teacher. I have found 
 the position myself, quite of my own motion, and by 
 the time that this reaches you I shall be teaching my lit- 
 tle school. I beg that you will believe that I am doing 
 this from a good motive; but if you must blame some- 
 one, blame me only. Cousin Jane and Cousin Henry 
 have not consented to my going, and have not written 
 to you about it because I have not told them of my 
 intention any sooner than I am telling you. As soon 
 as I reach my destination I shall write to you. Be- 
 lieve that I am true to the best that I know, dear 
 father, and trust me. 
 
 " Your loving daughter, 
 
 " Jane." 
 " My dear Cousin Henry : 
 
 " Do not blame anyone but me. I am running away 
 to earn my own living. So much has been done for 
 me that I am oppressed by my own uselessness. I 
 am doing this entirely of myself, and please forgive 
 me. All my life you have been so good to me ; please 
 be good once more and forgive me. I love you very 
 much, and, if you will let me, I shall be so glad to 
 write to you. Lovingly, 
 
 " Jane," 
 247 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " I am afraid that you will be very much shocked, 
 Cousin, and that I will seem to have deceived you; 
 but, as we have never been confidential, I do not feel 
 that this is so much the case as it would be under 
 other circumstances. I have had this in mind ever 
 since the afternoon at Mrs. Cumming's, and have 
 planned it carefully. I am going out as a teacher to 
 a respectable place in the South. I do not give you 
 the address now for several reasons. I enclose a copy 
 of the letter which I have sent to my father, so that 
 you can see just what I have told him. You are at 
 liberty to make what explanations you please; my 
 explanation to you is that I cannot continue to be 
 dependent on you after what has passed between us. 
 You will find all my trunks packed to do with as you 
 please. I have taken only my plainest and most worn 
 things. 
 
 "Jane Ormonde." 
 
 All Sunday evening she read, or seemed to read; 
 all Sunday night she packed; sorting, arranging, de- 
 stroying, pausing only when she came to the doll's 
 trunk. 
 
 The nursery was still her room, and she knelt down 
 now in front of the doll-house as before an altar where 
 much had been sacrificed. She had taken up the lit- 
 tle trunk that had been her childhood's coflEer to empty 
 it, when the dead eyes of the staring dolls seemed to fix 
 her. Horrid shams they had seemed to her when com- 
 pared with her home play. There the dolls had slept 
 in the real trundle-beds; had sat in the children's real 
 
 248 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 little chairs about the big, real nursery fire; had swung 
 in the trees and vines, just as the children did; had 
 helped to cook when they played camp out in the big 
 pine woods, and Mawm Elsie had gathered them up 
 just as carefully as she had the children before they 
 journeyed back to the house. Those rag effigies had 
 seemed real; these dolls had seemed shams, and their 
 house, and furniture, and painted fireplaces were all 
 shams, and her childish heart had rebelled against 
 them. Now they seemed to look at her reproachfully, 
 and to her astonishment she found that she was look- 
 ing at them regretfully. So often in her homesick 
 misery she had sat there; so often in her loneliness 
 she had gazed at them that the strongest associations 
 of her life, she found now, were wrapped around that 
 despised doll-house — that row of stark images. The 
 shallow little apartments seemed to be overcrowded 
 with regrets, with resolutions, with renunciations; her 
 childish resolutions to run away were jostling her 
 childish longings for home; were in their turn being 
 pushed out of the way by her childish despair and 
 renunciation. 
 
 Once more those resolutions had come to life; were 
 this time to be carried out, and she had come for her 
 childish store to help her. Almost it seemed as if the 
 dolls, the furniture, the very kitchen pots and pans 
 would rise and speak when she was gone; would tell 
 Mrs. Saunders all the pathetic tragedy of the child's 
 empty life. The tears came, and she was shaken by 
 a sob. She started up, this would not do, and she 
 walked quickly to her writing-table where she emptied 
 
 249 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 the contents of the doll's trunk. A few articles of 
 clothing belonging to the mother of the doll family, 
 then the little purse which her Cousin Henry had 
 given her to comfort her on the day of Jim's death. 
 The blankness of that day, the misery, the mystery; 
 but did she know much more now, was she suffering 
 much less? 
 
 She crowded the doll's clothes back into the trunk; 
 she had no time to think, to remember; she would 
 have no time to sleep, and the maid calling her at the 
 usual time the next morning found her already dressed. 
 
 " I wish you to leave my room untouched," she said, 
 " until I come back." 
 
 The girl vanished, and Jane went swiftly down to 
 buy her ticket, returning in time for breakfast. Sim- 
 mons looked at her curiously as he let her in, but he 
 held his peace. She poured out Mr. Saunders's coffee 
 with her hat on, explaining that she was going out 
 immediately after breakfast, and was up-stairs when 
 Simmons came to announce that a man had come for 
 a trunk. 
 
 " Yes, it is to go South," she said; " send him up. 
 As it is not very heavy," she went on, " he will not 
 need any help," and there was a deprecating look be- 
 hind the light of excitement shining in the pretty eyes 
 that touched the heart of the old servant, who had 
 watched the girl from her childhood. Years ago he 
 had reduced Mrs. Saunders to a proper appreciation 
 of himself and his rights, and perhaps Miss Jane was 
 about to do the same thing, perhaps some day even 
 Mr. Saunders would do it. This thought made him 
 
 250 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 once more hold his peace, not only so, but on passing 
 the door of the study, where Mr. Saunders was read- 
 ing the paper, he discreetly closed it, and further 
 effaced himself by retiring to the pantry, so that Jane, 
 with her bag clumsily concealed by a wrap thrown 
 over her arm, left the house, as she thought, totally 
 unsuspected. 
 
 Later, Simmons found two notes in the letter-box," 
 and at lunch Mrs. Saunders said: "As Jane insisted 
 on going home, I am glad that she has gone so early 
 in the season, before I have sent out my cards; and 
 just as Marion is coming on to me, it is fortunate," 
 and she helped herself largely to the cold chicken 
 which Simmons handed her. 
 
 Mr. Saunders did not answer, nor did he eat his 
 lunch, nor did he come home to his dinner, leaving 
 word with Simmons that he would dine at the club 
 and go to the country early in the morning. It seemed 
 a simple message, but Mrs. Saunders trembled uncon- 
 trollably when Simmons left her. Mark Witting be- 
 longed to that club, and if he were in town? She must 
 take something to steady her nerves, for there was 
 much to do. 
 
 In a cab she went to the telegraph office, where she 
 spent some time, then home again to write voluminous 
 letters. Every sound seemed to startle her, but the 
 next day passed quietly. The third, however, brought 
 a card, and though she turned her back as if to catch 
 the light on it, Simmons could see the deadly pallor 
 that spread over her face. 
 
 She entered the drawing-room slowly, closing the 
 251 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 door behind her. No greetings were said, but there 
 was a long look, on his side of suspicion, on her side 
 of deprecation. "The girl went of her own accord," 
 she said at last. " How did you hear? " 
 
 " That does not matter," Mark answered ; " I heard, 
 and I came to see, and, seeing you, I believe that she 
 went of her own accord," then he turned on his heel. 
 
 " Will you not stop a moment? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders was calmer now, and her eyes were 
 regaining their usual expression. 
 
 "Jane's younger sister is coming to me," she said; 
 " I had a telegram yesterday. You will call? " 
 
 Mark turned to look at her. " I stay in town be- 
 cause I am going to try to work," he answered, " to 
 pay my debts." 
 
 " From the pictures we have had," Mrs. Saunders 
 went on, " the girl is pretty. I feel quite excited about 
 it. Dine with us next Monday, the usual hour; why 
 give the world cause for talk? " 
 
 Mark stood still thinking. " No," he said at last, 
 " the world must not be set talking about Jane," and 
 without another look he left her. 
 
 252 
 
XV 
 
 " I felt begin 
 The Judgment-Day ; to retrocede 
 Was too late now. ' In very deed.' 
 (I uttered to myself) ' that Day ! ' 
 The intuition burned away 
 All darkness from my spirit too ; 
 There, stood I, found and fixed, I knew, 
 Choosing the world. The choice was made ; 
 And naked and disguiseless stayed, 
 And unevadable the fact." 
 
 NEVER mind how true our aim, nor how high 
 the principle by which we have been moved, 
 there comes after every great decision in life an up- 
 heaval of doubt. Perhaps we have acted only after 
 carefully weighing and analyzing each motive; after 
 carefully considering every possible consequence; go- 
 ing slowly, and guarding each step; but even so, to 
 our secretly appalled eyes each onward movement 
 seems to reveal a new point of view, a new light, an 
 unexpected shadow, and the demoralizing doubts 
 crowd about us, thrusting cold questions in between 
 each flash of hope, and chilling the very marrow of 
 our bones. " After all," we say, " how much we have 
 staked, how reckless we have been ! " And our poor 
 humanity can only draw the mantle of outward as- 
 
 253 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 surance more close, trying to hide from the world at 
 least the gnawing doubts. 
 
 So it was on a dreary November day in the 
 Southern hill-country, Jane, in a state of absolute de- 
 morahzation, stood at the window of a small detached 
 building waiting for her scholars to gather, and star- 
 ing out on surroundings that in the autumn grayness 
 looked, to say the least, dismal. All the nameless ter- 
 rors that had beset her journey from the moment when 
 she closed the door of her home in New York, volun- 
 tarily shutting herself out from all she knew, thrusting 
 herself, alone and unprotected, into the world, all these 
 were as nothing compared with the doubts that now 
 assailed her. 
 
 There had been terrors of being absolutely alone; 
 terrors of being lost; terrors of being found; terrors 
 of losing her money, her tickets, her check ; terrors of 
 being in the wrong sleeper, of being spoken to, of 
 being forgotten; terrors of being put out at a small 
 junction in the dusk of a drizzling winter's evening. 
 Small terrors that shut out for the time being the 
 questions of real import — what she had left, and what 
 she would find. Still these formless fears born of ig- 
 norance and a sheltered life were desperately real, and 
 taught her surely that dreadful lesson of how a life- 
 time can be crowded into a few hours. All of these 
 shadows had now assumed their proper place m the 
 perspective of experience, and a new set of fears, which 
 took the less answerable form of doubts, assailed her. 
 
 It had been a tragic moment when she closed the 
 door of her home behind her, cutting her past life ofif 
 
 254 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 so sharply, so decisively, and the sound of that softly 
 clicking latch, that moved so easily and fastened so 
 surely, had seemed to echo all up and down the street. 
 She had paused for a moment, almost hoping that 
 Simmons would come out to investigate, or that Mr. 
 Saunders would come out on his way to the club. 
 Then a ridiculous panic of losing her trunk, of being 
 left, had seized her, and she had rushed away to meet 
 innumerable other fears that now fell back into noth- 
 ingness as compared with the shutting of that door. 
 The dark green color of it came vividly before her; 
 the shining brass knobs; the great door-mat, with the 
 number of the house woven in ; the small brass circle 
 where the real latch was that had clicked so fatefully! 
 She heard it now, it seemed to echo all about her, 
 until she asked herself if she were perfectly sane. 
 
 Had she not been a fool to come away? Mrs. Saun- 
 ders had trampled on her all her life; at the last had 
 treated her cruelly. As far as she could see, Mrs. 
 Saunders had only managed her as she managed every- 
 one else, even her own husband. Mrs. Saunders had 
 seen that she was being deceived by a man unworthy 
 of trust ; had unveiled him ; ought she not to be grate- 
 ful to Mrs. Saunders? 
 
 And this life that she had elected to live; this in- 
 dividuality and self-respect that she had determined 
 to build up; what would it amount to? Was it worth 
 the confusion and distress which she knew that she 
 had caused? The distress to her father and mother, 
 the confusion and mortification to the Saunders who 
 had done everything for her? She ought to go back 
 
 255 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 to them on her knees and ask pardon. But even that 
 she could not do; the shutting of that door had been 
 irrevocable. Irrevocable — the word filled her with a 
 sense of despair that was overpowering. The words 
 " too late " were tragic in a way, but they had a sense 
 of accident about them; " irrevocable " had a sense of 
 blunder, of final judgment, of a sorrowful great Angel 
 that stood with flaming sword to guard forever the 
 path one had left. Was there any suffering in life 
 more dreadful than this terrible word expressed? 
 
 She must put it aside; to look back was madness. 
 The only hope was to go on, to stand to the position 
 she had taken. She must still know positively that 
 Mrs. Saunders was a tyrant; she must never forget 
 that the flesh of Mrs. Saunders's hands was as firm 
 and as hard as bone; she must remember the money, 
 the soap, the rag-doll! How absurd! And Creswick 
 should have remonstrated with her. 
 
 She turned away from the window restlessly, and 
 went to another. From each one the prospect was 
 the same. Tall, bare trees dripping with the fine mist 
 and tossing wildly in the wind; the ground covered 
 with fallen leaves, sodden and wet, packed down by 
 the rain. In front, a stony road going down the hill 
 and soon becoming the main street of the town. To 
 one side, and a little back from the small building, a 
 large, old-fashioned house surrounded by the never- 
 failing piazza of the region. From the front steps a 
 bricked walk down to the gate, and from the same 
 front steps a little path, a mere line over the grass, to 
 this small detached building which was called the 
 
 256 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Office," which was the school-room, the scene of 
 Jane's labors, and now of her bitter self-communings. 
 
 She had arrived the night before in a pouring rain; 
 had been met by a fatherly man who had brought her 
 to his home, where his wife and children had given 
 her a welcome that was composed of kindly cordiality 
 and unfeigned astonishment. The husband and father 
 had seen only a handsome girl who was different from 
 what he had been led to expect; the wife saw a girl 
 who looked strangely like a very fine lady. What had 
 Mrs. Fenser been thinking of! She could not give 
 orders or even advice to this teacher, and how would 
 the other mothers who were to share the expenses like 
 this type? And in the memory of the housewife the 
 room prepared for the stranger seemed to grow big- 
 ger and more barren with every step that they took 
 toward it. The lamp she carried made only an oasis 
 of light where she put it down on the corner of the 
 old-fashioned dressing-table; their footsteps resounded 
 forlornly on the bare floor as they left the bit of car- 
 pet beside the bed and made their way to the other 
 bit of carpet in front of the fireplace, and the big 
 tongs lapped its legs exasperatingly as she tried to 
 push the fire into a blaze. 
 
 She laughed a little nervously as she wrestled with 
 them, and Jane had said : " I am so glad to have an 
 open fire in my room; it is beautiful." 
 
 Her words seemed to right the tongs, and Mrs. 
 Dunlap pushed up the fire triumphantly as she an- 
 swered : " Yes, we are old-fashioned, and love old- 
 fashioned things. My husband would be lost if any- 
 
 257 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 thing were changed, and so would I be; and it's just 
 as well," she had added, looking up at Jane with an 
 effort that made her words seem a little bit defiant, 
 " for we couldn't have anything different if we tried. 
 We are content, Miss Ormonde, and we hope that 
 you will be." 
 
 " I am sure that I shall be," Jane had answered, 
 confidently; then Mrs. Dunlap had helped her take off 
 her damp coat, the satin lining of which had given her 
 a turn, and had put her hat away on a shelf in a cav- 
 ernous closet. She had opened Jane's bag for her also, 
 and had looked with some dismay on the shining con- 
 tents. This young woman was mysterious; with such 
 evidences of wealth why did she undertake a little 
 country school? For to Mrs. Dunlap a satin lining 
 and silver brushes seemed to mean untold wealth, 
 almost wicked wealth, and surreptitiously she had ex- 
 amined her guest's face. That was all right, she 
 thought, but some things about her were strange. 
 This was not at all the kind of teacher that Mrs. Fen- 
 ser had promised to send, and she had gone down- 
 stairs to talk it over with her husband, telling Jane 
 that her daughter Nannie would come for her when 
 supper was ready. 
 
 The clean, unpretentious simplicity had pleased Jane, 
 and after having done what she could without her 
 trunk to remove the stains of travel, she had sat down 
 in front of the fire to wait. But not even then had the 
 real and serious questions of her actions come to her. 
 Her first thought had been that her father and mother 
 would just be hearing of her flight, and in New York 
 
 258 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 they would be getting ready for dinner. Three days 
 ago, at this very hour, she had been getting ready 
 for dinner! 
 
 She had looked about her vaguely. Was it not all 
 a dream? would she not soon awaken to find the maid 
 at her bedside, saying, " Miss Jane, will you please get 
 up and go to the early service, Mrs. Saunders says 
 that she does not like the pew to be empty always"? 
 What would Mrs. Saunders think if she could see her 
 now? — or Laurence Creswick, or Mark Witting! She 
 took up the tongs and made a lunge at the fire; the 
 wrong log tumbled down, and the tongs pinched her 
 fingers. She got up hastily and went to the basin- 
 stand. Just then a timid knock had sounded on the 
 door, and a little girl coming in, said softly that sup- 
 per was ready. 
 
 "Are you Nannie?" Jane had asked. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, and mother says you'd better shut 
 your door to keep your room warm, and please to see 
 if your fire's safe." 
 
 " Do you think it safe, Nannie?" 
 
 " Not very," and picking up the big tongs the child 
 pushed the logs together deftly, then looked up at 
 Jane, her big eyes shining out from between the two 
 tight plaits of hair that adorned each temple. 
 
 " That's very nice," Jane commented, then taking 
 the child's rough little hand in hers, she had gone 
 with her down-stairs. There was quite a breeze in 
 the hall and down the stairway, and she could hear 
 the dismal pour of the rain outside; but a big fire 
 sparkled in the dining-room, and the other children, 
 
 259 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 looking awe-stricken and sleek, stood silently, each 
 behind its chair; Mr. Dunlap mumbled a grace diffi- 
 dently, and they sat down to a table literally loaded 
 with food. The conversation had been more or less 
 constrained, Mrs. Dunlap and Jane doing all of it, and 
 the arrival of the trunk in a farm wagon was a great 
 relief, for Mr. Dunlap, going out to give orders to the 
 negroes, the children had followed to watch operations. 
 
 This had ended the last of Jane's terrors. She had 
 arrived safely, and her trunk was successfully landed 
 and under her own eye; she had not experienced any 
 disagreeable occurrence, nor had she lost anything, 
 and so relieved was she to have reached the haven for 
 which she had embarked that she had gone to her bed 
 and to sleep without one doubt as to the wisdom or 
 righteousness of her course. 
 
 All this, the arrival and the subsequent peace of 
 mind, seemed now to be weeks away; her breakfast, 
 eaten by lamp-light, seemed days ago; the early din- 
 ner which she had just finished marked only the 
 hour of twelve, and what should she do with the 
 appalling amount of time that seemed to be heaping 
 up on her hands. All the morning, between nine 
 and twelve, she had been teaching, or rather trying 
 to find out what the children knew. Ten children, 
 ranging from six to twelve, and so far exceedingly 
 well-behaved — three little Dunlaps, three little Tom- 
 kins, two little Millers, one little Wheeler, and one 
 child named Beaton. Had she been as quiet as these 
 children? When Mrs. Saunders took her had she been 
 as unresponsive? As she remembered herself, she had 
 
 260 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 teemed with dreams and longings. Were these chil- 
 dren like that and afraid to show it? Perhaps out- 
 wardly she had been as still and as dumb, and Mrs. 
 Saunders had not seen any deeper, and had not found 
 her interesting — had kept her from a sense of duty. 
 
 Perhaps, after all, it was her cousin who had needed 
 sympathy and pity through all these years. To be 
 hampered always by an unresponsive, silent creature, 
 who did everything from a sense of duty; who had 
 never forgotten the loss of her few possessions. But 
 even now, under all its load of doubt, her heart swelled 
 at the memory of that far-off, lonely child. She had 
 been terribly homesick, and doubtless sullen, and per- 
 haps very troublesome to Mrs. Saunders. And now 
 what distress and confusion she had caused! For 
 even if they did not love her — and she knew perfectly 
 well that Mr. Saunders did love her — think of their 
 anxiety as to her whereabouts; as to her fitness to 
 judge of people; as to her ignorance of so much that 
 one ought to know before setting forth alone. She 
 had been cruel! 
 
 She would write to Mrs. Saunders — to everybody — 
 this very afternoon. She had found that her own name 
 and the name of the town would be sufiScient, as let- 
 ters were not delivered. She would not be obliged to 
 give Mr. Dunlap's name, and Mrs. Saunders could not 
 write to anyone. And it would be something to do 
 to go to the post-office every morning before school; 
 those long hours which had seemed Uke half a day 
 would be very well spent in going after the letters that 
 came in the evening on the train, just as she had come. 
 
 261 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 She did wonder a little that Mr. Dunlap did not go 
 for the letters in the evening, but he did not, and she 
 would have to go for her own in the morning. 
 
 Perhaps she ought to telegraph. Letters were so 
 slow, and they had already suffered for thirty-six hours 
 and more. What an idiot she was ! The moment school 
 was over she would run down and send telegrams to 
 everyone. She ought to have done it the night be- 
 fore; of course no one would ever forgive her — they 
 ought not. She actually deserved punishment, she 
 who had looked on herself almost as an escaped mar- 
 tyr; had been afraid that something would be done 
 to detain her or to turn her back. She had esteemed 
 herself so valuable, and all the while she had been a 
 burden, and as soon as they were assured of her safety 
 her absence would be a relief. 
 
 The moment that school was over she would send 
 the telegrams. Was there ever such an idiot? and 
 again she moved about impatiently. Would the chil- 
 dren never finish their lunch? — she must get those 
 telegrams off. Fortunately it was clearing. 
 
 And this life that she had come to, what was there 
 in it; what future? To vegetate here in this little 
 country town on fifteen dollars a month. And she 
 must be very careful of her clothes, for in unpacking 
 that morning she seemed to have brought very few, 
 and yet she had brought everything that had seemed 
 to her to be plain and substantial. At all events, the 
 large trunks of things which she had left would be a 
 great thing for her younger sisters; that small good 
 would come out of her flight — that is, if Mrs. Saunders 
 
 262 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 would do with them as she had always done with 
 Jane's worn things. And another thing, she was 
 nearer to her home now than she had ever been be- 
 fore; her heart leaped; she drew her hand slowly 
 across her eyes. Beyond the dark clouds of doubt a 
 little light of dawn began to creep up, a faint tinge 
 and glow of soft color that slowly but surely enlight- 
 ened the dreary day. A brand-new realization began 
 to take possession of her, almost bewildering her. 
 
 She had been so much absorbed by her wrongs, by 
 her preparations to escape, by the terrors of her jour- 
 ney, by her doubts, that no thought of results had 
 come to her until this moment. Now for the first 
 time she realized that she had set herself free — free! 
 She could go to her own home if she wished! A sort 
 of exhilaration took possession of her, a grand reac- 
 tion. Free — think of it! — free to come and go; free 
 to be poor, to starve if she liked. All the blood in her 
 body seemed to be dancing; what a wonderful dis- 
 covery she had made; what a marvellous thing she 
 had done! 
 
 All her life, whenever she had been placed in any 
 position, if it were only sitting in a chair, she had been 
 obliged to stay there until someone had been pleased 
 to give her permission to move; now it was all 
 changed, she belonged to herself — she was free! She 
 had done wrong, perhaps had done Mrs. Saunders in- 
 justice; nevertheless, she was almost compelled to sing 
 with joy. The possible sending home of her trunks 
 was nothing, other wonderful good was emerging from 
 the move she had made; the wrong was not, could 
 
 263 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 not possibly be, in the step she had taken, but only 
 in the way in which she had taken it. Her spirits con- 
 tinued to rise, and when the afternoon session was 
 over she asked Mrs. Dunlap if, as it was no longer 
 raining, the children could go with her to the telegraph- 
 ofifice. All the children seemed to have to go home 
 in the same direction, and all were wild to escort the 
 new teacher, all except little Beaton, her home was 
 farther out in the country, and her father always sent 
 for her. 
 
 " Is it very far to your home? " Jane asked. 
 
 " Not very." 
 
 " Then we will walk home with you first." 
 
 The child took hold of Jane's wrist with both hands. 
 " I'd like to go to the telegraph-ofifice," she whispered. 
 
 " Do you think that she may," Jane asked, " if we 
 take her home afterward? " 
 
 "They'll be with you all the time," Mrs. Dunlap 
 answered; "yes, I'll tell the servant." 
 
 It was down-hill all the way, and Jane walking 
 briskly, the children skipped and trotted about her, 
 and the towns-people they passed stared. Jane was 
 a new sensation, and of course a teacher coming all 
 the way from New York was much talked about in 
 advance. Up to this time the town had not acknowl- 
 edged that there were any social distinctions; and if 
 some had looked down on some others, no one had 
 ever acknowledged that they looked up, at least not 
 since the Civil War had reduced them all to the same 
 financial plane. But now a change had crept in, and 
 the people who in secret had always looked down had 
 
 264 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 drawn together and had taken their children from the 
 pubUc school. They had always wanted to do it, they 
 said, but were only now financially able. And the re- 
 tort came quickly that the financial ability was due to 
 Ned Beaton ; and to this there seemed to be no definite 
 answer. 
 
 So the murmurs had crept about the town, and the 
 people waited with much curiosity to see the teacher 
 whom Mrs. Fenser would send; Mrs. Fenser herself 
 having caused much comment as being able to spend 
 the winter at the hotel and being able to dress as no 
 one in Stony Ridge had ever been seen to dress. Un- 
 conscious of all this, Jane with her little troop went 
 through the town to the railway station, which was 
 on the other side with the post-office and the tele- 
 graph-office, and where she sent away her messages 
 as quickly as possible. "Arrived safely; will write." 
 Sending one to Mrs. Saunders, one to her father, and, 
 after a moment's thought, one to Laurence Creswick 
 — as he had helped her away, he would be anxious. 
 It was the only atonement she could make, these tele- 
 grams and — success! She must succeed, she would 
 succeed, there was no middle ground for her now. 
 
 The excitement that had taken hold of her was vent- 
 ing itself in the nearest thing — laughter with the chil- 
 dren. She was young, she was strong, she was free. 
 She would have liked to run races with them, and she 
 laughed still more at the thought of the teacher run- 
 ning races through the town ! Perhaps when they got 
 out to the country once more, beyond the Dunlaps, 
 then she could have a little run. She had had so few 
 
 265 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 runs in her life; reckless runs, without any thought 
 of onlookers or of propriety ; and never without a maid 
 to say, " Mind your dress, Miss Jane." What a long 
 list of interfering maids she could remember. 
 
 Back through the town they went, Jane looking 
 about her curiously, and as, on their return trip, the 
 children reaching their respective corners turned ofif, 
 watching them until they were out of sight. The chil- 
 dren had grown quite friendly with her by this time, 
 beginning by dubbing her " Miss Jane," and by asking 
 her all sorts of questions. At last Nannie said: 
 
 " Mother says you're rich, Miss Jane, 'cause you've 
 got silver brushes." 
 
 " You must not tell what your mother says," Jane 
 corrected. 
 
 " My mummy had silver brushes," Tena Beaton 
 put in, "but I don't know where they are, I don't 
 know — " then she paused and looked up at Jane. She 
 was a frail little creature, with hands like bird-claws, 
 and beseeching eyes that at a moment's notice looked 
 terrified. 
 
 " Many, many people have silver brushes," Jane an- 
 swered ; " it is the fashion ; it does not mean anything. 
 It's much nicer to live in the country than to have 
 silver brushes." They were climbing the long street 
 that would take them to their home on the hill-top, 
 and beyond into the country where Tena Beaton lived. 
 " And when we get out of the town," Jane went on, 
 " perhaps we'll run some races." 
 
 " You, too? " the children cried. 
 
 " Yes, and we'll be so hungry that we'll eat up all 
 266 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 the supper, and so tired that we'll go straight to bed 
 and to sleep." 
 
 " I wish I could come and live with you," and Tena 
 looked up longingly. 
 
 " You will come to school every day, and often we 
 will bring you home," Jane said, and clasped the little 
 hand she held more closely. 
 
 They had reached the top of the street by this, and 
 passing the Dunlap's were out in the open country. 
 A brisk wind was blowing, drying up the wet world, 
 and driving the sullen clouds before it. Far down in 
 the west there was a pale-green rift in the gray, long 
 and narrow, that more and more glowed into burning 
 gold as the sun, descending, neared it. 
 
 " Look! " Jane cried, "yonder is a big hole in the 
 sky, see? The wind has torn it for the sun, and 
 presently the sun will look through. Maybe he will 
 see us and wink! " 
 
 The children were breathless. 
 
 " Shut your eyes tight," Jane went on, setting the 
 example, " and see who will feel the sun first." 
 
 Every eye closed to the extent of wrinkling all the 
 little faces. There was a tense silence; a blaze of red 
 sunlight that glorified the gray, and a cry of childish 
 trebles — "He's winking — he's winking!" 
 
 " And now we'll have a race," and picking up her 
 skirts, Jane sped away. On and on she went against 
 the bracing wind, losing gradually the sound of the 
 children's feet. Suddenly the road ran into the shadow 
 of a wood. The girl stopped abruptly. It was so 
 dark, it must be later than she had thought, and she 
 
 267 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 had left her watch in the school-room! Perhaps they 
 had passed the Beaton place. She was not really fit 
 to take care of herself, much less these children. Here 
 they came, poor little souls. Joey Dunlap first, then 
 Nannie, and Mamie, and Tena, all of them breathless. 
 
 " How fast you can run ! " and Joey looked up in 
 admiration. " I didn't know ladies could run." 
 
 " And how'd you know that this was Mr. Beaton's 
 place? " Nannie asked next. Then once more Tena 
 seized her hand. 
 
 " Is this Mr. Beaton's place? " and Jane looked over 
 the old picket fence gray with lichens, into the woods 
 beyond. 
 
 " Yes," Tena answered, " but it's far to the gate and 
 far to the house. Oh! I wish I could live with you, 
 Miss Jane." 
 
 " Perhaps we'll find a princess sleeping in this 
 wood," and Jane peered over the fence. " Who 
 knows?" and she laughed as she looked at the round 
 blue eyes of the little Dunlaps, set in such stolid little 
 faces, framed in such very sandy hair. Was she not 
 daring to expect to find imagination in them? But 
 not so Tena. 
 
 Presently they came to two solid stone posts, and 
 between them a wide iron gate. From this a road 
 wound away into the woods. The little Dunlaps 
 looked with some awe at Jane as she swung the gate 
 open and led the way in, while she observed with some 
 curiosity the sudden irruption of good work and ma- 
 terial into the long length of old fence. And yet the 
 stone posts did not look new, nor was there any spe- 
 
 268 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 cial finish about them, and the gate, too, was simple 
 enough; still, it gave Jane a different feeling to the 
 place. For awhile the road was like any other rough 
 way through a forest, then suddenly there were signs 
 of clearing; then an abrupt turn and the wood showed 
 almost like a park, and was evidently of long standing. 
 The trees were large, and the land sloped upward to 
 where on the highest spot a house stood. The grass 
 was thick and fine, and all about were cows and horses 
 grazing. It was pretty, and Jane liked it; it looked as 
 if it were a home where happy people lived, and had 
 lived for years. 
 
 Nearer they went, the children not heeding the cattle 
 that gave Jane a little tremor, but advancing eagerly. 
 
 " We've never been here before," Nannie whispered, 
 and Jane's imagination received a fillip. 
 
 Soon they saw that about the house there was 
 another fence, enclosing it and a large garden from 
 the intrusion of the cattle, and that the house, a square, 
 two-story building, was of brick. The children had 
 become very quiet, and Nannie had straightened her 
 own and her sister's hat in a responsible, motherly way 
 she had, and had pulled down Joey's jacket. Jane 
 watched, she was finding these children more inter- 
 esting than she had thought, and wondered what 
 prompted Nannie's propriety. On nearer view the 
 place lost the homelike look. The garden was neg- 
 lected, and the house seemed entirely shut up. In 
 fact, it began to look deserted, desolate, and while won- 
 dering more at Nannie's desire to appear well, she 
 wondered less at Tena's evident reluctance to return 
 
 269 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 home. Perhaps they were plain people living in a 
 good place, and so occupying only the back of the 
 house. Then she remembered that Mrs. Dunlap had 
 spoken of a servant being sent for the child, and the 
 father's not wishing her to go about alone, and though 
 servants seemed to be plenty — ^Jane had seen a number 
 at Mrs. Dunlap's — still Mrs. Dunlap had spoken as if 
 Mr. Beaton were a person of importance, and decidedly 
 Tena looked far above the common. 
 
 At last they reached the garden-gate, and Jane 
 paused. " You are safe now, Tena," she said, " run 
 in." 
 
 The child looked up. " Would you kiss me for 
 good-by? " she asked. 
 
 For a second Jane hesitated. Would it mean ten 
 kisses every morning and every afternoon! Her own 
 empty childhood rose before her and she stooped to 
 be caught in a strangling embrace. 
 
 " You should save some of these kisses for your 
 mother," she said, breathlessly. 
 
 The child's arms dropped at her sides, and turning, 
 she went slowly away up the garden walk and around 
 the house, never once looking back. 
 
 " She hasn't any mother," Nannie said in an awe- 
 stricken whisper, " and nobody knows if she ever had 
 
 any! ■ 
 
 ' Come," Jane said, " let us walk faster." 
 
 270 
 
<( ' I > 
 
 XVI 
 
 " The lost days of my life until to-day, 
 What were they, — " 
 
 HANK you — was dreadfully anxious — have 
 written. L. Creswick," 
 
 It was just seven o'clock. The day was done, and 
 Jane, the early supper over, had been sitting by the 
 fire in her own room facing with some dismay the long 
 evening that stretched before her, when this touch 
 from the life she had left roused her with a shock that 
 was startling. Since the morning she had been in a 
 brand-new world, she had thought of herself as en- 
 tirely cut off from her past, as almost another being, 
 and now, here was Laurence Creswick almost speak- 
 ing to her! A thrill went over her; they all knew 
 where she was; would anything happen? Would 
 anybody come? 
 
 The day with all its happenings, its experiences that 
 were interesting because they were so new, all faded 
 away, and her thoughts flew back to what she had left. 
 She was in the same old world, the same old country, 
 tied and glued to the same old life by innumerable, 
 indestructible wires, and stamps, and shining lines of 
 steel rails I And the world was small, and the country 
 was smaller, and time and space had long ago been 
 annihilated. 
 
 271 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 That morning she had suffered acutely; that after- 
 noon she had actually played like a child, had given 
 vent to some of the youth that had been shut away 
 in her for all these years; she had practically for- 
 gotten her trials in the pure joy of what had seemed 
 absolute freedom. She had run against the wind, she 
 had winked at the sun, had stopped breathless in the 
 shadow of the wood, had been affected by the little 
 timid, wild child, and the seeming mystery that sur- 
 rounded her. And she had been happy, actually 
 happy. 
 
 She held the telegram away from her. For a mo- 
 ment she hated it, hated Laurence Creswick, hated 
 herself for having revealed her hiding-place. All her 
 suffering, all her humiliation seemed to have caught 
 up with her again, horrid shapes speeding across the 
 country to lay shadowy hands once more upon her. 
 Why had she revealed herself! It would have been 
 enough to have telegraphed her father. She would 
 burn this telegram and not answer any letters. She 
 held the flimsy paper toward the fire. The heated air 
 fluttered it, and would carry it unharmed up and out 
 of the wide chimney to float away on the wind, and per- 
 haps to meet her again to-morrow. She took the 
 tongs, she would hold it down in the red coals; the 
 tongs lapped, and the yellow paper fluttered to the 
 floor. She looked at it for a moment, then took it 
 up, fate was against its destruction. She was silly, 
 and Laurence Creswick was very kind to be anxious. 
 
 She laid the telegram on the table, which she had 
 pulled close up to the fire, and there the lamp-light 
 
 272 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 fell full upon the few words and the signature — L. 
 Creswick. Of course, she could not escape; no one 
 ever escaped from anything. Nothing was ever anni- 
 hilated, words never ceased to sound; deeds never 
 ceased to effect; thoughts never ceased to operate. 
 The whole universe was filled with these influences that 
 held us down, and pushed us back, and met us armed 
 at every corner of life. People ought to teach this to 
 children; warn them of the lengthening chain that was 
 soldered to each soul, to each link of which hung some 
 act, or thought, or regret. If they clanked, these 
 chains, what a furious noise there would be! If we 
 could see them, how terrible would be the sight ! No, 
 there was no escape. Already all the people she had 
 run away from were down on her with their telegrams, 
 and letters, and eyes, and hands, and mouths full of 
 her past life! 
 
 She leaned back in the big splint-bottomed rocking- 
 chair with its homely crochetted tidy, and closed her 
 eyes. Picture after picture came up before her; vivid, 
 speaking, moving pictures of various people from her 
 old life, in various unexpected connections. Some of 
 them she had not thought of particularly, and in posi- 
 tions she was not conscious of having remembered. 
 Kaleidoscopic views that were unexpectedly, strangely 
 characteristic. A pose of the head, a turn of the body, 
 a pause in their going, a gesture of the hands, they 
 were caught in her memory just so, somehow, and 
 were more vivid now in their absence than ever before 
 in their presence. Miss Witting's shaking head and 
 gnarled old face, the chuckle as she said : " It's your 
 
 273 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 hand, child," and her own wonder that anyone should 
 think that anything was hers. Mrs. Kennet's cynical 
 smile as she pushed Mrs. Saunders's pet dog aside with 
 her foot, not kicking it, but longing to, and Jane, the 
 unnoticed child, watching her curiously. And Mr. 
 DeLong, putting his head back and laughing silently 
 as Mrs. Saunders turned and walked away from him. 
 And Fanny, the maid, putting something into her 
 pocket out of Mrs. Saunders's drawer; she seemed to 
 see again the expression of the girl's eyes as she 
 watched the door, while she closed the drawer softly ! 
 She had never spoken of these things, she had been 
 afraid, and what an atmosphere of deception seemed 
 to have surrounded her cousin. Did people attract to 
 themselves the atmosphere that was really theirs, and 
 did the kind of people who suited that atmosphere 
 wander into it and become their companions? 
 
 And Mrs. Saunders, she could recall her in a thou- 
 sand different poses, a thousand different scenes, but 
 one with her lips drawn thin with a smile, and her 
 eyes like two dull, red flames as she said : " He 
 thought you an heiress — my heiress ! " — this one came 
 up always first as with the sudden flaring of a flash- 
 light. And Mark Witting framed by the greenness 
 of the arbor; the poise of his well-set head, the turn 
 of his square shoulders, the peeping sunlight bringing 
 out all the red and yellow gleams in his mustache so 
 carefully up-curled, in his close-clipped pointed beard, 
 the whiteness of his forehead, the gleam in his eyes, 
 and the words — She rose up quickly, stood still 
 one moment, then sank down again. If they came 
 
 274 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 after her! She would never go back, never — God help 
 her, never! 
 
 She sat still a moment as if recovering herself, then 
 her thoughts ran on. And she would not go home 
 either until she had proved herself. If she failed here, 
 well, she was not even now on the lowest rung of the 
 ladder; she might succeed in some trade or in service. 
 She would do anything rather than acknowledge de- 
 feat, than go back a suppliant. But would anyone 
 come after her? Again Mrs. Saunders's face seemed 
 to flash before her eyes. She was still under her in- 
 fluence, still afraid of her. She should be ashamed 
 that she still shrank when she remembered those 
 smooth, hard, white hands that had always seemed so 
 relentless. These things had been in her imagination 
 from the first day in Mrs. Saunders's home. And her 
 father and mother had thought of her as happy, as 
 fortunate. They must never know, never. Their let- 
 ters had been always so tender, so gentle as if to do 
 away with any feeling in her heart that there was lack 
 of love. The pain of it would be too great for them. 
 
 She rocked the big chair a little, making an uneven 
 sound on the bare floor that recalled her suddenly to 
 her surroundings. She looked about her at the clean, 
 draughty, big room, with its simple, scanty furniture. 
 The best they had, such kindly people. Fifteen dollars 
 a month, and no future. She was there for the espe- 
 cial purpose of teaching these especial children, and 
 however much she might succeed, she was not at lib- 
 erty to enlarge the school. She could expect no in- 
 crease of salary. Fifteen dollars a month. The only 
 
 275 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 thing in view was a higher position. She would need 
 more knowledge. She looked up at the mantel-piece 
 where her few books, chiefly text-books, stood. She 
 should have brought more, she would have hours and 
 hours when she could study; time for all the things 
 which her life as the child of fashionable people, as a 
 young lady in fashionable society had precluded, and 
 she had no books. Perhaps her father could send her 
 some from home. She remembered a big room walled 
 with books — no, it would cost him something. 
 
 She got up and walked about a little. What a wil- 
 derness she was in. She took up Laurence Creswick's 
 message. He had been very kind to her, very con- 
 siderate. He had advised her to go on studying. 
 Again she looked up at the books, a condensed history 
 and an advanced arithmetic! Better than thinking, 
 than recalling. It would take ages for these children 
 to learn enough to cause her to study in order to keep 
 ahead of them, save, perhaps, the little Beaton, she 
 looked quite different, a higher type, more delicately 
 bred. And Nannie's extraordinary statement, " She 
 has no mother, and nobody knows if she ever had 
 one." Poor little children, how they blundered along 
 making So many unappreciated efforts to adjust them- 
 selves to the grown-up, puzzling world they found 
 about them. Efforts that were not only strenuous, 
 but painful, when analyzed. And how few people 
 ever tried to adapt themselves to children. Driven in 
 upon herself, hopelessly lonely, she had pondered 
 much. That old life — that cruel, haunting life! 
 
 Again she moved about. A month, a week, a few 
 276 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 days ago, her only desire had been to get away; only 
 that afternoon she had been content, nay, had rejoiced 
 in the sense of freedom, and now a creeping misery, a 
 sense of rebellion at the thought that she had found 
 her vocation, her future, in this poor little school, these 
 few little children. 
 
 She paused to listen, it was raining again. How it 
 sounded on the roof. She drew aside the white cotton 
 curtain and let out a long piercing ray from the lamp. 
 As far as she could see, as far as the light could reach, 
 there fell the rain straight and glittering, with now 
 and then a rapid slant as the wind came round the 
 corner of the house. No light anywhere. All the 
 neighborhood had gone to bed. There were no neigh- 
 bors. How lonely. How straight the rain fell; how 
 hopeless. Far out over the empty hills it was falling; 
 all along the desolate clay roads it was falling, all in 
 the dark woods. Nothing was stirring but that hope- 
 less rain, that wild wind. Out over the empty hills 
 she seemed to see it slanting down, she seemed almost 
 to feel it. How lonely. Presently, nearer, and below, 
 she found something that caught the light from the 
 lamp and reflected it steadily. She put her hands each 
 side her eyes and peered out. What was it? A roof, 
 the roof of the school-room. She dropped the curtain 
 and for a moment stood still. Her vocation. Her life 
 narrowed down to this ! Shut in by these hills, shut in 
 with these people — ^these people! She could almost 
 hear the amused laughter of the world she had left, 
 could almost see their unbelieving eyes. Individuality, 
 self-respect, freedom? Free to stagnate, and once, oh, 
 
 277 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 once, her life, her heart had seemed so full! The 
 empty hills, the desolate roads, the lonely woods, the 
 shut in life. Free! 
 
 She covered her face with her hands, making her 
 way slowly to the bed, sobbing as she went, sobs as 
 deep as the sobs of her childhood, as hopeless, and 
 with a surer hopelessness. On and on, until at last 
 they seemed to expend themselves, then her mind be- 
 gan to work once more. The cruelty of it all the years 
 back and back. And when a gate had opened in the 
 blank wall of her life, and a vision had shone through; 
 when her heart and soul had wakened; when she had 
 stood with her hand on the bar — cruel! Why had he 
 entered her life, why had he not found out before he 
 sought her. Had he loved her a little at the first, 
 would it have been possible to simulate it so perfectly? 
 Why not believe that he had been true for a little while. 
 If only he had died. But if he had ever loved her 
 would he have been so deliberately cruel at the last, 
 would he ever have told Mrs. Saunders? He had 
 loved her, let no one deny it, let no one deny it ! 
 
 She sat up and looked about her, then her thoughts 
 went on. Could she ever regain her own self-respect, 
 could she ever forgive him? Was she called upon 
 to forgive him? She threw herself back on the bed. 
 Ever forgive him. Could she not hate him? For- 
 getfulness were better. Know that she was maimed, 
 accept that as a fact, and work with what was left. 
 
 She lay still listening to the rain, watching the flick- 
 ering light from the fire as it played over the white- 
 washed walls. Nobody need know the smallness of 
 
 278 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 her sphere, nobody need know anything about her, and 
 if they laughed, what harm, this life was far more 
 honorable than a life of dependence. She could save 
 her money and go home some day, that was good; 
 she could save her money and some day help her 
 father, that was better. Spilled milk could not be 
 gathered up again, what use to weary with weeping 
 over it. 
 
 The little clock on the mantel-piece struck nine. 
 Only nine. Her Cousin Henry had given her that 
 clock one day in Paris. He and she had slipped out 
 together while Mrs. Saunders was with her tailor, and 
 he had bought it for her as a travelling-clock, and that 
 morning she had thought what an air it gave to the 
 high black mantel-piece. The tone was very sweet in 
 a far-off, fairy-like way, and it had ticked her through 
 many uninteresting hours of her strictly regulated life, 
 and through the hours she had thought happy; now it 
 would go with her through the working hours. She 
 must study; Laurence Creswick would advise what to 
 go on with, and she would send him some money to 
 invest for her in the proper books. At first she had 
 thought of him as rather stiff, as cold. Skimmed milk, 
 Mark Witting had called him. Mark Witting with his 
 poisonous passion, his false heart, his slack principles, 
 faugh ! 
 
 The fire fell in ; perhaps it would roll out on the floor. 
 Nannie had warned her about that, and she sat up 
 quickly. Roll out indeed, it was everywhere! She 
 seized the small hearth-broom and began to sweep the 
 coals back into their proper place, after this she worked 
 
 279 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 hard with tongs and shovel. When all was arranged, 
 she sat down flat on the floor, tongs in hand, wonder- 
 ing how she could make it safe for the night. No 
 fender; she could put some of the logs out of the wood- 
 box around like a fence. It might do if she could in- 
 sure that the logs would not get hot and catch in " the 
 dark and middle of the night." Long she sat there 
 pondering; remembering the high fender in the old 
 nursery; remembering the trim little logs that burned 
 in Mrs. Saunders's fireplaces, sawed just to fit, and not 
 a speck of ashes ever left from one day to another. 
 These logs had been cut with an axe, and some were 
 a little too long and had to go in on a slant, and the 
 ashes from last night's fire, and the fire that had been 
 banked up all day, were there in soft, gray piles going 
 down to a glowing heart of heat, how pretty it was. 
 But how to manage for the night. There must be 
 some received method, she should have asked Nannie. 
 How would the tongs do — the shovel and tongs 
 crossed; they declined to interlace, and rattled down on 
 the bricks. She must not waken the family. Then a 
 bright thought came to her, she would drag out the 
 dogs and cross them! She put out her hand, fortu- 
 nately only one finger reached the andiron, and was 
 instantly withdrawn, how foolish not to know that it 
 was hot. She looked at the delicate little tip; to-mor- 
 row it would be blistered. 
 
 The andiron idea was a good one, however, and get- 
 ting a towel she proceeded to arrange them as she had 
 decided, then she resumed her seat on the floor with 
 her arms around her knees, watching the fire. Yes, 
 
 380 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 she would send some money to Laurence Creswick 
 and ask him to select some books. He would know 
 better than she what she needed, and these long even- 
 ings, growing longer as the winter advanced, she would 
 carry on her reading and studying. She could ac- 
 complish a great deal. And she must write to her 
 father, to her Cousin Henry, and send it to the club. 
 
 281 
 
XVII 
 
 " That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with out- 
 right ; 
 But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight." 
 
 IT was a very plain, two-storied house ; artists would 
 have called it ivory-white, ordinary folk would have 
 said that it needed more paint. The green blinds 
 needed paint also, but in spite of this, it seemed to 
 harmonize with the vividly blue sky above it, and the 
 deep almost bronze-green of the pines and live-oaks 
 about it. It had no architectural claims either. The 
 piazza that ran around three sides of its lower story 
 was very deep, with old-fashioned round, tapering 
 posts. It had been added to also, in various ways, 
 spreading out into shed-rooms and the like, but it was 
 big, just as Jane had declared it to be, and the one 
 wing that extended to the height of the second story, 
 had the old nursery in it still. The outlook was over 
 marsh and river; the background was a pine barren, 
 and along the bluff on which it was built there was 
 an occasional palmetto-tree, tall and stately, standing 
 alone, and sharply silhouetted. 
 
 The barn, the out-buildings, the stables, were all at 
 the back, a small farm practically, while the fields and 
 the negro quarters, and the barns for the crop, were a 
 mile or so away, and on the banks of another and larger 
 
 282 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 river. Over all there was a repose, a simple homeli- 
 ness, a comfortable, quiet effortlessness that would 
 have soothed the most troubled soul. The chairs on 
 the deep piazza were battered because being comfort- 
 able they were much used. The furniture within was 
 the same. The old furniture shining with use and 
 rubbing, the newer furniture, filling gaps left by the 
 fortunes of war, or called for by the increasing needs 
 of the family, did not look so well; it was not so good, 
 and had yielded to treatment in a weak way that de- 
 manded much repairing. But here, as elsewhere, 
 there was the same effortless comfort; a serenity that 
 extended also to the study. The walls were lined with 
 books in the old-fashioned way from floor to ceiling, 
 windows and doors and the fireplace making the only 
 breaks. 
 
 The occupants of the study, however, did not seem 
 so serene. They were very silent; the mother sitting 
 drooped together near the fire, the father leaning 
 against the corner of a bookcase, and looking out of 
 the window that stood open down to the floor, and 
 gave on to the piazza. The piazza, the old garden, 
 the bluff, the marsh, the blue horizon where a point of 
 wood ended in a misty opening which meant the sound, 
 then the sea. It was the sea that he seemed to be 
 looking at, that or something else beyond his ken, and 
 it was something sad, something painful. 
 
 Two days before a long telegram from Mrs. Saun- 
 ders had been sent over from the station, a short letter, 
 in fact, in which she had asked for Marion to be sent 
 on at once, not waiting for clothes, or packing, or any- 
 
 283 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 thing, everything was provided for, but to leave on 
 the first train after the telegram was received. That 
 it was going to be a wonderful season, and they wanted 
 Marion, and wanted her at once; explanations in writ- 
 ing were on the way. 
 
 This had come on Monday evening. Marion had 
 seemed to lose her wits with excitement, while the 
 parents, thinking only of Jane's joy in having her sister, 
 had, with many blessings and in all faith and hope, 
 sent Marion ofiE as soon as possible. Now, on 
 Wednesday two letters had come from Mrs. Saun- 
 ders, and one from Jane, and the whole universe 
 seemed upside down ! They did not know their child 
 save through letters, they did not know Mrs. Saun- 
 ders save through letters, and how were they to 
 judge. The letter from Jane had been opened first; 
 it was not long, but it took the mother's breath away, 
 and she had paused in her reading with a pleading 
 look at her husband. The letter was to him, but he 
 had given it to the mother to open, and she had been 
 reading it aloud. 
 
 " Gone out as a teacher," Mr. Ormonde had said 
 slowly; "where is that telegram?" 
 
 " I thought that Marion had been sent for because 
 of Jane," the mother answered. 
 
 Mr. Ormonde had found the telegram by this time 
 and was reading it. " No word of Jane," he said, 
 slowly, " only ' we ' all through, and, of course, I 
 thought that meant Jane ; and dated Monday at twelve 
 o'clock. When is Jane's letter dated? " 
 
 " Sunday." 
 
 " Open Jane Saunders's letters." 
 284 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Both dated on Monday," was answered ; " one in 
 the afternoon — that one says that she is stunned, that 
 Jane has run away." 
 
 "And the other one?" 
 
 " Is all about Marion's coming on, and of the de- 
 lightful winter she hopes the two girls will have, and 
 that Marion's coming is to be a surprise to Janey, 
 and that she is so impatient that she has sent for 
 Marion by telegraph." 
 
 " And no word of any kind from Henry." 
 
 In the silence that fell, sounds rather tumultuous 
 for a school-room came from where Billy was teach- 
 ing some of his younger brothers and sisters. Tom 
 was away at college, Billy was preparing under his 
 father, and between times taught those of the children 
 who were old enough to learn, and now there were 
 indications in the air that some kind of a riot was go- 
 ing on ; but the mother, who was usually on the alert 
 to pour oil on the troubled waters, did not move, did 
 not seem even to hear, while the noises, smothered by 
 distance, seemed to make the silence of the study more 
 tense. 
 
 " No word from Henry," Mr. Ormonde said again. 
 " I don't understand. Have you Jane's letters? " 
 
 " Every one, from the very first that she wrote." 
 
 " And she could not write when she first went there." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I don't understand," Mr. Ormonde repeated, and 
 took up Jane's letter, reading aloud : " I cannot rest 
 any longer in useless idleness, and I am going out as a 
 teacher!" 
 
 " And she had found the position for herself," Mrs. 
 28s 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Ormonde interpolated, " and has not told Henry or 
 Jane." 
 
 " No, but she does not say that she is sorry to leave 
 them, and Henry should have written." 
 
 " Perhaps he is stunned, too." 
 
 Mr. Ormonde took up Mrs. Saunders's letter. " My 
 dear Cousins," it began, " I scarcely know how to write 
 to you. Only an hour ago I sent off a telegram and a 
 letter begging for Marion. Doing it, of course, chiefly 
 on Jane's account, our dear Janey, and now only a 
 moment, a little moment ago, I have read a letter from 
 her saying that she has gone! I do not know how to 
 write to you, and yet I must, for Henry is prostrated. 
 I have not telegraphed this dreadful news to you be- 
 cause in her letter to me the child says that she has 
 written to you, and I pray that before this reaches you, 
 you — we— will have heard of her safe arrival some- 
 where. And what will you think of my asking for 
 another child when I seem to have been so negligent 
 of the first? But believe me, she has in all these years 
 been my first thought. Scarcely has she ever been 
 out of my heart or my sight. Everything possible has 
 been done both for her mind and her body, and from 
 the very first moment of her arrival — a little, tired, 
 homesick child — " Mr. Ormonde dashed the letter on 
 the floor. " God forgive me — God forgive me ! " he 
 cried, while a spark seemed to lighten slowly in his 
 grave, quiet eyes. " I am afraid that I put a little 
 helpless child into a strait place; a little helpless child 
 for all these years, and she has never told me, until 
 now she has broken away — God forgive me 1 " 
 
 286 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Oh, no ! " Mrs. Ormonde cried, " Jane Saunders is 
 a just woman, and no woman could be unkind to a 
 helpless child. And surely, surely, some word would 
 have slipped out in the child's letters. Read on," and 
 picking up the letter she put it in his hand. " Read, 
 see what she says about the new fashion of the day that 
 the girls should have professions," and her husband, 
 not looking at the letter, she read aloud : " I am so 
 much afraid that your child has become imbued with 
 the modern fad, the idea that it is strong and right to 
 go and make one's own way in the world. I have done 
 my best to keep her away from this element, and espe- 
 cially did not permit her to have what is called the 
 ' higher education ' for women. But, of course, in the 
 world she has met the new woman, and I am afraid that 
 this headstrong movement is the result. I cannot ex- 
 press my sorrow, and Henry is too grief-stricken to 
 write. He feels as I do, that you will blame us. That 
 we have had your child for all these years, and that she 
 should have loved us too much to have treated us in 
 this way. I have only material things to show you to 
 prove how we have tried, at least, to do everything 
 possible for Janey, and I will send you her trunks, all 
 that she left, for you to use for the younger girls, and 
 if in the face of our common calamity you will let me 
 keep your Marion for this winter at least, or for as long 
 as she is happy with us, I shall thank you from my 
 lonely and bereft heart, and be only too grateful to be 
 allowed to do everything in my power to make her 
 contented, and also will allow her to judge between 
 us as to how dear Jane was treated. You have a right 
 
 287 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 to pass judgment on me, and we will constitute Marion 
 the judge. Oh, my poor cousins, how I suffer with 
 you! God grant that you have had some word of the 
 child's safe arrival somewhere. She has not given us 
 an inkling of her plans. God help you! 
 " Yours in deep grief, 
 
 " Jane Saunders." 
 
 " You see, dear, it all seems to be as she says ; Janey 
 is young, and we do not know how headstrong she 
 may be." 
 
 " She was a gentle little creature," the father said, 
 " and with the truest eyes I have ever seen. For all 
 these years I have missed her; I have never forgotten 
 how she looked up at me when she said good-by — God 
 forgive me! " 
 
 " We thought it for her good." 
 
 " I was a coward not to be sure that I could support 
 my own." 
 
 " Times were so hard just then." 
 
 " And you did not want to let her go, you gave up 
 because I said it." 
 
 " And we are not sure that we did wrong; wait and 
 see." 
 
 " Wait — wait! When I do not know where my 
 child is? A girl going about all unprotected; and who 
 knows what money she has?" 
 
 " God will take care of her." 
 
 Then it was that Mr. Ormonde went away to the 
 window and stood looking out steadily as if trying to 
 find with his eyes the far-off, unseeable ocean. He did 
 
 288 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 not know how, he could not place it, but somehow — 
 somewhere — he had been deceived. He seemed to 
 know his child, something in her letter spoke directly 
 to him. The sending for Marion seemed to mean more 
 than was on the surface; there was too much of coin- 
 cidence; the grief in the letter came too easily, went 
 into too nice sentences, into too well-chosen terms. 
 How little he knew that woman, and yet he had given 
 a little child into her keeping. God forgive him ! No, 
 he had given the child to his more than brother; surely, 
 surely, he had been true to his trust. Had he? Was 
 there not a promise given that the child should come 
 home to see them? and something had always pre- 
 vented? He should have thought of this before; how 
 time had drifted by and still he had had faith. So 
 many children, ten in all, only little Jim had gone. 
 
 He turned quickly. " You remember, Mary," he 
 said, " how at the last little Jim called for her, and we 
 could not get her? We should have brought her home 
 then." 
 
 Mrs. Ormonde came to his side. " She was in Eu- 
 rope, don't you remember? " putting her hand in his 
 arm, " and they had done so much for the child, and 
 were doing so much for her, it would have seemed 
 ungrateful to have taken her away then when they had 
 learned to love her. We have done all for the best, 
 and God knows it." 
 
 " But where is she now? " 
 
 "Safe somewhere; we shall hear soon." 
 
 " Then I shall go and fetch her." 
 
 " No, don't make up your mind to that. In the 
 289 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 case of a young girl one must be careful, one must 
 consider the world. What might not be construed 
 out of such a sudden return home? " 
 
 Mr. Ormonde's eyes flashed. " I'd " 
 
 "And make matters worse. I will tell you now 
 that every day of every year I have missed and 
 yearned for my child — my first-born — with your eyes, 
 with your nature — I loved her doubly." 
 
 He drew her closer. 
 
 " But love and duty descend, you know, and parents 
 must give more than they can expect again — must 
 give themselves. I do not grudge anything that I 
 have suffered, but now because of my sufferings you 
 must heed me. Mothers' wisdom is born in the heart, 
 you know, and so is truly wise. Something has hap- 
 pened, and that something has made the child go 
 away. She is escaping, and she wishes to do it in 
 the least possible conspicuous way. She says, ' Trust 
 me, dear father, that what I am doing is for the best.' 
 We will trust her." 
 
 " And not know." 
 
 "She is trying to spare us; let us wait. No one 
 would understand a girl, for no reason at all, return- 
 ing from a luxurious home filled with pleasure to a 
 home in the dull country; but going off for herself, 
 and Marion going on to take her place, this is reason- 
 able. This is easier to explain, even to our own chil- 
 dren — wait." 
 
 Mr. Ormonde moved away. " I will ride over to 
 the station," he said, " there may be news." 
 
 She watched him walk toward the bam, stood still, 
 290 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 with the tears gathering, and it was not until she heard 
 the steady gallop of his horse that she wiped her eyes 
 and turned to meet the culminated rebellion that, from 
 the school-room, was advancing on the study to de- 
 mand arbitration. 
 
 Later, Mr. Ormonde brought back Jane's despatch, 
 "Arrived safely; will write." And though he knew 
 where she was, he agreed to wait until the letter should 
 come. But now that his mind was relieved, a little 
 hurt feeling was developing that Jane had not taken 
 him into her confidence. Surely she should have told 
 her parents. And that night he wrote Marion a let- 
 ter, which, opening, she found marked " Private," and 
 within, the most carefully worded but most uncom- 
 promising order to come home the very first moment 
 that she felt unhappy, or on the first shadow of an 
 intimation from anyone that she was in the least in 
 the way. He would have ordered her home at once 
 but for his wife. And Marion smiled as she read. 
 Smiled at her pretty self in the long mirror before 
 which she sat; smiled at the maid who was doing her 
 sunny hair; smiled down on all the soft lace and rib- 
 bon that enveloped her; smiled still more as her eyes 
 wandered to her little feet in their silken stockings 
 and satin slippers. She shook her head. No one 
 should ever feel her in the way; no one should ever 
 make her feel herself in the way! And she tore the 
 letter up into minute, very minute fragments. Her 
 sister Jane was a mystery. And she moved a little 
 that she might realize the softness and fineness of her 
 new apparel. How delightful! She had never really 
 had clothes before, but only coverings for her body! 
 
 291 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Mrs. Saunders herself had met her on her arrival. 
 Such a handsome woman, and such a dream of a car- 
 riage! She was so taken care of, so comfortably put 
 in, so instantly unresponsible for anything. And Mrs. 
 Saunders kissed her so gently, so tenderly, and with 
 tears in her eyes. " I'm so unnerved," she said, " you 
 must forgive me. We heard of Jane's safety only last 
 night." 
 
 Then Marion's eyes had grown wide. "Janey's 
 safety! " 
 
 " Yes, you don't know, of course ; the very day I 
 telegraphed for you, she ran away; she left before I 
 came down in the morning. I am not strong, and I 
 never come down until luncheon, and she was gone! 
 The servant who took my telegram and mailed my 
 letter to your father brought me Jane's note telling 
 us good-by," she sobbed a little. " That was on Mon- 
 day, and it was not until Wednesday evening — last 
 evening — that we had any news from her. It has been 
 terrible! She seems to be teaching somewhere in the 
 South, and we cannot understand it. I am so much 
 afraid that your father will think it our fault and send 
 for you." 
 
 Marion moved uneasily. 
 
 " If you will only persuade him to let you stay, 
 dear, to give us another trial, it will be a great boon 
 to your Cousin Henry as well as to me." 
 
 "Of course, and I shall write at once, and I will 
 stay. If Janey is safe it will all come right; but I 
 don't understand." 
 
 " Nor do we, we cannot understand, and your Cous- 
 292 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 in Henry has scarcely spoken since Monday; he went 
 to the country for a day, but he was too miserable, 
 and came back. He was wrapped up in Jane, and now 
 he cannot seem to look at me, he associates me so 
 with our child — ^for she seemed our child. And he 
 may even treat you in the same way. Jane will have 
 a great deal to answer for, for she has spoiled a happy 
 home." 
 
 And Mr. Saunders's greeting had been pretty much 
 as his wife had foretold. " If ever you are unhappy," 
 he had said, " come at once and tell me, and I my- 
 self will take you immediately to your father," but he 
 did not once look at Mrs. Saunders nor speak to her. 
 All this Marion had written to her mother, her view 
 of things colored, of course, by days of unspeakable 
 bliss among tailors and dressmakers and importers of 
 exquisite luxuries, everything that a girl could want, 
 and Mrs. Saunders would say: "We must be happy 
 this winter with what New York can furnish; in the 
 spring we shall go to Europe and put the finishing 
 touches." And Marion had said to herself, over and 
 over again: " How shall I ever leave it all! " 
 
 So when her father's letter arrived, so stern in its 
 tone, so uncompromising in its commands, she tore it 
 into minute fragments. No one must ever feel her in 
 the way, no one must ever make her feel herself in 
 the way. 
 
 293 
 
XVIII 
 
 " The end crowns all, 
 And that old common arbitrator, Time, 
 Will one day end it." 
 
 VV principle of this strange, immutable law, 
 that is verified before our eyes every day, works in many 
 ways. We usually confine it to spiritual things; we 
 usually think of it only in connection with the lives of 
 people who visibly put off one environment to take 
 on another, apparently without reward, and there it 
 works, of course, but it works in other ways also; it 
 works in physical things just as immutably. Make 
 an effort to lose something, to conceal something, and 
 see what happens. The objectionable thing turns up 
 on all occasions. You come upon it in the depths of 
 old chests, in the remotest top shelves of darkest 
 closets ; thrown into the waste-basket, it peeps through 
 the meshes; into the dust-bin, it appears on the tip-top 
 of the topmost pinnacle of the scavenger's cart, and 
 seems to smile at you serenely as it jolts away; then 
 what happens ? You find that that very thing could have 
 been used in a dozen ways. Or take the cases of mur- 
 derers, of thieves ; concealment, the losing of the thing 
 seems to be impossible. It is not fable that blood cries 
 from the ground, that the dead come back, that our 
 
 294 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 good and evil thoughts and acts constitute themselves 
 blessings or furies to track and overtake us. 
 
 So it was that this law was now working in the case 
 of Mrs. Saunders. In her own world Mrs. Saunders 
 herself had filled her whole foreground. Her house, 
 her servants, her horses, her friends, her engagements, 
 her Jane, her husband, her charities, her daily, hourly- 
 self-abnegation before all these things, was the unfail- 
 ing theme of her talk. Everything taken and judged 
 only as it related to herself, everything coming in as a 
 background for her restless egotism. But on Jane's 
 trying further to efface herself, the strange thing hap- 
 pened that, even to Mrs. Saunders, she loomed up to 
 the exclusion of all else. People asked after her inces- 
 santly, pitied Mrs. Saunders, commented on Mr. Saun- 
 ders's looks, the change that had come over him, or on 
 Marion's being quite pretty, but without her sister's 
 charm. Just here Mrs. Saunders would say : " Yes, 
 I spent much time on Jane," but only to see with aston- 
 ished eyes that people did not seem to put Jane's at- 
 tractions down to this source. 
 
 Then her husband had changed radically. A kindly, 
 perhaps lazy man, the girl had meant much to him. 
 He had felt that perhaps his wife's rules were rather 
 rigid, but the child looked well and made no complaint, 
 responding to all his advances gently, sweetly, with a 
 look in her eyes that he did not understand at the time, 
 but that later he had found had been caused by fear for 
 her parents and their poverty. He had tried to answer 
 the look in her eyes by all sorts of gifts; by taking her 
 out in a frolicsome way when his wife was occupied; 
 
 295 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 by jocular comments on the " Higher powers," when 
 they breakfasted alone together. His aim in life had 
 been peace, and a desire to help the man whom he loved 
 as a brother. The girl's going, slipping away, escaping 
 as out of a prison had come to him as a tragic revela- 
 tion of many things ; had soured all the milk of human 
 kindness in his nature that had made him so easy to 
 live with; had seemed to dry him up, as it were; to 
 take the spring out of his spirit and the juices out of 
 his body. He was changed, tremendously changed, 
 and his wife was uneasy. 
 
 Next, Marion was a study. Marion had grown up 
 in a family republic, and spoke her thoughts, and made 
 her comments with a frankness that might very easily 
 prove a great danger. It had been so easy to manipu- 
 late her husband, and she had begun so early to train 
 Jane, that she had never really had to arrange things, 
 but only to give orders ; so much so, that at the last she 
 had overstepped the limits of her power and Jane had, 
 in a way, defied her. Marion required thought and 
 study; her husband required thought and study; her 
 explanations to the world, that must not be excuses, 
 they also required thought and study; so it was that 
 Jane, in trying to lose herself, had loomed up big and 
 strange as a shadow cast on a mist, and filled the whole 
 foreground of Mrs. Saunders's life. 
 
 At her own home, too, Jane had come to the front 
 in a way that she had never done before, especially 
 when Marion's first letter arrived. A rapturous letter, 
 telling of all that Mrs. Saunders was planning, and of 
 the depression that had seized on Mr. Saunders since 
 
 296 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Jane's leaving. " Mrs. Saunders," she wrote, " who 
 cannot stand the name of Jane any more, and makes 
 me call her ' cousin,' is bearing up wonderfully, and 
 answers all the questions about Janey so sweetly and 
 kindly, and of course there are a great many. It is 
 very hard on them, and I don't pretend to understand 
 Janey, but it could not have been any lack of kindness 
 that drove her away, for cousin fairly lavishes things 
 on me. And cousin says that she is going to write to 
 Janey, which I think will be very kind and forgiving 
 of her." 
 
 The mother was puzzled, the father was troubled, 
 and, thinking that he had waited long enough, and that 
 Jane was the only person who could give the reason for 
 her action, he wrote to her immediately as he had read 
 Marion's letter, suggesting that she should come home 
 to her own people — ^there was room enough and to 
 spare — and give some explanation of her course. 
 
 This letter might have caused Jane tears if she had 
 not chanced to read it on the highway. For several 
 days, without success, Jane had gone to the post-office 
 in the morning before school. So far from rushing 
 after her, as she had feared, they seemed to be ignoring 
 her, treating her as if she were in disgrace — all, at least, 
 save Laurence Creswick; he had written instantly: and 
 while waiting on the others, she had run the gamut of 
 feeling from fear to surprise, to pain. Her father did 
 not trust her, she had said over and over again, nor her 
 mother, and she could not blame them ; she had not ex- 
 plained; she had elected never to explain; and what 
 might not Mrs. Saunders have written ? What matter, 
 
 297 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 what matter? she had run away because she could 
 stand the life no longer; if she explained, her father 
 and mother would scarcely be able to stand their lives. 
 Let be — let be. 
 
 Then she had deferred her walk to the office until the 
 afternoon, sometimes taking the children with her. 
 This afternoon, however, she had made the expedition 
 alone, and had found two letters. She had come away 
 slowly through the town, hesitating to open the letters, 
 and apparently entertaining all of her emotions at 
 once. She had paused at the gate of the Dunlaps, but 
 had not gone in. She would walk on ; all of the beauti- 
 ful afternoon was before her ; she would go up on the 
 hills ; she liked the high uplands, where the wind blew 
 so fresh and free, and the crickets cried so ceaselessly. 
 There was a sort of cynic mirth in the crickets' song 
 sung at the fading of the year, a shrill cheer for death 
 and desolation. 
 
 And as she walked she read ; first the note from her 
 father, that would have called forth the tears, save for 
 her surroundings, and if, further, she had not held in 
 her hands a letter from Mrs. Saunders, the first page 
 of which dried up all possibility of tears, for in it was 
 the first intimation that had reached her of Marion's 
 having gone to take her place. She looked again at 
 her father's note, but there was no hint of it ; he was 
 too much occupied in trying to forgive her. She drew 
 a long breath and turned once more to Mrs. Saun- 
 ders's letter. 
 
 Slowly she walked, very slowly, going over page 
 after page, the firm writing filling each page closely. 
 
 298 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Slowly and more slowly, reading carefully, breathless- 
 ly. The pages were many, and the envelope slipped 
 from between her overful fingers. Down it fluttered 
 to the road, followed her for a little while, driven by 
 the wind, then a stone stopped it ; then on again, until a 
 cross current drove it against one of the square stone 
 gate-posts of the Beaton place. Another little gust 
 took it under the gate and up the road, then laid it 
 down, address upward, precisely as if it were an un- 
 opened letter dropped by some careless hand. Pres- 
 ently Mr. Beaton, walking slowly, smoking, came upon 
 it. 
 
 " So this is the way that rascally Isaac brings my 
 letters ! " he said. 
 
 He did not quicken his steps, nor when he reached 
 it, did he stoop quickly ; nor when he had secured it, did 
 he make any apology to the absent servant. He read 
 the address, " Miss Jane Ormonde." That was the 
 new teacher sent for by the exclusive set in the village ! 
 He reached the gate, and, leaning his arms on the top 
 of it, he looked up and down the road. There she was, 
 walking away from him, reading; reading absorbingly 
 the letter, probably from the envelope which he held. 
 He glanced at it again, and glanced again at the reced- 
 ing figure. It was graceful, it was young ; she walked 
 well, too : and the handwriting on the envelope was the 
 handwriting of a cultivated person. Possibly she had 
 a broken nose, or was cross-eyed ; something must be 
 amiss to make a person with such a back and such a 
 walk come so far down into the wilderness to teach 
 a little school. He looked again at Jane's receding 
 
 299 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 figure. The road ran very straight and broad, and be- 
 yond this thickly wooded level, that even in winter made 
 a shady place, it led away up a long, steep hill, between 
 fields, one of the desolate roads; a road at the mercy 
 of all the storms of heaven, with no comforting home- 
 stead for many a long mile. Just now it lay under the 
 slanting light of the afternoon sun, and Jane was clear- 
 ly silhouetted. She was nearing the top, where she 
 would disappear, and he watched her idly for a moment 
 as more and more of her came above the hill and against 
 the sky. Once more he wondered a little, then looked 
 at the envelope, as if deciding what to do with it. 
 Presently he laid it on top of one of the gate-posts, 
 where it would be clearly visible, and put a pebble on 
 it, then turned back slowly toward the house. 
 
 And the letter. " My dearest Jane ; " it began. 
 Jane longed to stamp on it. " Dearest ! " She read 
 on : " I cannot forget the many years when you were 
 as my own, even if at the last you stabbed me to the 
 heart by your method of returning all that we had 
 meant as kindness. There was no necessity for you to 
 steal away as you did, confirming my long-fought fears 
 of your being secretive — may I not say underhanded ? " 
 The color blazed in Jane's cheeks ; her eyes were burn- 
 ing. " If you had told us, told us of your great un- 
 happiness, or discontent, rather, we would have sent 
 you home gladly — it seems ungracious to say it, but a 
 little more gladly than perhaps you imagined. And 
 all this while I was planning a pleasant surprise for 
 you. The very day you left, I had telegraphed for 
 Marion to come ; urging her to come as quickly as pos- 
 
 300 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 sible, thinking to make you happier. Her welcome 
 was necessarily saddened by your action, for your dear 
 father and mother having faith in me, sent her on by 
 the next train ; and it was not until she arrived — find- 
 ing me a wreck from anxiety and your Cousin Henry 
 a changed man — ^that she heard of your desertion of us. 
 And when I say that your cousin is a changed man, I 
 do not speak it lightly. You will realize it when I tell 
 you his greeting to Marion. He kissed her coldly, 
 then said : ' If you do not find yourself happy, you will 
 be kind enough to tell me, and I, myself, will at once 
 take you to your father.' And he so kind, so hospitable, 
 so affectionate! There are ways in which you could 
 have wounded me alone and not have dealt almost a 
 death-blow to one who was always so eager for your 
 love that he left all the disagreeable management and 
 the disciplining of you in my hands. And I — ^well, 
 I do not know what charges you can bring against me, 
 except your rag-doll, and my saving you from Mark 
 Witting. But to turn to pleasanter things: We find 
 Marion charming. Sweet, bright, exceedingly pretty, 
 and very vivacious. Yes, we no longer find ourselves a 
 dull and silent trio, save for what I managed to say, 
 striving so hard to lighten up our overcharged domestic 
 atmosphere. Marion is really a light in the household, 
 so original, and you may imagine what she is to me, 
 so responsive, so appreciative, so delighted with every- 
 thing. To shop with and for her is a joy; and she 
 looks so well in her things. We are to begin the sea- 
 son with a large reception in December, to introduce 
 Marion, just as we introduced you ; then we are to have 
 
 301 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 several dinners, and Wednesdays in January, then the 
 opera-box, of course, and I think we are going to have 
 a very brilliant season, the only drawback being your 
 Cousin Henry's great depression. He never smiles, 
 and seldom looks up from his plate or his paper. The 
 other day we met Mr. Witting ; he seemed to be very 
 glad to see me, and pleased to meet Marion, who got 
 on very pleasantly with him. He is to dine with us 
 very soon. In a book-shop we met Laurence Cres- 
 wick, and he and Marion seemed to have an affinity for 
 each other ; she likes him far more than she does Mark 
 Witting. Well, my dear Jane, I must say that I am 
 very sorry for you ; sorrier, perhaps, than I am for my- 
 self ; for I, at least, have nothing to regret, and am only 
 grieved for you, for it is one of the saddest things in 
 life to watch the wilful blunders of the young — casting 
 away their friends, their opportunities, their future. 
 Poor things! For you, I dread to think what your 
 future will be — lonely, poor, warped, lost in the wilder- 
 ness as a village school-marm ! Heavens ! I shall try 
 to show in Marion what my wishes were for you ; and 
 if there is such a thing as success, I shall find it for her, 
 even to the extent, if necessary, of making her my heir- 
 ess. I shall always be glad to answer your letters, 
 and to help you pecuniarily, when you need it, as as- 
 suredly you will, but I am surprised and grieved that 
 you have not had the grace to write to your Cousin 
 Henry. Always your well-wisher, 
 
 " Jane Saunders." 
 
 Jane drew a sharp breath and looked about her in 
 a dazed way. She felt as if she had been beaten 
 
 302 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 down by a shower of blows — well-aimed, deftly plant- 
 ed, neatly padded blows, that had left her deaf, and 
 blind, and senseless. She shook her head as if after 
 an actual physical stroke, then the last words in the 
 letter came back to her, letting in one clear ray of pure 
 light, that shot sharply across the dark chaos of her 
 feelings. She had written to her Cousin Henry, had 
 sent it to his club: and that he had not mentioned it, 
 showed that he understood, that he was on her side. 
 God bless him ! 
 
 She quickened her step ; she felt a desire to wear her- 
 self out in some way. On and on, following the yel- 
 low road between the lines of rail fences, between the 
 empty fields, sometimes up-hill, sometimes down-hill, 
 tramping, tramping, trying to get away, trying to wear 
 herself out. On and on, not heeding the distance, not 
 heeding the hour. Fighting over again all the doubts, 
 all the pain, all the hesitation, all the questions that she 
 had seemed to blot out, that she had blotted out, by 
 coming away. Wisely or foolishly, the terror was that 
 she had settled them, that she had cut herself off, that 
 she stood alone. 
 
 She paused in her going and a sudden sense of deso- 
 lation seized her — actual, physical desolation. How 
 far away she was at that very moment, and she had 
 been warned! She turned and began to run, only a 
 little way, then the road began a short ascent; she 
 would walk up the hills and run down — run down all 
 the descents, run whenever she could. She had not 
 met anyone as she came, why need she meet anyone 
 in going back ? It was Saturday afternoon. She ran 
 
 303 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 faster; this was the worst of all afternoons. On and 
 on she sped, the tangible fear doing away, for the time 
 being, with all the unnamed sufferings driven in on her 
 by Mrs. Saunders's letter. The last long hill, then the 
 Beaton place. She felt safer, even though this was 
 the darkest part of the road. Then the Dunlap's gate. 
 As she laid her hand on the latch, she looked about 
 her slowly. It was still quite light; people were only 
 beginning to leave the town; she had been very silly. 
 The firelight flickering through the dining-room win- 
 dows, the children's voices as they played at the other 
 end of the yard, her own windows open and staring 
 like blind eyes, all brought back to her the long, long 
 evening that lay before her. Why had she hurried? 
 why had she been afraid ? To have been murdered on 
 the highway would at least have ended it all, would 
 have given Mrs. Saunders such a text on wilfulness, 
 on ingratitude. No, she would never let Mrs. Saun- 
 ders have her as a text ; she must be cautious, she must 
 succeed. She had been foolishly fearful on the high- 
 road ; she had been thinking foolish thoughts just now 
 about murder and the like; she could make an effort 
 at least to control herself, her thoughts, and get 
 through the evening. She had to live all her life with 
 herself, with her past as a background, and the sooner 
 she learned to do it the better. She would spend her 
 evening in reading her one book — the condensed his- 
 tory; she would read until she was sleepy, then she 
 would go to bed, and if she laid awake all night, she 
 would bear that, too. The next day she would go 
 to church, Methodist or Presbyterian — she had her 
 
 304 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 choice, the Episcopal church having been burned down 
 — and in the afternoon she would write to her father 
 and to Laurence Creswick. She ought to be ashamed 
 not to have answered his letter sooner. And she would 
 take the letters to the office early on Monday morning 
 and would carry out her idea of sending to Laurence 
 Creswick for books; she would send the money-order, 
 she would make a new beginning in self-control. 
 
 Suddenly, as she leaned there on the gate, a picture 
 of one of the little pious books that Mrs. Saunders had 
 given her long ago, of readings for every day, came to 
 her. She could remember the white and gold cover 
 and the unholy scolding that had been given her be- 
 cause of the first stain, a tear, on that cover. It rose 
 up before her distinctly as a picture, and she could al- 
 most have repeated the extract on " Beginnings." The 
 divisions of time being each a beginning, and she re- 
 membered how weary it had made her feel, and how 
 hopeless her beginnings of days and of hours had been. 
 This Saturday would be a beginning, and next Mon- 
 day would be another beginning, and all the Mondays 
 after that, and all the Tuesdays, and all the Wednes- 
 days, and all the hours, and minutes, and seconds of all 
 these days. And the same little children would come 
 every day, and the same preacher every Sunday, and 
 the same laundress — she shook her head ; no, she could 
 change the laundress. There was saving grace in that, 
 and she flung open the gate, choking a sob down in her 
 throat. 
 
 30s 
 
XIX 
 
 " O blest is he whose will is strong, 
 He suffers, but he will not suffer long." 
 
 JANE granted herself no respite on Sunday, no put- 
 ting aside of disagreeable things. All day long, 
 whenever she passed her table, the two letters, 
 from her father and from Mrs. Saunders, stared at her 
 until she seemed to be absorbing them word by word. 
 All Mrs. Saunders's motives, the motives of all her life 
 and being seemed to grow clear before the inner sight 
 of the girl's heart, and to be sinking sure, deep roots. 
 She could not put into words what she felt ; she did not 
 seem to be able to agree with herself categorically what 
 Mrs. Saunders was, for, through all her growing real- 
 ization of the woman, something seemed to elude her. 
 It was as if there were some shadowy spot, which, if 
 touched with light, would reveal the whole mechanism 
 of motive, thought, and act; a lost key, which, once 
 found, would unlock all the mystery; meanwhile she 
 could not write to Mrs. Saunders; perhaps she never 
 would again. She would not avoid thinking of Mrs. 
 Saunders, however; would not avoid remembering; 
 would have no dark places in her life where she feared 
 to look. 
 
 But when the afternoon came and she sat down to 
 write to her father and to answer Laurence Creswick's 
 
 306 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 letter, the task was harder even than she had expected, 
 Not to justify herself to her own parents, never to tell, 
 of course not, and when she was done, she felt a sense 
 of physical weariness out of all proportion to the ap- 
 parent energy spent. The letter to Laurence Creswick 
 would be hard, too, but from a different cause. She 
 had decided that it should be cheerfully light ; the letter 
 of a contented person. She went to the open window, 
 she pushed up the fire that was scarcely necessary in 
 the balmy weather, she rearranged the few books on 
 the mantel-piece, and all the articles on the dressing- 
 table, then she looked in the glass. She was pale, her 
 eyes looked tired, there was a weak curve to the cor- 
 ners of her mouth. She could not afford to have weak 
 curves. She took her seat at the table in a determined 
 manner, took up Laurence Creswick's letter, and sud- 
 denly a sentence stood out which made her eager to 
 write. She had overlooked it, or had forgotten it, or 
 it had loomed up because of the lurid light thrown out 
 by Mrs. Saunders's communication, and she seemed 
 unable to write rapidly enough. 
 
 " I always think of the South as a wide, wild, lonely 
 region," Creswick wrote, " sunburned in summer, and 
 tourist-haunted in winter, with lynchings thrown in 
 for excitement when times are dull, and I am wonder- 
 ing what you find to do, and if your life is endurable." 
 She seized her pen ; no one who saw and talked to Mrs. 
 Saunders and to Mark Witting must think of her in 
 that way. She began with an explanation of the 
 money-order which he would find enclosed, and the re- 
 quest that he would select the books which he thought 
 
 307 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 she most needed; then she went on, and her cheeks 
 burned and her eyes were shining. " As for my life," 
 she wrote, " I am quite content, and think more of 
 myself than I have ever been able to think before, al- 
 most becoming conceited because I am self-supporting. 
 Think of it ! I, a useless butterfly, rising to this height ! 
 I used to be so weary of the eternal round, the eternal 
 treadmill of society. I used to liken myself to the wax 
 ladies in the shop-windows, always turning to show off 
 my beautiful clothes. To misuse a poet — 
 
 " ' Her life was turning, turning, 
 In mazes of heat and sound. 
 But for peace her soul was yearning. 
 And now peace laps her round.' 
 
 Turning, turning, that was it ; seeing the same things, 
 doing the same things at every turn, smiling the same 
 smile. Sometimes I used to wish that I was a wax 
 lady with a wax head and a wire heart. This sounds 
 ungrateful, but it was only the old story of the square 
 stick in the round hole. Mrs. Saunders has been al- 
 ways a social success, and that was her ambition for me. 
 Alas! I have repaid her in very ill fashion. In spite 
 of it all, however, my contrition and the rest, I'm afraid 
 that I would do it over again. My life is my own 
 now, and I can go to the dogs even, if I like. And the 
 South is not sunburned, nor wild, nor lonely, nor have 
 I, as yet, been invited to any ' At Homes,' with lynch- 
 ing as a feature of the entertainment. As for tour- 
 ists, as it is not yet mid-winter, I cannot give you any 
 statistics ; but I am sure that this little town will not 
 
 308 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 be over-run. My school numbers ten, boys and girls, 
 ranging from twelve years down; they are very well- 
 behaved, and as this is a select and private school, 
 which I am not at liberty to enlarge, I shall have time 
 in which to improve myself after the most pious fash- 
 ion ; hence I send for books. I beg that you will not 
 put yourself to any inconvenience about them, as any 
 time will do. To you I owe so much, both as teacher 
 and as friend, and be sure that I shall never forget it. 
 Indeed, so distinctly do I remember it that I am asking 
 of you one more friendly of5Sce. Give my regards to 
 anyone who remembers me, and think of me as satisfied 
 and successful; especially successful, for I happen to 
 know that I am giving satisfaction just as a maid would 
 or a cook; is it not funny?" She added some final 
 phrases, signed her name, then read it over. It was 
 not brilliant, but it answered her purposes. The tone 
 was light and sufficiently cheerful ; she had said enough 
 about her surroundings not to seem to conceal them, 
 and if all of it were told to Mrs. Saunders, or if Mrs. 
 Saunders should ever see the letter, she could not find 
 in it anywhere a note of regret. 
 
 Gradually, by the time that she had mailed the let- 
 ters on Monday morning, it came to her that she had 
 done more than she knew; that in trying to convince 
 Laurence Creswick of her contentment, she had crys- 
 tallized her own views ; had strengthened herself in her 
 own estimation. She had come away for principle, and 
 whether or not she ever accomplished anything, she 
 had been right to assert herself ; and instead of keeping 
 Mrs. Saunders's letter as a scourge with which to disci- 
 
 309 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 pline herself, she would destroy it. She would get it 
 at once and burn it. No sooner said than done, she 
 fetched it from her room and put it into the school- 
 room fire, holding it down with the tongs, watching it 
 as it curled, and fretted, and fumed in its red-hot bed. 
 
 " Have you not punished it sufficiently ? " 
 
 She turned, dropping the tongs with a clatter, and 
 saw standing in the open door a man, with an amused 
 smile on his lips, who looked as if he had stepped out 
 of the world she had left. 
 
 " I have come to make your acquaintance," he went 
 on. " I am Mr. Beaton." They shook hands, then he 
 picked up the tongs. " Had you quite finished your 
 auto-da-fe F " 
 
 " Quite." 
 
 He bowed. " Your place is bare," he said, looking 
 about appraisingly, " and will be cold as the winter ad- 
 vances. And you seem to be going on in the old South- 
 ern way, a big fire and the door open ; do you like it ? " 
 
 " It is picturesque." 
 
 " You people from the North are always looking for 
 the picturesque when you come South; and the old, 
 and the quaint, and the barbarous ! " 
 
 " I did not come with any special expectations." 
 
 " Or missionary views ? " smiling again the same 
 amused smile. 
 
 The color rose in Jane's face. " I have come as a 
 pilgrim and a stranger," she said. 
 
 " So ? and I have come to tell you that you have 
 carte-Uanche where Tena is concerned." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 310 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 "I am the grateful one," he answered; "and now 
 I will bid you good-morning." And he went away, 
 slapping his riding-boot with his whip. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mrs. Dunlap," Jane heard him call ; 
 then through the window she saw him go up on the 
 piazza and follow Mrs. Dunlap into the house. He 
 v/as not there very long, then he walked down the 
 bricked path to the front gate, carrying his hat in his 
 hand. How well set his head was ; what an easy walk 
 he had; how sure he seemed of himself; and when he 
 put on his soft hat, pointed down over his eyes, he 
 needed only a long plume to fulfil all her ideas of cava- 
 liers. How quietly he had looked down to her, and 
 around the school-room; and now that he was gone, 
 she began to feel provoked; almost angry; why had 
 she permitted him to patronize her? And her anger 
 budded and bloomed into wrath when, later, Mrs. 
 Dunlap walked in, holding some money in her hand. 
 " Your travelling expenses," she said, extending the 
 bills to Jane. 
 
 Jane drew back. " My ticket, Mrs. Fenser told me," 
 making no motion to take the money. 
 
 " Did she ? I didn't understand. I beg your par- 
 don ; but we agreed, at least Ned Beaton agreed, to pay 
 your travelling expenses." 
 
 Jane answered, coldly, " My bargain was my ticket."' 
 
 " I don't know." And Mrs. Dunlap looked trou- 
 bled. " Ned Beaton gave me this for your travelling 
 expenses, as was agreed, I thought; won't you take 
 it?" 
 
 Jane shook her head. " I'll take the price of my 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 ticket, Mrs. Dunlap." And she began to write a re- 
 ceipt. 
 
 " He won't want a receipt," Mrs. Dunlap demurred ; 
 but Jane persisted. 
 
 " I have been trained to give and take receipts," she 
 said, with a backward glance at Mrs. Saunders, who 
 had always insisted that she was teaching Jane business 
 when she made her write and sign receipts for stamps, 
 or any small sums of money she happened to give her, 
 and at the end of the month to add them all up, reflect 
 on the amount, then give a receipt in full. At the pres- 
 ent moment Jane was angry; it did not matter with 
 whom ; but that man with his clear, watchful eyes and 
 his amused smile should not patronize her ; and as the 
 children came in, poor Mrs. Dunlap went out, carrying 
 the rejected money and puzzling over Jane. 
 
 Jane had not meant to visit her irritation on Mrs. 
 Dunlap, and, remembering Mrs. Dunlap's worried ex- 
 pression, she decided to explain ; and yet what explan- 
 ation could she make ? Think as she would, she could 
 find no motive that would have made Mrs. Fenser try 
 to over-reach her ; would have made her offer less than 
 she was authorized to ofifer ; there was nothing for her 
 to lose or gain by it, so this man offering her her travel- 
 ling expenses was almost insulting. He looked as if 
 he were a very thoroughbred gentleman, but this at- 
 tempt belied his looks and had made her angry. She 
 was sorry to have troubled Mrs. Dunlap, but she could 
 do nothing else. She was not to be patronized; no, 
 never again, and this must be made apparent to Mr. 
 Beaton. She would like to meet him again and define 
 
 313 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 her position for him, and she must try to show kind 
 Mrs. Dunlap that she had not been really angry. 
 
 At the noon recess, when the children had gone to 
 their dinners, and she was making ready to do the same 
 thing, she saw Ned Beaton again dismounting at the 
 gate. She waited a little for him to go into the house, 
 but instead, he came straight toward the school-room. 
 
 " How do you do once more ? " he said, putting his 
 hat and whip down on the nearest table and coming to 
 shake hands with her. " I am going to the city, and 
 I wanted to see again the size of this room for rug pur- 
 poses." 
 
 Jane had shaken hands with him ; she could not help 
 it ; and now the only thing she could find to say was : 
 " You are very kind." 
 
 " To myself, yes," taking measuring strides across 
 the ffoor. " If you should take cold, or the school be 
 broken up with influenza, I'd have Tena back on my 
 hands. As to the color," wheeling round and smiling 
 cheerfully, " you will do me a great kindness to select 
 that." 
 
 " Perhaps it would be better to let Mrs. Dunlap se- 
 lect it ; she would know what will stand children's feet 
 better than I." 
 
 " Perhaps ; and now for the same influenza reasons, 
 I will count the windows for weather-strips." 
 
 " I will go and call Mrs. Dunlap." 
 
 " One moment ; I know that Mrs. Dunlap has no 
 books, and I shall be so glad if you will go to my house 
 and take what books, you like. Don't thank me ; it is 
 all from the same motive of keeping you here ;, of pia,k- 
 
 313 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 ing you contented. I seem to feel some sense of duty 
 to Tena, and having you here seems to pay it." 
 
 The dying fire of Jane's indignation blazed up again 
 at this. " Tena is a very sensitive little child," she 
 said, crisply, " and needs more than duty." 
 
 " Yes ; more's the pity," was answered quietly from 
 where he measured a window. " Women, many of 
 them, are made quite wrong for what life gives them. 
 They should have sound digestions and be stupid ; then, 
 according to Carlyle, they could accomplish what they 
 are obliged to do — ' front much.' And I hope that you 
 will educate Tena along practical lines. Persuade her 
 that a woman need only to be sweet-tempered and 
 handsome ; teach her to hold herself properly ; to walk 
 well, and to be absolutely obedient to any man to whom 
 she may belong." 
 
 " Why do you not take her to Turkey ? " Jane flashed. 
 
 Beaton turned, smiling at her over his shoulder. 
 " It would not be bad," he said. " As to the rug, on 
 general principles I suppose that red will do, and we 
 need not trouble Mrs. Dunlap. I shall send her the 
 key of the library; and let me tell you, she is a nice 
 woman, but married down. A good man, but by no 
 means her equal." 
 
 Jane was looking at him, was receiving a new im- 
 pression of him. 
 
 " It seems to surprise you," he went on ; " you must 
 remember how environment marks us. She was born 
 in our class of life. Good-by ; don't worry if I furnish 
 the school-room." And again he went away whipping 
 his boot. 
 
 314 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Our class of life," Jane repeated ; then he had not 
 meant to patronize her. She had been silly; she 
 was always being silly; and she wondered if he had 
 observed it. Very slowly she took her way into the 
 house, and very carefully she told Mrs. Dunlap all that 
 had been said concerning the furnishing and the books, 
 quite as if it had been a message, which impression was 
 confirmed in Mrs. Dunlap's mind when, before school 
 was over, a negro rode up, bringing her the key of the 
 library, and a note, saying that she and Miss Ormonde 
 could bring home a cart-load of books, if they liked ; 
 and on the servant's informing them that Mr. Beaton 
 had gone away, Mrs. Dunlap agreed to go that very 
 afternoon. 
 
 Never in her life had Jane been free in a library. 
 Mrs. Saunders declared that books made much dust; 
 Mr. Saunders had his club, and the room that was 
 called the library was one of the handsome suite which 
 was always on exhibition. There were some low 
 shelves and some standard editions there, but absolutely 
 stereotyped. Jane had read earnestly at odd times, but, 
 of course, miscellaneously; now she found herself as 
 eager as a hungry child before a pastry-cook's window. 
 The children were dressed in their best and Mrs. Dun- 
 lap. had put on her Sunday bonnet; and to Jane's sur- 
 prise she seemed somewhat excited. 
 
 " I am glad to come to the old house once more," she 
 said ; " I've not been here since I was a girl. There's 
 only a sort of housekeeper here now, and of course I 
 could not come to see her. Ned Beaton brought her 
 here when he brought Tena ; she keeps the house, waits 
 
 3J5 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 on him when he is here, and takes care of Tena all the 
 time. She never goes anywhere, and we may not see 
 her ; but she may see us, and that kind of person always 
 judges by clothes, you know. My mother used to 
 know the ladies well. Poor Ned," she went on, " he has 
 not had half a chance; his mother was the young second 
 wife of an old man with two old-maid daughters. The 
 mother died when Ned was born, and the old man soon 
 after. As soon as they could, the sisters sent Ned to 
 school, then to college, and from there he took himself 
 off to travel. The old sisters died, and Ned came home 
 to find himself very poor indeed. He tried to plant, 
 but he knew nothing about it, and was actually measur- 
 ing off certain land to sell, when he found a very supe- 
 rior grade of coal on it. That was four years ago; 
 now he is building a town over at his mines, and is 
 making money hand over fist. We'd never heard of 
 any marriage or anything of that kind till he brought 
 Tena home last September, and now we don't know 
 anything about it; and some of the mothers did not 
 know about joining in to have the school, if she was to 
 come; and we don't like the children to be too much 
 with her; she might teach them things. I notice she 
 sticks close to you almost all the time, Miss Jane." 
 
 "Yes; and she is a nice little child." 
 
 " Ned's mother was a sweet woman," Mrs. Dunlap 
 went on, " and her life was none too easy, I think, and 
 I've not been in the house since before the ladies died. 
 My, but they were prim ! They never would enter any 
 church but the Episcopal, but as sure as that was open, 
 they'd come driving into town and walk up the aisle 
 
 316 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 dressed in the same kind of clothes I remembered them 
 wearing when I was a child. They were handsome 
 ladies, and it was pitiful how soon they followed each 
 other in death ; and I've always thought that the burn- 
 ing down of the church with all the family memorials 
 in it hurt them. We don't want the old name to die 
 out, but we are awfully sorry that Ned's find of coal 
 is going to ruin Stony Ridge. He's got a big company 
 behind him, so there's money to do what he likes with, 
 and the people in Stony Ridge won't wake up. Mr. 
 Dunlap's forever talking to them about it, but they keep 
 the same old stock in the shops from year to year till 
 it almost falls to pieces. And over in Newtown they 
 have a shop right now that beats anything we've ever 
 had; and of course people go over there to buy. I 
 don't think that Ned Beaton wants to ruin this town, 
 but Mr. Dunlap says he's going to do it sure." 
 
 Jane had never heard Mr. Dunlap say a half-dozen 
 sentences in the whole time that she had been in the 
 Dunlap household; but from the numerous quotations 
 made by Mrs. Dunlap, she supposed that they 'must fre- 
 quently hold secret sessions; and she found herself 
 wondering how the conversations opened. Idle spec- 
 ulations, that were interrupted by a sigh from her com- 
 panion as they paused in front of the Beaton gate. 
 
 " Yes, I'm glad to come to this old house once more," 
 she said ; " very glad." 
 
 " It is a pretty place." And Jane looked about her 
 almost as she had done on the first occasion of her 
 entering. " It looks like a home." 
 
 " Well, it isn't. I suppose we must come in at the 
 
 317 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 front door. Ah ! there's Tena. So, Tena, we've come 
 over to look at your father's books. Will you let us 
 in ? See ? I have the key to the library ; he sent it to 
 me. Yes, I know the old hall well." 
 
 Jane looked about her curiously. She did not re- 
 member the outside of her home, but certain things 
 within had made strong pictures in her memory — the 
 nursery, the dining-room, and the breakfast-table, with 
 the sunshine coming in and touching the corner of the 
 end where her mother always sat, and from the white 
 table-cloth, and from the old silver a cheerful whiteness 
 had seemed to be reflected all about the room and on 
 her mother's face, and beyond, there had seemed always 
 a big fire; and the library that had seemed all books. 
 And behind each of these memories there were big 
 windows, making frames for swaying trees and long 
 swaths of gray moss. These pictures came up to her 
 now as she entered the hall that seemed familiar ; very 
 broad and going straight through the house, with a 
 stairway at the far end that turned half way up ; and 
 the banisters were little and round. Perhaps all South- 
 ern houses of the same period were built after the same 
 pattern. The very smell of the library as the door 
 opened, the bookish, leathery smell, seemed to bring 
 again forgotten things. A feeling of free delight took 
 possession of her, as if she were getting back into some 
 element that was natural to her, and she touched the 
 books softly in friendly fashion. Any or all of them 
 were hers for the nonce ; she could rummage and read 
 at her own pleasure, and she seemed suddenly to be- 
 come possessed of a greedy desire for knowledge ; she 
 
 318 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 felt as if in not being a student she had missed her voca- 
 tion ; and she need not dread the winter any longer. 
 
 The Dunlap children, with Tena, had followed her 
 in and now stood looking about them open-mouthed. 
 
 " We used to have books, too," Mrs. Dunlap said 
 meditatively, " but my mother had to sell them ; we'd 
 better have kept them, they brought so little." And 
 she walked about slowly, picking up one book after 
 another. Presently she went out into the hall, the chil- 
 dren following, and Tena, who seemed to feel her po- 
 sition as hostess. Left alone, Jane wandered from 
 shelf to shelf, taking out a book here and there and put- 
 ting them back with ever slower and slower motions. 
 She was so ignorant outside of a certain beaten track 
 that she did not know what to select, and felt her pleas- 
 ure ebbing away. It was humiliating ; it would be best 
 for her to go back to Laurence Creswick's advice and 
 read history. 
 
 She turned to the study table for the first time, ob- 
 serving it closely. All the fittings were of the old- 
 fashioned, simple kind, and everything in profusion; 
 everything in easy reach ; a sort of impatient, careless 
 order pervading all, and every sign of recent occupa- 
 tion. She wanted a pencil ; there were all kinds, and 
 paper in great piles. She had been accustomed to 
 wealth ; to the best things ; but not to this, that she was 
 sure Mrs. Saunders had meant when she used to speak 
 of barbaric Southern profusion. This was surely 
 what she had meant, and if Jane liked it for nothing 
 else, she liked it for the reason that Mrs. Saunders had 
 not liked it. She said to herself that there seemed to 
 
 319 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 be more freedom in this sort of thing; and instead of 
 taking a piece of paper just large enough, as Mrs. 
 Saunders had trained her to do, she took a whole sheet 
 to make her little list, and in the same spirit wrote it 
 very large, dating it and signing it and leaving it in a 
 conspicuous place. Yes, she liked the look of the pro- 
 fusion, the feeling, and she nodded to it as she gathered 
 up the books she had selected. 
 
 Outside she found Mrs. Dunlap seated on the piazza 
 talking to Tena, while her own children were playing 
 in the old garden. Knowing her motive in keeping the 
 child with her, Jane felt a little irritation ; it seemed to 
 strike in the face the generous freedom which Ned 
 Beaton's study table had shown, and she took the 
 child's hand. " You have a dear old home, Tena," she 
 said, " and such a lot of books. I'll have to teach you 
 very fast so that you can enjoy them." 
 
 The child's face lighted up. " He lent me one the 
 other day, full of pictures." 
 
 " Your father ? " Mrs. Dunlap questioned. 
 
 The child nodded, looking at her questioner as if 
 some instinct told her all that Mrs. Dunlap felt toward 
 her. 
 
 Jane drew her nearer still. " You must bring it to 
 the school," she said, " and I will read it to you." 
 Then they walked away, Mrs. Dunlap observing every- 
 thing about her slowly, reminiscently, and Jane glanc- 
 ing back to where Tena looked so small standing in 
 the big doorway. 
 
 The walk home was rather silent, for each child hav- 
 ing relieved Jane of a book, seemed to feel the respon- 
 
 320 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 sibility, and walked quietly, while Mrs. Dunlap seemed 
 to have lost the power of speech. She had stepped back 
 into her own place for a moment, Jane thought, remem- 
 bering Ned Beaton's speech that Mrs. Dunlap had mar- 
 ried down, and remembering, also, the speech that they 
 had sold all their books ; she had stepped back, and she 
 is sorry, and the thought received confirmation from 
 the way in which Mrs. Dunlap looked about her and 
 the sigh that she drew as she entered her own house. 
 Later, Jane saw her standing close beside her husband, 
 on whose kindly, stolid face there was a queer look. 
 They were not a demonstrative couple. 
 
 321 
 
XX 
 
 " We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made on ; and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep." 
 
 NED BEATON, through his library, had given 
 Jane a way of escape from Mrs. Saunders and 
 her world, and she had availed herself of it. Laurence 
 Creswick, too, had sent her advice and some carefully 
 selected books, adding that, having secured a teacher's 
 discount for her, there was still some money to her 
 credit, which he would invest later on. Every day 
 the school ; every afternoon, in fair weather, a walk 
 with the children ; every evening a big fire and a pile 
 of books, and time melted away. 
 
 After the first visit to the library, the rug for the 
 school-room made the next date ; then some wall-maps 
 made a stir in the little circle, and the children began 
 to look on Tena differently. A large blackboard and 
 some weather-strips completed her elevation among 
 the children, while the parents began to speak of the 
 school as an institution quite beyond anything that 
 Stony Ridge had ever had; and the people who had 
 spoken of it lightly, began now to say openly that if the 
 Episcopalians could have such a fine school, it was a 
 pity that they could not rebuild their burned church 
 and call a clergyman ; but under no circumstances, not 
 
 322 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 even if they were Episcopalians, would they be be- 
 holden to such a worldling as Ned Beaton. Nor could 
 they understand the Tomkins, who were good Metho- 
 dists, being caught in such company. 
 
 The school went on, however, and the luxuries, com- 
 ing one after another, with notes to Mrs. Dunlap, she 
 began, like Tena, to attain to an elevation. She bought 
 the best note-paper which the town afforded, for the 
 purpose of answering these notes, letting them run 
 into gossipy letters, as the mere fact of writing brought 
 back to her an aroma from her earlier life and station. 
 Occasionally she would bring home a book for herself, 
 and began to assume a more protective air toward Jane, 
 with a little mystery attached to it, as if she were 
 mothering some hidden scheme; an air that puzzled 
 Jane when she thought of it. One wet day, however, 
 after the weather-strips arrived and had been found by 
 the carpenter to be greatly in excess of the needs of the 
 school-room, Jane, passing through the hall noiselessly, 
 because of her overshoes, heard Mrs. Dunlap saying to 
 her husband, " I'll put them in Miss Jane's windows ; 
 there's where he'd rather have them." She had reached 
 the top of the stairs before she realized the trend of the 
 words, and it was not until the carpenter and Mrs. 
 Dunlap, with the remaining weather-strips, knocked 
 for entrance that she understood completely Mrs. Dun- 
 lap's view of things. 
 
 " These were left over from the school-room. Miss 
 Jane, and I thought I'd make you comfortable." 
 
 " I am comfortable," Jane said, quickly, " and do not 
 care for the strips." 
 
 323 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " But you don't know how cold it will get." 
 
 " I am from the North, you know," her mind fleeting 
 back to the almost tropic heat of her cousin's house, 
 " and do not mind cold. Why not put them in the 
 dining-room? " 
 
 Mrs. Dunlap looked crestfallen. " We are so anx- 
 ious to keep you," she said, simply; " and I know Ned 
 Beaton would be glad to have your windows made 
 tight too." 
 
 " You and Mr. Beaton are both very kind." And 
 Jane pushed up a window, as if to show how little she 
 heeded the weather. The momentary fear that these 
 people thought that what Ned Beaton was doing for 
 the school-room was being done for her, had been ex- 
 ceedingly unpleasant ; the suggestion that it arose from 
 a fear that she would leave unless made comfortable, 
 was quite another thing; but she could not persuade 
 Mrs. Dunlap to use the strips anywhere else, and the 
 next time that they went to the Beaton place the re- 
 maining strips were carried over carefully by Joey, and 
 laid on the study table. 
 
 So with these little breaks, that took the proportions 
 of decided excitements, Christmas was reached with its 
 great expectations of joy, and its absolute certainty of 
 melancholy. Jane had been entertained by each of her 
 patrons in turn, and had gently made them understand 
 that unless they looked on Christmas holiday as a neces- 
 sity, she did not desire it. She feared even a thought 
 of a break in the routine that was proving such a balm. 
 Seven days to do with as she pleased ; seven days bar- 
 ren of duties; seven empty days like seven eyeless 
 
 324 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 ghosts — ^how awful ! She must save herself ; and she 
 put it quite playfully that Christmas eve and day and 
 New Year's day would be quite enough, she thought, 
 and she was sure that the children were happier at 
 school. 
 
 " And each one of you can bring your presents to 
 the school," she said guilefully to the children ; " and 
 we'll have such fun ! " 
 
 And so it was arranged, and she made careful pro- 
 vision that for each child there should be a surprise on 
 his or her table ; what was for her solace should not be 
 for their discomfort. But in spite of the occupation she 
 had provided for herself, the season brought its pain. 
 Her father's letters had come as regularly as of yore, 
 but there was in each one the same tone of reserve that 
 there had been in the first; each letter had hurt her, 
 but the Christmas letter brought a double wound, in 
 that it brought a check. She did not dare return it, 
 for the admonition accompanying it had been so stern. 
 "You are an ever-present anxiety to us," he wrote, 
 " so that you must allow me to ease my mind by arming 
 you against one danger, at least." And the check was 
 for a hundred dollars. 
 
 " And he is getting tired and old, and no one to help 
 him yet," she said ; and for the moment she felt that it 
 would have been better to have stayed with Mrs. Saun- 
 ders, and have borne anything. Her mother's letter 
 put it a little diiferently. "We send our Christmas 
 present together, dear child, and you must accept it, in 
 order to set our minds at rest." Then, as if to show 
 her why it was that they could not understand, why it 
 
 325 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 was that they were troubled about her, the mother en- 
 closed the latest letter from Marion, filled with balls 
 and operas, plays, receptions, dresses, and jewels, 
 speaking- here and there of Mark Witting as if he were 
 an intimate visitor, and at the last a casual mention 
 of Laurence Creswick having come to town for the 
 winter, and that she liked him so much. Descriptions 
 that at home had made Emily, and Ann, and Polly al- 
 most weep with desire, and that up in Stony Ridge re- 
 vealed things to Jane. 
 
 The other trial was a letter from Mr. Saunders. 
 Regularly each week Jane had written to him to the 
 club, but never until now had she received a line ; and 
 now, like her father's letter, it also contained a check 
 that she could not return. " If you had only whis- 
 pered ' I am not happy,' I would have taken you home," 
 he wrote ; " not that I am blaming you ; it was all my 
 fault. I loved you, my child, and I was weak about 
 disturbing anything, that was all. I should have 
 watched more carefully, have acted more decidedly ; 
 but through all you were a patient, gentle, too gentle, 
 and loyal child. Make me happier by keeping the en- 
 closed, so that I shall know that you are not in want. 
 I have never been able to write to your father, because 
 I feel that I have betrayed my trust. God bless you." 
 
 A note from Mrs. Saunders enclosed a smaller 
 check, but this was no problem. Jane's heart was 
 so sore, her position seemed to be so unnecessarily bit- 
 ter and so entirely due to Mrs. Saunders, that her meas- 
 ures with her were sharp and swift. She wrote " Can- 
 celled" across the face of the check; she had heard 
 
 326 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 her Cousin Henry tell of doing that, and enclosed it 
 in an empty envelope ; then she re-read Mrs. Saunders's 
 note, full of cooings for the " Holy Season, and Peace 
 and Good Will, and God's best blessing that had been 
 granted her in dearest Marion." And as she went 
 swiftly down to the post-office, a little feeling against 
 her sister began to rise in her heart. 
 
 It was not a happy time, though everyone tried to 
 make the stranger welcome and at home, and Jane did 
 her part also ; and on the clear, cold afternoon of Christ- 
 mas-day she took the children out to walk, in order to 
 relieve Mrs. Dunlap, who was weary with the unusual 
 amount of supervision required by the cook because of 
 the unusual amount and variety of the dinner prepared. 
 Jane was full of restless energy, drawn from many 
 sources, and as reading was impossible, she suggested 
 the walk, at which the children jumped eagerly. 
 
 The sky was clear, the air was like wine, and the sun 
 would set red. The bare trees stood up like etchings 
 where they were few, and in purple masses where they 
 were many. The fields were brown and empty, the 
 ruts along the road were frozen hard, the rain-pools 
 had each its little film of ice. Nothing was stirring. 
 The town was all by the fire after the heavy dinners, 
 save where, far away, a few stray fire-crackers were 
 being set off. Joey sent some longing looks in that 
 direction as Jane turned to the road up the hill, but as 
 he himself had a pack in one pocket, and matches in 
 another, he followed without demur. 
 
 To the children Jane seemed as she had been that 
 first afternoon, when she had astonished them by pro- 
 
 327 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 posing races. She proposed one now ; but though the 
 children started well, Christmas dinners such as they 
 had disposed of were against success, and their pant- 
 ings caused Jane to stop, and when they once more 
 caught up, to suggest telling stories. This was more 
 soothing, and they listened with patience at least. But 
 Jane herself did not find this pastime suited to her 
 mood; the stories dragged, seeming as overburdened 
 as the children. She had made a mistake in bringing 
 the children, and yet being alone was not what she de- 
 sired. In honor of the day, she had foolishly put on 
 the best street dress that she had brought, and which 
 she had not worn since the winter before, and it gave 
 her strange feelings in the empty country road. It be- 
 longed to other times and other regions, regions where 
 Marion would now be resting before the dinner they 
 were to have that night, the approaching glories of 
 which she had described in the letter forwarded to 
 Jane, and her dress of pure white, and the pearls she 
 would wear. And Mark Witting would be there, and 
 Laurence Creswick 
 
 " And what did the princess do then ? " Nannie asked, 
 Jane's voice having ceased. 
 
 " Why — of course — why she gave a great dinner ; 
 people always do on Christmas, you know, and asked 
 all the young gentlemen who were bachelors and who 
 lived by themselves in clubs " 
 
 A low laugh broke the stillness through which Jane's 
 voice had sounded, and looking up she saw Ned Bea- 
 ton leaning on his gate. 
 
 " What a charitable princess," he said, coming out ; 
 328 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " and may I wish you a Merry Christmas ? Well, chil- 
 dren, have you had a fine dinner ? You look so." 
 
 " Plum-pudding," Joey said. 
 
 " Turkey," Mamie went on. 
 
 " We always have plum-pudding and turkey for 
 Christmas," Nannie added, reprovingly. 
 
 " Lucky children ; I haven't had any." 
 
 " If mother had known " Nannie began. 
 
 " She would have sent for me ? I am sure of that, 
 and I will come next Christmas. May I send Joey to 
 the house for Tena, Miss Ormonde, and may we go 
 to walk, too? Run along, Joey, and we'll walk slowly. 
 I'm afraid that you spoil your scholars. Miss Ormonde ; 
 Tena tells me such tales." 
 
 " I have given them no holiday." 
 
 " At which Tena seems to be delighted. I thought 
 that I was the only child on earth who had ever pre- 
 ferred school to holiday, not because of scholarship, 
 please, but because of companionship. But won't you 
 continue the story of that beneficent being who sent 
 out into the highways and hedges of clubdom and gath- 
 ered in the poor bachelors for dinner ? " 
 
 Jane laughed. " Probably you know more about 
 that than I do." 
 
 " I do not seem to remember any such princess ; but 
 then, I've been a wanderer on the face of the earth, 
 and only now with sufficient gilding to enable me to 
 catch and reflect the lights of society. But what hap- 
 pened when the bachelors arrived? did one have on a 
 wedding garment, and did he straightway fall down . 
 at the feet of the young woman whom the benign prin- 
 cess was chaperoning ? " 
 
 329 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Of course ; and if he has gilding enough to reflect 
 all the society lights, the young woman will say yes." 
 
 " Indeed ? I had expected you to rebuke me." 
 
 " For the ways of the world ? " 
 
 " And you put it in the present tense, if he has gild- 
 ing?" 
 
 " She will say yes. To-night is Christmas, you see, 
 and the dinner. I am telling one of the realistic stories 
 of to-day. Princesses and titles are no longer strange, 
 and gilding is absurdly common." 
 
 " So much so that you despise it." 
 
 Jane looked up quickly. " It might be more true to 
 say that my contempt of it is a phase of sour grapes." 
 
 " And so you have come down into the great South- 
 ern wilderness to gather it." 
 
 " It seems so." 
 
 " Teaching a little country school at starvation 
 prices." 
 
 " I had turkey and plum-pudding for cfinner." 
 
 " But honestly, how do you stand it ? " They were 
 walking slowly, waiting for Joey and Tena, and Ned 
 Beaton had lowered his voice. They were of the same 
 world, and he wondered at her patience, and, as on 
 closer inspection, he had not found her to be cross- 
 eyed, nor with a broken nose, he was trying to find 
 some reason for her presence in this lonely country 
 road where they walked. She or her people must have 
 lost their money suddenly, and she had taken up the 
 first thing she had found to do, or she had been dis- 
 owaed or driven out in some way ; something was quite 
 out of order. 
 
 330 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " There is nothing in my Hfe here that is hard to 
 bear," Jane answered, quietly. " The children are 
 good, and everyone is very kind to me." 
 
 " But the sameness, the dulness, the lack of all the 
 delicacies of life, of all the finer touches, all the lux- 
 uries ? " 
 
 " In the life that I left," Jane said, slowly, " there 
 was nothing, and all the while I was pretending that 
 it was something; for the rest, my digestion seems to 
 be good and you have made the school-room quite lux- 
 urious." 
 
 " You are plucky." 
 
 Just here Tena came flying up the road, Joey follow- 
 ing at a heavier pace. " Oh, Miss Jane ! " she cried, 
 and clasped her about the waist. 
 
 " Merry Christmas, Tena." And Jane, straighten- 
 ing up from a tighter embrace than the first, found Ned 
 Beaton watching her with an amused smile. 
 
 " Run on, Tena," he said, " you and the children." 
 He now could give the order, having one in the group. 
 " Do you submit to that, or to ten such, every morning? 
 You are more plucky even than I thought." 
 
 " Not quite ten, and not every day ; but they are nice 
 children, and I have an abiding sympathy for children." 
 
 " It seems to me that they have a pretty good time." 
 
 " Did you have ? " looking directly at him. 
 
 "As good as I deserved, I fancy. You remember 
 what Carlyle says about the estimate we make for our- 
 selves of what we think we deserve? I took that to 
 heart early in life, and never since then have I looked 
 for anything but what I could get of myself. What 
 
 331 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 we secure, that is ours and that we deserve ; and I never 
 expect anything more; no luck, no grace of tender 
 mercy." 
 
 " It is a hard creed." 
 
 " Rub a spot to soreness, and Nature throws up a 
 callosity." 
 
 " Does that insure against suffering? " 
 
 " To suffer is one of the most useless things in life," 
 looking down into Jane's eyes and smiling. " Don't 
 suffer; you can control it, you know. To quote once 
 more : ' To those who think, life is a farce.' " 
 
 " ' To those who think, life is a farce,' " Jane repeat- 
 ed, and looked away across the fields. 
 
 " Don't you see? " Beaton asked. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 They had reached the top of the hill,, and Jane 
 stopped, looking out over the wide, rolling view. 
 Nothing stirring, moving, not a sound, save some dis- 
 tant cow-bells. A film of smoke lay over the town, 
 and all the yellow line of the clayey road could be clear- 
 ly followed from far beyond, up to their very feet. 
 
 " I wonder the desolation does not kill you." 
 
 " If I cannot grasp anything else," Jane answered, 
 " I do not deserve anything else. And I am just now 
 told that such vagaries as suffering can be controlled." 
 
 Beaton laughed. " You ought to be a good teacher," 
 he said, " you are such an apt scholar." 
 
 " Thank you. But seriously, you have done much 
 for me in lending me your library." 
 
 " It is a pleasure, I assure you ; but, by the way," 
 they had turned and were walking down the hill, " I 
 
 332 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 found some unusual things on my study table — 
 weather-strips and lists of books ; why ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Dunlap put the strips there because they are 
 yours ; and I put the lists there, that you might know 
 of the safety of your books." 
 
 " What a lot of trouble, and what desperate honesty! 
 Could no place be found for the weather-strips ? I am 
 quite sure that cyclones blow in around your windows, 
 for instance, I seem to hear them rattling at this very 
 moment." 
 
 " I did not wish them." 
 
 " Because at that time you were ignorant. If you 
 go on sleeping in a tornado you'll soon be having neu- 
 ralgia, and be obliged to wear night-caps ; fancy ! " 
 Jane laughed. "Thank you for the mirth," she 
 said. 
 
 " Christmas makes you lonely ? it does not me, be- 
 cause I have grown to like loneliness ; though I must 
 confess to being pleased this afternoon when I saw you 
 and the children coming up the road. It amused me, 
 too, to hear a person rolling in the wealth of fifteen 
 dollars a month speaking about such poor things as 
 princesses, and fashionable clubs, and idle bachelors 
 waiting to be provided for. So I was rude enough to 
 laugh; but I am continually wondering why Mrs. 
 Fenser screwed you so. She must have done it simply 
 from love of a bargain — ^the bargain habit — there are 
 such creatures." 
 
 " You forget the board and washing." 
 " And the railway ticket. You must have been very 
 ignorant of the worth of things to have taken it." 
 
 333 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 A sudden flash of pleasure had come to Jane at the 
 mention of Mrs. Fenser and her methods ; he had not 
 tried to give her anything! How had she imagined 
 it ? and she looked up brightly. " I am only a woman, 
 you know," she said ; " and women don't make fort- 
 unes; they only make livings." 
 
 "If the world were in order, they would not have to 
 make anythirrg." 
 
 Jane laughed. " You got out of that beautifully," 
 she said ; " but really, you should have been a Turk ; 
 your ideas of my sex are wretched ! " And she laid 
 her hand on the gate that he did not seem inclined to 
 open. 
 
 " Won't you come in? " Mrs. Dunlap called from 
 where she had opened the front door. 
 
 " Not this evening, thank you," he answered, " but 
 I am coming to dine with you next Christmas ; Nannie 
 has asked me." And taking Tena's hand, he went 
 away. 
 
 334 
 
XXI 
 
 " The quarrel is a very pretty quarrel as it stands ; 
 We should only spoil it by trying to explain it." 
 
 JANE'S knowledge had taken its seat beside her 
 ignorance, and by comparison it looked very 
 small. Her little knowledge announced that 
 checks were not meant for keepsakes, and that it was 
 better to deposit money than to keep it in an old 
 stocking. Whereupon her big ignorance demanded, 
 promptly, " How do you deposit money?" 
 
 Mrs. Saunders's business training had reached only 
 to the point of keeping Jane well aware of how much 
 Mrs. Saunders gave her, training that did not avail 
 Jane at this crisis. She did not wish to ask the Dun- 
 laps, for it did not seem wise to reveal her ignorance 
 to people who would not understand. Ned Beaton 
 would understand it perfectly, but she did not know 
 when she would see him again. To reveal her stupid- 
 ity to her father would be to make him more uneasy 
 than ever; it would be the same thing with Mr. Saun- 
 ders, so that her only resource seemed to be Laurence 
 Creswick. He knew how wofully helpless she was in 
 one or two directions at least, and it would not shock 
 him very much to discover one or two, or even a 
 dozen, further instances of her inability to do ordinary 
 things without instruction. 
 
 335 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 And he, receiving her letter late one snowy after- 
 noon, read it in his luxuriously furnished rooms, and 
 smiled happily. How naturally she was turning to 
 him; how sweetly and simply she wrote, so sure of 
 his interest, so confident of his faithfulness. Looking 
 into the glowing depths of the fire, he could see so 
 many visions of her — graceful, slender, fresh, and 
 charming; always gentle, and always an appealing 
 look in her eyes. He had never entirely understood 
 her flight; he had never been entirely satisfied as to 
 what it was that had driven her out into the world, 
 although, of course, Mrs. Saunders and matrimony 
 had to do with it. Ever since that day when he and 
 Jane had walked together up in the hills and had dis- 
 cussed the quaUty of nobility; ever since Mrs. Saun- 
 ders had catechized him on the afternoon of Mrs. Cum- 
 ming's tea; ever since that night at the concert, when 
 Jane had defied Mrs. Saunders; ever since then he 
 had been studying Mrs. Saunders. 
 
 To him she was unfailingly kind and, to the best of 
 her ability, charming; but charm she never so wisely, 
 he never forgot the look on Jane's face as she had said 
 to him that autumn day, that seemed generations ago : 
 " Play school-master, and let me send to you for a 
 reference," and though she had laughed, it had been 
 a pitifully quavering little laugh, and her dear eyes 
 had been full of tears. Yes, charmed she never so 
 wisely, Jane looked at him always from somewhere 
 behind Mrs. Saunders. 
 
 This second sister seemed to be devoted to her 
 cousin, and the cousin to her, and she was a pretty 
 
 336 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 creature, in a diminutive, childlike way, but she was 
 not Jane. This one had a steely brightness, a butter- 
 fly lightness, a kittenish love for soft things, for the 
 cream of material things. He liked her — it was more 
 than like, he was becoming fond of her in a brotherly 
 way. He smiled happily over this phrase, it pleased 
 him. Eight sisters and brothers Marion said she had, 
 and country life in the South was dull beyond com- 
 parison, and she had drawn her slender finger across 
 her lovely throat, and had nodded in a bewitching 
 way, saying: "Janey and her independent fad saved 
 my life." 
 
 Then Mrs. Saunders had sighed and added : " I had 
 sent for you before I knew Janey's plans, dear, so that 
 Janey did not save your life." 
 
 One day Mrs. Saunders had asked him, abruptly: 
 "Are Jane's letters to you cheerful?" And he could 
 not be sure whether she was seeking knowledge con- 
 cerning the correspondence or if she were really anx- 
 ious as to the girl's welfare. He had not been able 
 to decide, but had answered according to Jane's own 
 instructions, that she was quite satisfied and also 
 successful. Now he could inform her further, if he 
 thought best, that Jane had so far advanced in pros- 
 perity as to open a bank account. He must answer 
 the letter at once, however, before he dressed for din- 
 ner, so that she could put her money away safely. But 
 think of a creature so ill-supplied with knowledge 
 starting out to fight the world! It would do a boy 
 good; a few hard knocks would put him in his place 
 and teach him things; but a girl, a gentle, tender girl! 
 
 337 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 It hurt him to think of it, and tempted him to go 
 down and see for himself. She was so plucky, she'd 
 never cry " enough! " — never; she'd smile to the very 
 last. On the other hand, she was so honest she would 
 never deceive, so that he must believe that so far she 
 had been fortunate. He wondered a little bit about 
 this man who seemed to be so busy furnishing the 
 school-room; still, as his child was in the school, and 
 he the rich man of the community, he was probably 
 posing a little as general benefactor, and, of course, 
 the child meant that there was a wife somewhere. 
 
 He sighed; if the girl would only write that she 
 was sad or sorrowful, or give a hint of loneliness, he 
 would go at once and persuade her into a life-long 
 haven. Instead, she wrote of the books she was read- 
 ing, and the big wood-fire, and the Beatons and their 
 old place, and of Mrs. Dunlap's motherly kindness, 
 giving no sign that she needed either help or com- 
 fort, or that she had any wish for any other haven 
 than the one she had reached. He often wondered 
 what Mr. Saunders thought of it all. He had changed 
 a good deal of late, seemed depressed, and had become 
 very silent. And Mark Witting seemed to be paying 
 the same kind of attention to Marion that he had 
 used to pay Jane, only perhaps a little more, and he 
 wondered if it meant anything. In fact, everything 
 was irritatingly like the winter before, only that Marion 
 had been put into Jane's place. 
 
 With all these thoughts in his mind that night at 
 the opera, one which brought Jane more forcibly than 
 ever before him, he watched Marion, who was looking 
 
 338 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 about in her quick, bird-like way, now and then nod- 
 ding gayly, and always smiling. Jane would have 
 been absorbed. At last he said to the girl: "Your 
 sister was devoted to this opera." 
 
 "Was she? and think of her down in the corn- 
 fields! She must be nearly dead." 
 
 " On the contrary, she seems to be quite cheerful." 
 
 " You hear regularly? " looking up quickly. 
 
 " No, but your sister is kind enough to answer my 
 letters." 
 
 " Well, she does not write to me any more, nor to 
 cousin." 
 
 " My dear Marion," Mrs. Saunders put in, gently, 
 " Jane has not answered my last letter as yet, but that 
 is all. You are giving Mr. Creswick a wrong impres- 
 sion of your sister. She communicated with us all 
 most dutifully, she had been too well trained to neglect 
 such things. I must confess, however, that I do not 
 see how she endures her life, for she is not even on 
 the coast, but up in the hill-country. Yet she seems 
 cheerful, does she not, Mr. Creswick? " 
 
 " Very much so indeed, and successful into the bar- 
 gain," he added, remembering Jane's charge. 
 
 "Successful in a country school?" and Marion 
 shook her head. " It is such an odd fad." 
 
 " I agree to that," and Mrs. Saunders patted Mari- 
 on's hand. " It is odd, but you must be careful, dear, 
 not to give a wrong impression of your sister, for we, 
 Mr. Creswick and I, have known her, and you have 
 not, and we have loved her very much indeed." 
 
 " Have you ? " and the girl looked up into Cres- 
 wick's eyes archly. 
 
 339 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 He nodded, smiling. 
 
 " And did Mr. Witting love her, too? " she persisted, 
 turning to Mark. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders laughed softly. " Of course, dear, 
 we all loved her; Jane was very charming." 
 
 " Did you? " Marion persisted, still looking at Mark. 
 
 " Absolutely," Mark answered, with a gravity in his 
 tone that seemed strange to Creswick. 
 
 "Then why did she run away? Everybody loving 
 her could not hold her?" 
 
 " Perhaps there was too much love," Mark sug- 
 gested, "perhaps we were jealous, were ready to tear 
 her to pieces among us, causing her to decide that 
 discretion is the better part of valor." 
 
 " Well, I wish she had stayed," Marion went on, a 
 little impatiently, " I would have liked to see all the 
 perfection I am hearing so much about. Even the 
 servants tell me of her, and as for the old ladies who 
 come to see cousin "—looking appealingly at Cres- 
 wick — " they sing her praises continually, and I'm al- 
 ways feeling that they are drawing comparisons in her 
 favor. It is trying." 
 
 " You are so different, dear," Mrs. Saunders said, 
 smoothly, " that no comparison can be drawn." 
 
 " Very true," and Creswick nodded again to the 
 spoiled child, " you are absolutely different." Then 
 Marion's words caused him to wonder suddenly if 
 Jane had known of her sister's coming; surely she 
 would have mentioned it, and he asked, abruptly: 
 " Did Miss Ormonde know that her sister was coming 
 to you this winter? " 
 
 340 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Mrs. Saunders shook her head sadly. " I was keep- 
 ing it as a pleasant surprise for her " 
 
 " Cousin telegraphed for me the very day that Janey 
 left/' Marion put in; "wasn't it queer?" 
 " Very queer," Mark answered. 
 " It was queer," Mrs. Saunders agreed. " The ser- 
 vant who took my telegram and letter to Mr. Or- 
 monde to the office brought back Jane's note of fare- 
 well. It was very strange, and yet not too strange, 
 for Janey, you remember, Mr. Creswick," turning 
 suddenly to him, "had not looked well, nor had she 
 seemed herself for some time; for all the time that 
 you and she were reading together; from the middle 
 of the summer, indeed; and my thought was to sur- 
 prise her out of her lethargy. Our plans happened 
 to climax on the same day, that was all. Poor Jane ! " 
 Creswick had been wondering what Mark Witting's 
 extreme gravity had meant, what had made him so 
 earnest in answering Marion's half-bantering question, 
 when Mrs. Saunders's announcement concerning Jane's 
 lethargy called him back to the conversation. He had 
 never associated Jane and lethargy, but all the rest of 
 the story seemed to hang together, and he could only 
 abuse fate that the respective plans, as Mrs. Saunders 
 had called them, had climaxed on the same day, and 
 so had taken Jane away. Jane had seemed a little 
 dififerent last summer, but he would not have called 
 it lethargic. At all events she seemed now to have 
 fully aroused herself, and he was still more sure of 
 this when in February he received a letter from Jane 
 which astonished him beyond measure. She was mak- 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 ing up her mind to open a little shop, she announced, 
 and wanted to know if he would kindly send her the 
 addresses of some of the cheap places in New York, 
 so that she could open negotiations. 
 
 " I am going to ask you not to mention this," she 
 wrote, " because I do not mean to tell my people. A 
 shop would seem a dreadful thing to my father and 
 mother. I shall begin in a very small way, with a 
 little sale of spring millinery, opening only in the 
 afternoon when school hours are over. When the 
 holidays come I shall decide finally between business 
 and teaching. Business will mean a general shop — 
 the groceries about which you scoffed. Don't bother 
 about anything but the addresses, please." 
 
 This was the result of the bank account, Creswick 
 pondered, and the more that she succeeded in busi- 
 ness the less hope there would be for him. More and 
 more it was coming home to him that the girl had 
 been in earnest, deadly earnest, that day on the hiH. 
 It had not been a sudden decision at all, even though 
 it had seemed to culminate suddenly; and how defi- 
 nitely she had gone to work; how steadily she had 
 pursued her aim, and there was no sign as yet of 
 halting or wavering. He must, of course, make all 
 possible inquiries, instruct her in wholesale methods, 
 and select the hats and bonnets, if need be. Even 
 in the midst of the sensation of blankness that had 
 come over him he laughed at the thought of himself 
 as a buyer, and in this spirit he answered Jane's letter. 
 " Just as soon as you are fully established in business," 
 he wrote, " I shall learn the persuasive ways of the 
 
 342 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 seller and offer you my services as travelling sales- 
 man. If only I could be stricken with poverty, I'd 
 follow, be fired by your example. As a beginning of 
 poverty, by the way, why not let me invest some capi- 
 tal in your speculation — send down a car-load of bon- 
 nets, and lard, and nails? " 
 
 " How good he is," Jane said to the damp Febru- 
 ary wind as she read his letter going up the stony 
 street from the post-office. She looked about her at 
 the uncouth picture which yet had a certain friendU- 
 ness. The scattered, irregular houses, the shabby 
 fences, the ragged trees, the very stones of the road 
 had come to be associated with all the acute sensations 
 of her present life, for here it was that she read her 
 letters, and looking up from a wound or a sting, the 
 insensate things about her would by comparison seem 
 friendly. Often in the months that had passed she 
 had felt herself to be truly the pilgrim and stranger 
 she had called herself. Watching people hurrying 
 home out of the cold; catching momentary glimpses 
 of fire-lighted interiors as doors were opened and shut ; 
 Beeing, through forgotten windows, little happy pict- 
 ures, she had felt herself cruelly alone. But now that 
 she was meditating a change, a venture that would 
 identify her with the place, that would in a certain way 
 bridge over her isolation, she was afraid. Indeed she 
 stood between two fears. So far in life people had 
 hurt her, and she dreaded coming near enough again 
 to be stricken, to be made uncertain as to pain; on 
 the other hand, a certain pain stared her in the face. 
 She had been asked casually if she would go home 
 
 343 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 for the summer holidays. Instantly a great dread had 
 loomed up which had hidden from sight all minor con- 
 siderations. Suppose her father should call her home, 
 phe would have no excuse. Go home? — she could 
 not, not now, and through Marion's letters be in touch 
 with all that she was trying to put away? not now, 
 not yet, it would be death by slow torture. Go home 
 a burden, and hear forever Mrs. Saunders's low laugh? 
 Never. Some barrier must be raised against that pos- 
 sibility, and the corner-stone of the barrier was laid 
 by Mrs. Dunlap, who had one day said, tentatively: 
 " You know all about New York, Miss Jane, couldn't 
 you tell me how to get a bonnet cheaper than the 
 prices they send out, and better looking than what 
 they bring here or to Newtown?" And Jane, saying 
 that she would think of it, and stumbling over this 
 other fear of going home, grasped the idea of spring 
 millinery as the protection she was in search of. 
 
 She had put her Christmas checks into the county 
 bank, and had added something from her monthly 
 salary, and when all was counted it was a small sum, 
 still it was enough for this venture, and if she failed 
 and lost it all it still would have served its purpose 
 in keeping her in Stony Ridge all summer, and per- 
 haps a further purpose would be served in that the 
 worry of it would possibly put an end to introspection. 
 Success or failure, however, would not be such a great 
 matter, for there would be the school again in the 
 autumn, and in a day or two she opened her plan to 
 Mrs. Dunlap. 
 
 " If I could hire a room," she said, " and have a 
 
 344 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 few things, bonnets and trimmings, for sale in the 
 afternoons; and, when school is over for the summer, 
 make it into a small shop, do you think that I could 
 make it pay? I could also give embroidery lessons." 
 
 Mrs. Dunlap's eyes had opened wide, and she had 
 offered all the objections she could think of, Jane an- 
 swering them one by one, agreeing to anything, even 
 to teaching the Dunlap children and Tena down in the 
 shop when the holidays were over if the shop should 
 prove itself a success; then having done her duty, 
 Mrs. Dunlap gave herself up to visions. Here was an 
 opportunity to have a decent shop in the town, and to 
 keep people's money at home; a chance to look less 
 countrified — why not? In her stunted career her 
 vision had been limited to home-made clothes, or to 
 the heart-rending productions of the Stony Ridge 
 dressmaker, who also built up strange things for the 
 head, so that Jane and Jane's clothes had been a revela- 
 tion, and she had realized at once the great gulf fixed 
 between Jane's apparel and any other that she had 
 ever seen, and had been filled with longing. 
 
 All these thoughts came back to her now, and daz- 
 zled her. " There is a room down-town," she said, 
 slowly. 
 
 " On the main street, with a big window," Jane 
 broke in; " yes, and it's empty? " 
 ,"Yes, Miss Rogers had a store there; yes, and 
 /failed; but I'll find out about that room for you." 
 Then Jane, in spite of the fact that Miss Rogers had 
 failed, had written at once to Laurence Creswick, and 
 his answer coming more quickly than she had thought 
 
 345 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 possible, filled her with excited doubts as she walked 
 through the misty February morning. 
 
 Wholesale, of course, that was the way to buy ; send 
 him a memorandum of what she wanted, and of the 
 amount she wished to invest, and he and the shop- 
 man would do the rest! "How good he is! " and she 
 quickened her step. She must arrange about the 
 room at once ; have it cleaned, and a sign. Her heart 
 quailed — Ormonde on a sign! She had no right to 
 put it there ; it belonged to her brothers, and her step 
 slackened. She had no middle name ; why not " Miss 
 Jane"? Milliners were usually Maries, or something 
 of the kind; why not Miss Jane? Good, she would 
 speak to Mrs. Dunlap that very afternoon. 
 
 She whirled the children through the school hours, 
 scarcely understanding why she did it. She had found 
 the barrier she had longed for, but why any excite- 
 ment? A change other than the laundress — was that it? 
 Another venture, almost as new and strange as her run- 
 ning away — that running away, the wisdom of which 
 was still hanging in the balance. But as she talked 
 with Mrs. Dunlap that afternoon her excitement in- 
 creased, and her listener was deeply affected by her 
 energy and enthusiasm. A friend, not a common 
 buyer, would select the things — a New York person 
 who knew! And Mrs. Dunlap had renewed visions 
 of herself as transfigured in fashionable attire. 
 
 " But we down here can't buy expensive things," 
 she said at last, with a regretful fall in her voice. 
 
 " That is just what I want to know," Jane answered, 
 promptly ; " prices, and how many bonnets, how many 
 
 34^ 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 hats, trimmed and untrimmed, I had better send 
 for?" 
 
 " All married women used to wear bonnets," Mrs. 
 Dunlap began, Hterally, "but lately some of them 
 have taken to hats. I don't think it looks well, my- 
 self; but you can count on all your school mothers to 
 buy bonnets — that'll be four; and as to prices, well, 
 I have given as much as five dollars." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But if you could put them at less, even a little 
 less — you see, four dollars and ninety-five cents seems 
 so much cheaper." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And I think," she went on, " that you can order 
 six bonnets trimmed, and as many untrimmed, be- 
 cause once we mothers put on New York bonnets the 
 others will find reason why they must do it, too. 
 They'll talk about us first, though. They have talked 
 about the school, you know." 
 
 " No, I did not know." 
 
 "Well, they have; all the same they'd like to be 
 in it. My idea is that they'll come into the shop be- 
 cause they can't get into the school." 
 
 " And how many hats? " 
 
 " You can get a good many hats. Can't you get 
 some patterns and trim them yourself? Then you can 
 let the price down a bit. People have to give their 
 work and time when they are beginning. But I don't 
 think you'll lose, and I am just as anxious as you 
 are. Just as soon as you hear that the things are on 
 the way, we'll go down and hire the room and clean 
 
 347 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 it up; we'll take Jake down some Saturday to scour, 
 and you'd better put a notice in the paper — ^let it be 
 in for next week, for the paper only comes out once 
 a week — ^and I'll go round and tell the mothers." 
 
 Things were rushing faster than Jane had dreamed, 
 and she felt as if caught in a current that was hurry- 
 ing her on to some unknown thing, just as she had 
 felt in the autumn after Mrs. Fenser had answered 
 her advertisement. Never mind how much she thought 
 of things and prepared for results, the crises in her 
 life seemed always at the last to spring on her in a 
 moment, and unawares, and before she realized hav- 
 ing stepped over any bounds, a wall would be built 
 up so that there was no turning back. Of course she 
 was at liberty to change her mind; she could write to 
 Laurence Creswick without difficulty, and could speak 
 to Mrs. Dunlap, of course, and she could go home? 
 She would engage the room at once and pay the rent 
 for six months in advance. She would send the money 
 and lists to Laurence Creswick; she would take one 
 of her hats to pieces and learn, bow by bow, and 
 flower by flower, how to trim it; she would study with 
 care the different styles of head-gear to be seen in 
 church and in the streets, and she would advertise in 
 the weekly paper. She would succeed or she would 
 fail; she would die, but she would not go home. 
 
 348 
 
XXII 
 
 " We wear out life, alas ! 
 Distracted as a homeless wind, 
 In beating where we must not pass. 
 In seeking what we shall not find. " 
 
 IN a few days a little buzz began to reach Jane 
 through the school children. " Are you really 
 going to have a shop, Miss Jane? " and " Mamma says 
 she'll buy me a hat." Then a letter from Creswick 
 to say that the things had left New York. He made 
 his part to seem very easy and very amusing, giving 
 his views of bonnets in general, and of bonnets for a 
 village community; of hats for country girls; of the 
 flowers, and ribbons, and wires, and much other cheer- 
 ful nonsense that made Jane laugh. " And I will keep 
 you informed of the state of the market," he Went on ; 
 " and be sure to let me know when you want the lard 
 and nails. This has been the funniest thing of my 
 life, and I envy you." 
 
 All of Saturday morning Jane spent in the future 
 shop, an unlovely place at best, but it was clean, and 
 perhaps it would not look as dismal to Stony Ridge 
 as it did to her. Across the window she had tacked 
 a strip of cloth on which was printed, in large letters : 
 
 MISS JANE 
 
 HAS FOR SALE A FEW 
 
 HATS AND BONNETS FROM NEW YORK 
 
 349 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 which Mrs. Dunlap declared to be " fine," as the 
 " few " would make the women anxious lest they'd 
 not get there in time to buy; then behind the sign 
 Mrs. Dunlap had tacked a white cotton curtain to 
 keep out curious gazers. Jane had bought a table, a 
 sofa, a few chairs, and a dressing-table with the least 
 gnarled mirror that the stock of furniture in the town 
 afforded. She would bring down her own pin-cushion 
 and hand-glass. The things would arrive on Monday, 
 probably, and she would be ready for inspection by 
 Tuesday afternoon, and it was with something of a 
 thrill that she locked the door on her preparations and 
 took her way up the hilly street. 
 
 Half-way up she met Ned Beaton on horseback. 
 He dismounted, and, slipping the bridle over his arm, 
 joined her. " I hear that you are going into busi- 
 ness," he began at once; " why did not you consult 
 me?" 
 
 " It did not occur to me." 
 
 "Will you tell me about it; why you are going to 
 do it, and what you expect the end to be? " 
 
 " I expect the end to be a fortune." 
 
 " It is a speculation, then." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And you can aflford to lose what you put into it? " 
 
 " You are not encouraging." 
 
 " I am not sure that I wish to be." 
 
 " You told me once, in a very instructive way, Mr. 
 Beaton, that we could have only the thing that we 
 could grasp; I am trying to grasp something." 
 
 " In Stony Ridge? " 
 
 350 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Women cannot afford to despise the day of small 
 things." 
 
 " Thanks to men ; but will you walk a little slower, 
 please, and let me talk to you seriously? " 
 
 Jane slackened her pace. 
 
 " I do not know you very well," he began, " but I 
 feel driven into admonishing you, into pleading with 
 you. You are throwing away your money and your- 
 self in going into a shop; believe me, it is a hopeless 
 venture." 
 
 " Do you mean for me especially, or because Stony 
 Ridge is a hopeless place?" 
 
 " Both." 
 
 " You think that I am incapable? " 
 
 " Not at all, but I have had need to give women a 
 great deal of thought, and I have arrived at the point 
 where I am sorry for them, and more sorry for them 
 now than ever before." 
 
 Jane looked up quickly. " You mean " 
 
 " That they are deceived, that you are deceived by 
 a very plausible seeming. The great cry now is that 
 everything is open to women, and the poor things be- 
 lieve it. There are colleges and the like, but what 
 then? After you are educated, after you have passed 
 all the examinations, you are women still — you will 
 fall in love." 
 
 The color sprang into Jane's face and her eyes 
 flashed. 
 
 " Don't be angry," lifting his hand deprecatingly, 
 "it is this one lovely weakness that at present saves 
 the situation; but putting that aside for a moment, 
 
 351 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 and granting mental equality, granting educational 
 equality, men will have more faith in a man's strength, 
 in a man's judgment, in a man's nerves. Will a man, 
 then, ever send for a woman physician or entrust any- 
 one he loves to the care of one? Will he ever employ 
 a woman lawyer, be she never so charming a Portia? 
 Would we employ women clerks if it were not that 
 they will accept lower wages? " 
 
 Again Jane's eyes seemed to catch fire. " I hate 
 men," she said. 
 
 " You are quite right," and Beaton nodded, " we 
 are hateful creatures, and I for one think it greatly 
 our fault tha-t women stand where they stand to-day. 
 If we men had never been unjust to you women, had 
 never neglected you, had treated you properly, you 
 would all have been beautiful; beautiful women are 
 always cared for; so it follows that you would never 
 have tried to stand alone, and the way that leads to 
 nowhere would never have been open to delude you 
 into work that leads to nothing. Believe me, I have 
 thought this thing out as carefully as a man can, and 
 I have come to the conclusion that it is the plain 
 women who stand first in this movement, who have 
 been driven to work for solace." 
 
 " Thank you," and Jane laughed. " Work for solace 
 is good." 
 
 " But not for you ; your working contravenes my 
 theories. Besides, there is no use in your taking this 
 stand, for, leaving everything else to one side, you 
 will never get anywhere." 
 
 " We cannot be sure of that." 
 
 352 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " We can. In the first place, you have no future in 
 a town like this; in the second place, women are not 
 meant to go into business; I have not seen any of 
 them succeed in business for themselves. I mean 
 business as business, not trimming hats and making 
 unholy charges for clothes, but an honest business for 
 honest gains. They can't do this alone, and if you 
 will look around you you will realize that no woman 
 is ever allowed to work up to the head of any institu- 
 tion or company where there are men. Never mind 
 how clever, how apt, how facile you are, we can never 
 promote you, for one simple reason, that there is al- 
 ways the chance that just as soon as you are thor- 
 oughly trained and absolutely necessary, you will 
 marry, and we'd have to begin all over again on an- 
 other candidate." 
 
 They walked along in silence for a few steps, then 
 Jane said : " But if one should pledge one's self not 
 to?" 
 
 " Then you'd help only the one woman who pledged 
 herself, for that woman does not marry and so does 
 not hand on her business ability, see? While in man 
 it is reduced to heredity." 
 
 " I have never thought of working for my sex as 
 a sex," Jane answered, slowly, as if a new idea had 
 come to her, " but you are rapidly driving me into 
 that position." 
 
 " God forbid! " 
 
 "You speak of us almost as goods and chattels; 
 certainly as nonentities." 
 
 " As the solace of life — as exquisite flowers." 
 
 353 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " And when the flowers are withered? " 
 "To be gazed on with loving melancholy, as we 
 gaze on the pressed flowers in our Bibles that recall 
 a charming spring or a gorgeous summer; to be 
 shielded sacredly." 
 
 " When you began I thought you in earnest." 
 " I am in earnest; your going into business is 
 absurd." 
 
 " Why may not I, individually, succeed ? " 
 " Because, putting other things aside, you do not 
 strike me as being in the least fitted for business. You 
 are sensitive, you are not accustomed to fighting the 
 world. There are strong lines in your face, but they 
 are not there naturally, they have been put there by 
 an unkind fate. When your face relaxes it is as soft 
 and gentle as a child's; when your eyes are not con- 
 sciously on the defensive, they are pathetically appeal- 
 ing. Pray forgive this extremely personal criticism, 
 but from the very first you excited my curiosity and 
 interest. I picked up an envelope addressed to you. 
 I watched you walking away from me up a long road 
 reading something intently. From your general ap- 
 pearance I thought that you had strayed to this place 
 by mistake; then I reflected that you might be cross- 
 eyed or noseless." 
 Again Jane looked up at him, laughing. 
 " Yes, and I put the envelope on the gate-post to 
 wait for you." 
 " You would do that much for a noseless woman? " 
 " I'd do more, I'd put her into a convent and sup- 
 port her there. Then I saw you, talked to you, and 
 ever since I've been drawing conclusions about you." 
 
 354 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " You are very kind." 
 
 " My dear Miss Ormonde, missionaries have to put 
 up with a great deal more than sarcasm, and just now 
 I look on myself as a missionary. I have been most 
 horribly personal this afternoon, but I felt it neces- 
 sary, even if you never speak to me again; but I am 
 sure that you will forgive me, and will think of what 
 I have said." 
 
 " Forgive you, of course, but turn back, no. I am 
 going to succeed, let it cost what it may." 
 
 " Even after the brick wall is pointed out to you 
 you insist on smashing your head against it? " 
 
 " Perhaps on climbing it. The modern woman you 
 so much deprecate is athletic. Your mistake, Mr. 
 Beaton, is that you have thought of me as a faddist; 
 as trying to prove something for my sex; as leading 
 an attack on your sex. I am not, I am working solely 
 and simply for Jane Ormonde, and to make her a suc- 
 cess, an ambition so small that it will be satisfied by 
 money enough to make me independent." 
 
 " That is more practical, more man-like than your 
 sex usually is, Miss Ormonde, and yet you allowed 
 Mrs. Fenser to screw you, and sent back to me scorn- 
 fully your rightful travelling expenses?" They had 
 reached Mrs. Dunlap's gate, and, letting her through, 
 Beaton leaned one elbow on top. "When do you 
 open shop? " 
 
 " On Tuesday afternoon, I hope." 
 
 " Do you know that there is a prejudice against you 
 in the town because you teach a select school?" 
 
 " I have heard so." 
 
 355 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " And a great one against the school because I en- 
 abled the mothers to have it. Do you know that be- 
 cause I did not invite the town to my wedding, and, 
 failing that, did not frame my marriage license and 
 hang it up in the post-ofifice, that I am looked on as 
 a very sooty sheep indeed? And have you reflected 
 that these prejudices may hurt your trade?" 
 
 " Not if the bonnets are becoming. Curiosity will 
 bring them in " 
 
 " And vanity do the rest? Perhaps for a little while; 
 but I am sorry that I did not know of this sooner," 
 his voice losing its bantering tone. " I thought of 
 you as in safe keeping until the middle of June at 
 least, and then I was going to suggest that you be- 
 come a travelling governess for the summer; give Tena 
 and Nannie a peripatetic education. But what about 
 the school next autumn? " 
 
 " According to you I shall have failed by that time, 
 and can reopen the school ; if not, the Dunlap children 
 and Tena can come to me at the shop." 
 
 " A wilful woman " 
 
 " Is like a man convinced against his will," and 
 Jane held out her hand over the gate. " Thank you 
 very much for all your advice," she said, " but I still 
 hope that I shall not meet shipwreck." 
 
 " And I must leave you to wilful ruin? " 
 
 " I am afraid so." Then he mounted and rode away 
 slowly. 
 
 On Monday all was excitement. At recess Jane 
 went over to the station to receive her boxes, leaving 
 the key of her shop with the drayman of the town so 
 
 356 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 that he could put the boxes into the shop, the key 
 then to be deposited with the grocer next door. Her 
 dinner was late, of course, and with Mrs. Dunlap only. 
 
 "I'm so excited that I wish you'd give holiday," 
 Mrs. Dunlap began; " I am fairly wild to see the 
 things, and Mrs. Tomkins says she'll be there to-mor- 
 row, sure. I believe in my soul that being open so 
 little will make people more anxious to come. A thing 
 that you can do any time, you never find time to do, 
 that's the way I am, anyhow; if my work didn't put 
 me into a corner I'm afraid it would be badly shirked. 
 Well, we'll go down at four, then." 
 
 Mrs. Dunlap had some forcible expressions, put her 
 simple views of life into telling words, and sent Jane 
 back to her teaching feeling that circumstances had in 
 a way put her into a corner. She remembered, too, 
 Ned Beaton's words: "And let Mrs. Fenser screw 
 you?" No one should screw her again. Then Lau- 
 rence Creswick had written, " Remember that your 
 stock will keep; don't get into a panic and give it 
 away." People looked on her as very weak; the lines 
 of strength on her face had come by accident. She 
 would show them differently, and begin by not being 
 excited. She must price the things according to the 
 bills, and do it carefully so as to pay the freight as 
 well; then suddenly the rent rose up before her. In 
 order not to lose she must pay rent as well as freight. 
 Well might Mrs. Dunlap say that her work and time 
 would have to be thrown in. 
 
 It was a sunshiny afternoon, and Mr. Dunlap agree- 
 ing to take the children with him to the farm so as to 
 
 357 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 leave Mrs. Dunlap free, Jane and Mrs. Dunlap, armed 
 with the bills, a hatchet, and several finishing touches 
 thought necessary to make the barren place attractive, 
 started off for the shop. 
 
 " My! " Mrs. Dunlap said, laughing a little breath- 
 lessly as she kept step with Jane, " I haven't been in 
 such a stir since I was married. I'm fairly wild with 
 curiosity, and I'll bet you that if the Tomkins children 
 have told their mother she won't wait for to-morrow, 
 she'll come right down." 
 
 Jane, who was almost having an ague over the pos- 
 sibilities of Laurence Creswick's taste in cheap bon- 
 nets, and who had been comforting herself with the 
 thought that if they were too terrible she would have 
 a little time in which to pull and pinch them into shape 
 before the public had an opportunity to scorn them, 
 was appalled by this suggestion. She had been foolish 
 to impress it so carefully on Laurence Creswick that 
 it was a country village, and that country village taste 
 must be pandered to. Of course his ideas of country 
 taste would be exaggerated. She had been very fool- 
 ish, so now she asked : " Can't we lock the door and 
 pretend not to be in?" 
 
 " Never," Mrs. Dunlap answered, promptly, " she 
 will hear us hammering." 
 
 "And Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Miller, too?" Jane 
 went on. 
 
 " No, they are quieter, they'll wait. But what are 
 you afraid of? You ought to want customers to come 
 as soon as possible." 
 
 Jane drew a sharp breath. " I am not afraid," she 
 
 358 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 answered, mendaciously, "it is only that things will 
 show to so much better advantage if they are prop- 
 erly arranged." She should have come alone. She 
 opened the door almost like a thief, and closed it and 
 locked it with hands trembling with excitement, then 
 they turned to look at the boxes. 
 
 " My! " and Mrs. Dunlap walked around the boxes 
 with the hatchet hanging down in her hand. Jane 
 caught sight of her own face in the glass; she was 
 stupidly pale, and with a set smile on her lips. She 
 turned her back. " I will spread the table-cover first," 
 she said, " and if you wish you can open the boxes," 
 and she realized, almost with anguish, that all her 
 determination not to be nervous had left her at the 
 most critical moment, that she was filled with a long- 
 ing such as she had felt when, as a child, she had 
 been taken to the dentist — a longing for some hand 
 to hold when the pain came. She had not had it then, 
 and she did not have it now; there was no one to 
 tell her fears to, and even to hint them would hurt 
 her prospects. 
 
 The nails were screeching and groaning under the 
 insinuating prizing of Mrs. Dunlap's hatchet, but the 
 end was not yet, and Jane arranged and rearranged 
 the pin-cushion and hand-glass that she had brought, 
 until she could arrange them no more, and had to 
 turn. Just then a part of a cover came up with a 
 sharp crack, and a sea of tissue-paper was revealed. 
 
 " Wait a minute," Jane whispered, as if Mrs. Tom- 
 kins were already at the key-hole, " let us get this 
 other piece off, and let us open the other box, too, 
 
 359 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 before we unpack either; it will really be better, you 
 know." 
 
 Of course Mrs. Dunlap agreed — ^just at that tensely 
 exciting moment she would have agreed to almost 
 anything; and when, after much awkward effort, both 
 boxes were opened, and Jane gathered up the need- 
 lessly mutilated bits of board to put them away out 
 of sight, giving herself one moment more of respite, 
 Mrs. Dunlap called her back with cruel eagerness: 
 "Come, come. Miss Jane; even the paper is beauti- 
 ful!" and Jane had to return. 
 
 She was stupid. After all it was not a matter of hfe 
 and death. It was well that she had steadied her 
 nerves before she came on the first pyramid of straw 
 and ribbon and waving roses. She felt her eyes grow 
 big as saucers, she felt her lips part in a stiff smile. 
 Mrs. Dunlap's eyes were as big as saucers, too, and 
 a knock sounded on the door ! 
 
 Without one word Mrs. Dunlap darted forward and 
 unlocked it. " Just in time ! " she cried, triumphantly ; 
 " such beautiful, beautiful bonnets ! " and as Mrs. Tom- 
 kins came, with uplifted hands, Jane felt as if she had 
 stepped from out a deadly nightmare. 
 
 It was plain sailing after this, Mrs. Tomkins work- 
 ing with as hearty a will as did Mrs. Dunlap, and be- 
 fore very long the boxes were emptied and the things 
 arranged on the long table, indeed everything was 
 done except the pricing, and that Jane would have to 
 work out alone. Each lady selected a bonnet, how- 
 ever, engaging them regardless of cost, but kindly 
 leaving them for the present in order to make the 
 show more impressive for a day or two, then they 
 
 360 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 went away, having home duties, and Jane was left 
 alone in what seemed to her a chamber of horrors. 
 
 Fixing the prices was a tremendous job. She must 
 add the rent and the freight to the cost of the stock, 
 then hunt for her profit! Mrs. Dunlap's remark that 
 four dollars and ninety-five cents seemed so much 
 cheaper than five dollars was a valuable hint, indeed 
 she found that four dollars and ninety-nine cents, even, 
 seemed very much less than five dollars. It was a 
 queer thing how magical these odd cents were, and 
 shop-keeping promised to be infinitely more exciting 
 than teaching. She had been a ridiculous coward, 
 and that night she would write to Laurence Creswick 
 and tell him how wonderfully he had succeeded, and 
 how awfully ugly the things were. That he must 
 think of her as meeting these terrible constructions 
 daily, and as having to build others like them, and on 
 Sunday she would have to look at these monstrosities 
 in lumps, and that having had the opportunity to bet- 
 ter the taste of the town, she had not done it. That 
 this last consideration had made her feel really im- 
 moral, but that she had decided that the hats of the 
 young girls and the children should be trimmed with 
 extreme simplicity as a measure of saving grace. 
 
 She was very tired when she locked the shop-door 
 behind her, but she was conscious also of a great sense 
 of relief. She had made the plunge, and would be 
 able to tell Ned Beaton that she was on the high road 
 to success. And that night she went to bed to dream 
 unceasingly of large blobby bonnets on long wrinkly 
 ribbon legs, chasing her up hill and down dale all over 
 the world. 
 
 361 
 
XXIII 
 
 " My own hope is, a sun will pierce 
 The thickest cloud earth ever stretched ; 
 
 That after Last returned the First, 
 Though a wide compass round be fetched ; 
 
 That what began best can't end worst, 
 
 Nor what God blessed once prove accurst." 
 
 JANE'S first sensation on awaking the next morn- 
 ing was of wonder ; of a new load to be carried ; 
 of weakness. Everything showed this last, even 
 her dreams ; and it was not strange that people should 
 distrust her ability, nor that Mrs. Saunders should have 
 found it so necessary to direct her so carefully, and to 
 smile as she had done over her feeble struggles. And 
 now how contemptible was her motive ; risking all that 
 she had, to protect herself from things that she should 
 have been strong enough to endure. She was not go- 
 ing from strength to strength, but in exactly the oppo- 
 site direction; had sunk so low as to have been 
 afraid of those women's comments on the bonnets. 
 What had become of her self-control, had she over- 
 worked it? 
 
 The dream of helping her father had faded to the 
 farthest limits of her vision. He did not approve of 
 her position ; no one did ; and so, of course, he would 
 not approve of the results ; and in the place of that 
 
 362 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 hope she had not put any noble determination to help 
 her kind, or even her sex, as Ned Beaton had thought. 
 She was only hopelessly into another weak snarl, the 
 only gain from which was the ability to write to her 
 mother that she had an engagement for the summer. 
 This would prevent any urging as to her coming home ; 
 this was what she had worked for, and already her lit- 
 tle payment, her puerile little payment had come. All 
 that was left her now was to be successful in a pe- 
 cuniary way, no matter how small; indeed, the size of 
 her venture compelled her to be very small. 
 
 Armed with these conclusions of a forlorn hope, she 
 went to the shop that afternoon at the earliest possible 
 hour, only to find that Mrs. Tomkins was in the next 
 shop waiting for her, and that Mrs. Dunlap followed 
 close on her heels. 
 
 " I think that this will be a nice place to come and 
 chat of an afternoon," Mrs. Tomkins said, and seated 
 herself in the middle of the sofa. 
 
 " If I had time I'd take embroidery lessons," Mrs. 
 Dtmlap said, suggestively. 
 
 " Embroidery lessons ? " Mrs. Tomkins repeated, 
 coming over to where Mrs. Dunlap was examining the 
 contents of a box. " Do you teach embroidery, Miss 
 Jane? I didn't know that; I believe I would like to 
 do some centre-pieces." 
 
 Then Jane, remembering her recently made resolu- 
 tion as to small gains, displayed in a way that she de- 
 spised the different patterns that had been sent, with 
 the shaded silks to match. 
 
 " Fifty cents a lesson," Mrs. Dunlap put in. 
 
 363 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " I believe I will." And Mrs. Tomkins pulled oil 
 her gloves. " If I had a thimble." 
 
 Thanks to Laurence Creswick, there was a thimble 
 at hand; for by the advice of an interested shopman, 
 he had sent some " Fancy touches " along with the 
 regular stock, and there were one or two gaudy work- 
 boxes, with tinsel fittings, and one or two glove-boxes 
 of the same type. Now a thimble was abstracted, and 
 the first customers, Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Miller, 
 found a very sociable, busy scene when they entered. 
 
 " How nice ! " they cried. 
 
 " Delightful ! " Mrs. Dunlap answered ; " and we've 
 each bought a bonnet ! " 
 
 Of course two more bonnets were bought promptly, 
 the newcomers fortunately selecting others than those 
 already purchased ; then Mrs. Miller struck a new note. 
 " You've bought first," she said, " but I'll wear first. 
 You can put my bonnet on right away, Miss Jape, and 
 I'll go make some calls. It'll bring quicker sales." 
 
 At once there was a chorus of demands that all the 
 bonnets be put on. " And we'll go different ways," 
 Mrs. Dunlap finished. Jane felt as if a small whirl- 
 wind had struck her, but she adjusted the bonnets to 
 the various heads, each lady buying a new veil, which 
 she also arranged, shivering when the money was paid 
 her, and feeling as if her dream had come true when 
 she saw the four bonnets streaming away to the four 
 quarters of the town. 
 
 At supper that evening Mrs. Dunlap was in a flutter 
 of pleased excitement; so much so that she actually 
 drove Mr. Dunlap into speech. " I thought bonnets 
 
 364 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 were for the outsides of heads," he said ; " but it seems 
 yours have got to the insides." 
 
 " It does seem so," the wife admitted. " But it's 
 been ever so pleasant ; nice things have been said. Miss 
 Jane, and you won't have one left by to-morrow. Can't 
 you get some more trimmed quick ? " 
 
 And her prognostications were quite true. There 
 was a run on Jane's stock the very next afternoon, and 
 orders left to be filled. That evening Jane brought home 
 a lot of material, and far into the night she sat working. 
 Of course this rush could not last, for the demand in 
 the place was necessarily extremely limited, and it 
 would be wise to have something to sell besides hats 
 and embroideries. Every shop in the town combined 
 things, and in order to survive, she must combine 
 things, too. Some summer lawns, perhaps, with one 
 or two ready-made dresses, and perhaps she could in- 
 troduce a tea-table. Sell the tea to the women who 
 were using the shop as a gathering-place, Mrs. Tom- 
 kins having actually sent down a comfortable chair for 
 herself. The outlay for the experiment would be very 
 small, and the next afternoon found a kettle boiling on 
 a small oil-stove, a small table set, and a card up to say, 
 " Tea, ten cents a cup." 
 
 Great was the surprise ; but it was popular, and Jane 
 was looked on as a most resourceful young woman, a 
 person who knew things; and Mrs. Wheeler decided 
 that she, also, would send down a comfortable chair. 
 Jane's hands soon became overful, and she began to 
 wonder where she would find any rest, any time for 
 exercise ; for just as her afternoons were spent in the 
 
 36s 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 shop, so were her evenings spent in working to fill her 
 orders, and her walking was reduced to the distance 
 between the house and the shop. Further, she had to 
 give up going for her letters, begging the grocer next 
 door to bring them when he went for his own ; and she 
 looked back with wonder, almost with longing, to the 
 time when, on her first arrival, the days had seemed 
 so endless. It would be better, however, once the 
 school was over, only that by that time the rush would 
 be over, too, for, as far as she could judge, she had 
 hatted very nearly the whole of Stony Ridge; and 
 sometimes in the Methodist church she would shut 
 her eyes to keep out the vision oi her week's handi- 
 work. 
 
 The lawns were sent for and the pattern-dresses; 
 then some magazines and cheap novels were added, 
 and more money was sent to Laurence Creswick for 
 stationery and wholesale candy. A counter was put 
 in, and Jane felt herself a regular shopkeeper. The 
 weather grew warmer, and iced tea took the place of 
 the hot brew. Jane put up a wire door, and tacked 
 nettings over the windows and furnished fans to keep 
 the flies away ; she must keep the place attractive, for 
 many small things were sold to the people who gath- 
 ered there to see each other. 
 
 Then June came all too swiftly; and because it 
 brought blazing heat, and because the mothers' sud- 
 denly demanded a display at the end of the school term, 
 Jane was in despair. She was so tired, so worn with 
 the heat and the flies, and the buzz of the little town, 
 and now came this totally unexpected request for what 
 
 366 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 was ambitiously called a " Commencement " ; " Dia- 
 logues," it was explained, " and recitations, and some 
 music and refreshments." Of course the mothers 
 would furnish the refreshments ; " Miss Jane would 
 only have to prepare the children." There was nothing 
 to do but to get through the examinations, such as they 
 were, as quickly as possible, and put the last days into 
 this flimsy show ; it was really dreadful, almost tragic, 
 this last unexpected straw! It caused a fresh run 
 on the shop, however, for each little girl had to have 
 a new white frock and a sash, and each boy a ribbon 
 cravat. And as soon as this was over, her salary would 
 cease, and her living would have to go on. She would 
 make up her accounts carefully, would see what she 
 had in the shop, would write to Laurence Creswick that 
 she would not need anything more, then would try to 
 sell what she had on hand — fortunately it was not 
 very much. She would do all this at once, before her 
 last month's salary came in, so that if it were very dis- 
 astrous, she would be able to say to herself, " The end 
 of June will bring in fifteen dollars." 
 
 She sighed ; she was a coward still ; and she covered 
 herself with contemptuous thoughts. Laboriously she 
 went over her accounts, valuing the stock on hand at 
 less than cost, and found that she had cleared just fif- 
 teen dollars ! Her heart went up a little. She could 
 at least tell Ned Beaton that she had not failed ; and 
 if, by chance, she did not sell what she had left, she 
 would even then clear expenses. Make a fortune! 
 But she had just begun; and beginnings cost, people 
 had told her ; experience cost, too ; she was doing bet- 
 
 367 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 ter than she had any right to expect, and just let her 
 get over this stupid exhibition, and she could rest a 
 little. It would be better to come down to the shop 
 in the morning, as well as the afternoon; she could 
 bring some books with her, and, in a way, make herself 
 comfortable. She would have to look after her clothes, 
 too, and after awhile the hot weather would be over. 
 
 That she had not lost ought to cheer her; and the 
 next day she tried to put a little more energy into her 
 teaching, a little more fire into Joey's declamation, into 
 the dialogue over which Nannie and Tena were labor- 
 ing. The little Tomkins, who had seemed absolutely 
 hopeless, did better, and the little Millers and Wheelers 
 came out in a way that was almost startling. All due 
 to her wonderful success in business ! It was ridicu- 
 lous how she allowed things to depend on her moods ; 
 fancy a business depending on moods ; as quickly as 
 possible she must make herself into a machine; then 
 she might hope to succeed in some direction. 
 
 So she wound herself up to the last supreme efifort 
 of the last afternoon. The little school-house was 
 packed to suffocation, people standing outside and fill- 
 ing in the windows as well, and it seemed to Jane im- 
 possible to breathe. In the window nearest the stage 
 Ned Beaton leaned, and she did not dare to look at him 
 after the first recognition ; she did not feel able to face 
 the cheerful amusement she knew there would be in his 
 eyes. Indeed, she looked at no one, but spent her en- 
 ergies in marshalling the hopelessly conscious children, 
 knowing that each mother was watching with jealous 
 eye for the prominence of her own offspring. Poor 
 
 368 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 little souls, how hard they tried to do her credit, glu- 
 ing their eyes to hers until she would have to shake 
 her head, which would cause them to look up to the 
 ceiHng, or straight at the farthest wall. How the boys' 
 hands clung to the outside seams of their trousers, and 
 how the girls grasped their little handkerchiefs and 
 fans, as if they were weapons of defence. How the 
 beads of heat and nervous terror stood out on their 
 foreheads and noses, threatening to take all the curl 
 out of their hideously frizzed hair, or drop like dread- 
 ful tears down on their new ribbons! Poor little souls, 
 how foolish to have shown them off ! But the mothers 
 were charmed, and the town amazed, and Mrs. Dunlap 
 said that all the children in Stony Ridge would come to 
 the school, if they were allowed; but of course the 
 aim of the mothers was to keep the children separate 
 from the other children. 
 
 The entertainment afterward was out on the grass. 
 Ice-cream, and cake, and lemonade, and some of Jane's 
 stock of mixed candy. And Jane moved about, talk- 
 ing and laughing, and being astonished with each 
 mother over the respective prowess of each child. She 
 became almost hysterical at last, and when Ned Beaton 
 came up to speak to her, she gave him such a glance 
 of appeal that he turned his badinage into a short fare- 
 well and went away, taking Tena with him. 
 
 That night she slept the sleep of sheer exhaustion, 
 and the next morning had but one sensation, a sensa- 
 tion of collapse such as a stringed instrument might 
 have when, being strung up to the very last turn of 
 the screws, the bridge crumbles under the strain. She 
 
 369 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 hated the trampled look of the grass, the piles of chairs 
 on the piazza, and in the school-room the books, and 
 chalk-boxes, and ink-stands huddled into unusual cor- 
 ners. She hated everything, and more than all, the vis- 
 ion brought to her by a letter from home, that of the 
 Saunders and Marion preparing to go to Europe. She 
 knew it all so well ; remembered it as the one compen- 
 sating thing in her whole life ; and those last voyages. 
 She seemed to hear the rush and swish of the waves, 
 to see the high mast cutting its arc against the star-set, 
 black sky ; she seemed to hear Mark's low voice, to look 
 straight into his shining eyes. This vision as she 
 marched down to the shop. She drew a sharp breath 
 as she unlocked the door ; he was false ; she hated him ; 
 she must not remember. If Ned Beaton should come 
 in now she would tell him that she was sorry ; that she 
 hated the shop; that she hated the little town. Why 
 under heaven had they built the town down in a hol- 
 low ? it had to be hot shut in with hills on every side. 
 Then she recalled that in the winter the people had 
 said : " We are so sheltered by the hills that we are 
 not so cold as other towns, or even as Mrs. Dunlap's 
 place." Of course they would not now say we are 
 hotter than other towns because we are in a valley; 
 of course not ; instead, they would explain that this was 
 an unusual season. What a pity it was that humanity 
 did not defend its friends in this same faithful way! 
 On the contrary, almost anyone would be ready to 
 lower the voice and raise the eyebrow, and explain 
 carefully the faults and failings of the next one, gen- 
 tly, regretfully, maybe, but relentlessly. They almost 
 seemed to feel it a duty. 
 
 370 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 She lifted the curtain and looked at the hats in the 
 window; how she hated them, fading out even as she 
 was, as soon as a strong light fell on them ! How wise 
 she was becoming, how pharisaical ! she had not talked 
 about her neighbors because she had never had anyone 
 with whom to be confidential. Mrs. Saunders had al- 
 ways rebuked her for her opinions, even when she was 
 trying to agree with Mrs. Saunders; and so, in self- 
 defence, she had learned to be silent. Mrs. Saunders 
 had taught her a great deal ; more than Mrs. Saunders 
 realized, probably; and if she ever succeeded in any- 
 thing, Mrs. Saunders would claim the credit as due to 
 her training. It would be if only because Mrs. Saun- 
 ders had driven her out into the world. It seemed to 
 her now that her life had been like the old torture of 
 dropping water; there had never been more than a 
 drop at a time, but there had come a moment when the 
 next drop would have crazed her, and she had broken 
 away. Yes, Mrs. Saunders had been a most clever 
 torturer, a most clever woman ; undoubtedly so. 
 
 Laurence Creswick was agreeing with her about 
 Mrs. Saunders's cleverness as he walked through the 
 streets at an unusually early hour for him. He had 
 been seeing a great deal of Mrs. Saunders, for there 
 had been a tremendous progression in his friendship 
 with the household. He had felt that it brought him 
 nearer to Jane ; that he was, in a way, becoming one 
 of them ; and besides, he was very fond of Marion, in a 
 brotherly way, and had, in a measure, guided her 
 through her first winter. Mrs. Saunders had constant- 
 ly consulted him as to the best things to be done, and 
 the girl herself had turned to him in many ways. She 
 
 371 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 was a charming little thing ; more vivacious than Jane, 
 and most engagingly frank. He had been watching 
 Mark Witting lately, and once more wondering why 
 Mrs. Saunders let him come so much to the house. 
 Witting had admired Jane greatly ; but he felt almost 
 sure that Witting was in love with Marion, which must 
 be pointed out to Mrs. Saunders as being dangerous. 
 
 Ever since the evening before, when he had received 
 a note from Mrs. Saunders, asking him to come and see 
 her this morning, Creswick had been going over these 
 things in his mind. The appointment was for such 
 an unusually early hour, such an unheard-of hour, just 
 after breakfast, that it must mean that she wished to 
 consult him about something important. Of late she 
 had been doing this more than ever, alleging as excuse 
 that Mr. Saunders did not, and would not keep up with 
 the world. " He is a Southerner, you know," she had 
 added, laughing, " and what I call laziness, he calls re- 
 pose." 
 
 Yes, she was an unusually clever woman, and a very 
 handsome one into the bargain ; and he liked her now 
 better than at first he had ever thought possible. It 
 was quite probable that she had been a little hard on 
 Jane, a little hard. It was queer how difficult it was 
 for women to get on with each other. Mothers-in-law, 
 and sisters-in-law, and maiden aunts, and the like, were 
 always cooling off and withdrawing from each other — 
 very queer — but to men Mrs. Saunders was most agree- 
 able. 
 
 Simmons ushered him into the drawing-room, so cool 
 and shadowy in its summer whiteness of fresh cover- 
 
 372 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 ings, and palms and ferns, and filled with the perfume 
 of flowers. How charming now, when things usually 
 looked a little done, a little put away for the yearly 
 flitting, a little as if people were not expected; here 
 everything was fresher and more enticing even than 
 in the full rush of the winter season. She must be an 
 exceptionally good manager, Mrs. Saunders, and have 
 uncommonly well-trained servants. Why need one 
 go away from such a home as this for the summer ? In 
 the old times, when people stayed at home all the year 
 round, it was then that people loved their homes. This 
 running about from place to place was bound to be sub- 
 versive of the family. Charming! and he walked 
 about, looking at the pictures more carefully than ever 
 before. How well chosen each one was, how artisti- 
 cally framed! 
 
 The carriage came to the door ; had he made a mis- 
 take in the hour? and he looked at his watch. No, he 
 had been absolutely on time. Perhaps Mrs. Saunders 
 wished him to go somewhere with her; and he stood 
 at the window with his hands behind him, looking out 
 between the filmy curtains. Presently a step sounded 
 in the hall, and he turned, to see Marion in the crispest 
 and freshest blue, holding out her hand. 
 
 " Good-morning. Where did you drop from at this 
 hour?" 
 
 " I am here by appointment," taking her hand and 
 thinking how really lovely she was. " I am waiting 
 for Mrs. Saunders." 
 
 " And I am doomed to the dressmaker ; and it is go- 
 ing to be warm in a half-hour." 
 
 373 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " If you would just drive about the town," Creswick 
 went on, still looking down on the charming picture, 
 " I'm sure that blue gown would cool off the whole 
 atmosphere." 
 
 " How punctual you are." And Mrs. Saunders 
 entered. " Not gone yet, dear child ? " patting Marion 
 on the shoulder. " You will be late." 
 
 " I wish I need not go," with an upward glance at 
 Creswick, " but cousin says that, in one way or another, 
 we pay for everything in life ; and so my frocks call on 
 me for a hot, tempestuous morning." 
 
 " She grows prettier every day," Creswick said, 
 when, at last, with the door carefully shut, he found 
 himself sitting opposite Mrs. Saunders. 
 
 " And more charming," Mrs. Saunders added. " In 
 the little while that she has been with me, she has given 
 me more affection and confidence than Jane did in all 
 the years of her life." 
 
 Creswick had made a compact with himself never to 
 discuss Jane with Mrs. Saunders, but now she looked 
 him straight in the eyes and he had to answer. " Miss 
 Ormonde was more reserved than her sister." 
 
 " Is that what you call it ? " And Mrs. Saunders 
 smiled. " You are delightfully loyal to your friends, 
 Mr. Creswick, even when they walk off without ex- 
 planation. Now, however, I have a more serious mat- 
 ter in hand. Chaperons and guardians, you know, 
 have duties that are not only serious, but very often 
 disagreeable; and I have explained as to my hus- 
 band " 
 
 Creswick looked up quickly. " Anything in the 
 world that I can do," he said. 
 
 374 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Mrs. Saunders bowed. " In the case of Jane," she 
 went on, " I must confess to carelessness ; to a too 
 unquestioning faith in a seemingly unsullied young 
 girl " 
 
 " Mrs. Saunders ! " 
 
 She raised a silencing hand. " You have no defence 
 to make in that case," she said. " You asked no per- 
 mission; you also took advantage of my trustfulness, 
 my unsuspicious nature, did you not ? " 
 
 " I certainly addressed Miss Ormonde, but if it 
 were a breach of etiquette, a man is sometimes carried 
 away by his feelings " 
 
 " Not once, but many times," Mrs. Saunders quoted. 
 " No, Mr. Creswick," she went on, " I am afraid that 
 you are without an excuse ; and your action, then, arms 
 me now." 
 
 Creswick was now leaning back, looking at his com- 
 panion with a questioning, puzzled look. She an- 
 swered the look quietly, and her voice was quiet also. 
 " You are a gentleman, and my friend, and I introduced 
 you to this new little cousin, which means that I trusted 
 you. All winter I have watched you, and the world 
 has watched you, also ; and we — the world and I — have 
 come practically to the same conclusion. The world, 
 that you love Marion, and I, that your attentions de- 
 mand explanation." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Saunders ! " And Creswick leaned 
 forward eagerly; but the well-shaped hand, so white, 
 so hard, went up in a gesture that Jane could have told 
 him it was useless to combat. 
 
 " Especially as I find that these attentions have had 
 serious effect." 
 
 375 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 There was dead silence for a moment, then Creswick 
 said, slowly : " As a chaperon, my dear Mrs. Saun- 
 ders, you are over-anxious. I have approached your 
 cousin only as a friend, and promise that I will not do 
 otherwise." 
 
 " Thank you. As I began by saying, I trusted you ; 
 I thought that the talk which we enjoyed one fateful 
 afternoon had sufficiently impressed my views on you 
 as to the attention permissible. Your attentions to 
 Jane were not at all marked, and I had there some ex- 
 cuse for my lack of suspicion, especially when I had 
 discovered that the young woman's affections were 
 placed elsewhere." 
 
 Creswick winced a little, but kept his eyes fixed on 
 Mrs. Saunders with the same quiet, inquiring look. 
 
 " This is quite true," she went on, as if in answer 
 to the slight movement ; " but now, all winter, in fact, 
 your attentions to Marion have been most marked." 
 
 "As a brother, Mrs. Saunders; as a man who was 
 and is desperately in love with her elder sister ; as one 
 who looked on this girl as a trust to be guarded and 
 made happy for the sake of the elder sister." 
 
 " Most admirable ; but, unfortunately, sisters seldom 
 look on things of this kind with just such magnanimous 
 eyes, and chaperons have no right to. You made no 
 such explanations." 
 
 " You knew." 
 
 " Nothing but that ' Men have died, and worms have 
 eaten them, but not for love.' I knew that one sister 
 had refused you, and that nothing was more natural 
 than that love should be caught on the rebound by the 
 
 376 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 other sister. After all, you are but a man, with like 
 passions " 
 
 "With one passion," Creswick interrupted, "that 
 will never die." 
 
 " You are unfortunate in the way in which you show 
 that fact to your friends. You should have told the 
 child this." 
 
 " Impossible." 
 
 " And have warded off what has happened." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Saunders, you are mistaken in your 
 suggestion; pray do not make it again. For Miss 
 Marion Ormonde's sake, for your own sake, I beg you 
 to desist." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders drew a rose from a vase near by, let- 
 ting all the long, wet stem and leaves trail across her 
 dainty ribbons, her fresh laces. She looked deep into 
 the heart of it, she drew it through her half-closed hand 
 once, twice, thrice, each time more quickly, more reck- 
 lessly, at last dragging it to death and casting it from 
 her, then looking down on her open palm, torn by the 
 thorns. 
 
 The silence between them grew tense, Creswick look- 
 ing at her, she looking down at her hand; so tense 
 that Creswick could not stand it; he rose. 
 
 " Mrs. Saunders — " It was as if a spell had been 
 broken. 
 
 " Hush ! " And she struck her hands together. 
 " Hush ! No more smooth excuses ; the child loves you 
 — loves you — oh, God ! loves you with all her untouched 
 heart ; lives only in your presence ; watches your every 
 movement ; tells me softly of each word you say, each 
 
 377 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 look you give her, whispering ' He loves me, cousin, 
 he loves me, and earth is turned to Heaven ! ' And you 
 stand here calmly," rising and facing Creswick, " stand 
 here and tell me coldly that you mean nothing? All 
 these long months dogging her footsteps, claiming her 
 at balls, standing possessively behind her chair in the 
 full blaze of the whole opera-house ! You mean noth- 
 ing, have meant nothing, you have always loved her 
 sister; her sister, who kept you dangling, to hide her 
 affair with Mark Witting ; who allowed Mark Witting 
 to think her my heiress ; whom Mark Witting, finding 
 out, quietly jilted? Who, finding herself discovered, 
 fled?" 
 
 Creswick stood still before her, grown white, the 
 lines about his lips drawn sharply. 
 
 " Look back," coming closer to him. " Look back, 
 think, recall, and you will see my words written in fire 
 of truth ! Mark Witting's attentions were quiet, paid 
 under cover of your attentions. Suddenly Mark Wit- 
 ting goes away ; you remember ? And Jane changed ; 
 looked ill ; talked strangely ; found that Mark Witting 
 had confessed to me, and fled. Look back — think — 
 remember ! " 
 
 Again the silence grew tense between them, as if 
 there were no hum in the street ; as if all life were be- 
 ing stilled with the life of the man who listened. 
 
 " She did not flee at once," the low voice went on; 
 " she was too deep for that — perhaps you would say 
 'reserved'? — but waited, waited, in order to save 
 appearances. And I, sorry for her, wishing to put 
 something between us that would make life together 
 
 378 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 bearable; wishing to seem as if I had forgiven, had 
 forgotten, had cured me of my contempt, I sent for 
 her young sister. Thank God that she did save appear- 
 ances, for ugly things could and would have been said. 
 I did not tell you, no; I wished to help her to save 
 appearances. All the autumn you read together and I 
 hoped that she had come to her senses, was ashamed, 
 was coming to appreciate you ; but again she was using 
 you as a screen; using you to hide her plans; and for 
 aught I know, she may be using you still. You are a 
 loyal gentleman; yes, you are that, but you have de- 
 ceived me." 
 
 She walked away to the window; she stood there 
 looking out to where the sun had crept up to the edge 
 of the window-awnings, throwing up from the hot 
 pavement a reflected light that the window-plants 
 turned green before it reached the ceiling. She looked 
 down to the glaring sunshine, followed it up to the 
 plants, to the ceiling, pausing a moment with raised 
 head, then went back, went close to Creswick and 
 looked into his eyes. 
 
 " You hate me," she said. " I do not blame you ; 
 I have cast down your idol ; I have torn the veil away 
 from all your illusions; I seem to have wrecked your 
 life ; but you drove me to it. When I could have told 
 you, nearly a year ago, I did not do it ; I was willing 
 to sacrifice you, because I was trying to save my own. 
 I hoped that Jane would have sense enough to accept 
 you and take her proper place in life and the world. 
 Yes, I would have sacrificed you to Jane, but I will 
 not sacrifice Marion; never! Jane it is who has 
 
 379 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 wrecked her own life, my husband's life, your life; 
 but she shall not wreck Marion's life; never! You 
 have blundered; blundered because you were blinded, 
 deceived ; and blunders are paid for pretty much as sins 
 are ; you have blundered, and the day of reckoning is 
 here. How could I know that you stood behind Mar- 
 ion's chair because you had got into the habit of stand- 
 ing behind her sister's chair ? How could I know that 
 you looked into her eyes, danced with her, sent her 
 flowers, sat dances out with her all for her sister's 
 sake? How could she know it? I gave you credit 
 for some sense, and she, in her ignorance and innocence, 
 mistook it all for love. If any woman had treated you 
 in that way, you would quickly enough have thought 
 that she loved you. What is a woman to do but accept 
 attentions, and believe that a gentleman means them? 
 That having deliberately wakened her heart, having 
 made her betray her feelings, he will stand to his ac- 
 tions. And a gentleman will, 'though it were to his 
 own hindrance ' " 
 
 For one moment Creswick seemed galvanized into 
 life ; she had quoted from his own creed. 
 
 "Yes," Mrs. Saunders went on, and she laid her 
 hand on his arm ; " I quote scripture to bear me out ; 
 but why need I? Custom, breeding, truth, honor, 
 everything is on my side. Jane does not love you, 
 you know that ; your only hope was to wear her out ; 
 to create, as you expressed it, the Creswick habit. 
 Even that seems now a forlorn hope. She has gone off 
 to live her own life, to make her own career — God 
 knows what it will end in — ^but if justice is meted out to 
 
 380 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 her, nothing good ought to come to her. You tell me 
 that she is satisfied, is successful; and whatever that 
 may mean, it does not seem to mean that she is hunger- 
 ing or thirsting for you. My conclusions seemed to me 
 to warrant me in permitting your attentions to Marion. 
 I could not believe for one moment that you did not 
 mean them ; I can scarcely credit my senses now when 
 you tell me that you have not meant them. You must 
 mean them ! you must justify her to the world that is 
 gabbling about it all ! At least let her go to Europe 
 engaged to you, and I promise that I will object to the 
 match. I will work tooth and nail to wean her away 
 from you ; I will proclaim her my heiress ; I will dazzle 
 her with the world and worldly things, and persuade 
 her to release you. Let me tell her that you came this 
 morning to ask permission to address her? This is 
 Wednesday; we sail on Saturday. For only two days 
 you will have to wear a mask, will have to see us off 
 with fruit and flowers, then you will have long months 
 in which to come to an agreement with yourself. I 
 can and will prolong indefinitely our stay in Europe. 
 You can go into business, any kind of business, as an 
 excuse for not following us. I seem to be laying deep 
 and devious plans to deceive this child whom I love; 
 don't think it. I am, instead, trying to save her the 
 first break to her heart; trying to ward oiif the first 
 deadening blow that turns all the world black; trying 
 to make a woman's awful lesson of life a little easier to 
 her. Think; I've had no children of my own. My 
 heart was hungry and I took Jane ; from the first mo- 
 ment, she defied me ; all our life together was one long 
 
 381 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 effort. She would not love me; and until Marion 
 came, I thought that perhaps she could not; but this 
 child came to me with open arms ; she loved me at once. 
 In this little while she has given me the love I craved ; 
 and must I not be grateful? Must I not love her, 
 and try to save her ? I am not trying to deceive her ; 
 no, I am trying to make it so easy for you that you will 
 be persuaded not to strike her ; poor little trustful child ! 
 Only for two days, then I will take her away and re- 
 lieve you of anything save a weekly composition. It 
 will not be hard, and I will strive, that you shall not 
 be called upon to consummate it." 
 
 She stopped abruptly, and on the deathly stillness 
 there broke the mad clamor of a street-organ. Through 
 all the storm of words Creswick had stood absolutely 
 still, with his eyes fixed on a picture — a woman, was all 
 he saw — then, as the voice beside him went on and on, 
 he saw that the picture was Mrs. Saunders ; Mrs. Saun- 
 ders, smiling a little; smiling while she told him such 
 cruel things ; while, at her summons, such bitter mem- 
 ories came back slowly, one by one, and smote him 
 dully. No, he could not refute one word that she had 
 said. Jane had refused him ; Jane had run away ; Jane 
 did seem satisfied. In his pocket, at that moment, was 
 her last letter, saying that she was not going to trouble 
 him any more. Her shop had paid her, and there 
 would be little doing through the summer. That she 
 had tried his patience and his friendship severely, too 
 severely. A letter that had seemed like a dash of cold 
 water in his face when he had read it, until the end, 
 when she said, " You have been so good to me ! God 
 
 382 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 bless you ! " And Jane had talked to him about a man 
 who had not been noble. Why did he remember that ? 
 And Witting had gone away just at that time, just a 
 little before that time, and she would not let him mail 
 the package that day; that strange day, when every- 
 thing had seemed to change. No, Jane did not love 
 him, and Mrs. Saunders, smiling there on the wall, said 
 that Marion did. But for this, he could go away, and 
 at least hide himself, " Have his dark hour unseen." 
 Jane did not love him. It was none of his business 
 whom she had loved; but that Mark Witting should 
 have jilted her ; have cast away this woman whom he 
 had looked on as too good, too pure, too sweet i Mark 
 Witting had put his arm about her, perhaps. His heart 
 seemed almost to stop beating; and the picture on the 
 wall seemed to smile more mockingly. Great God! 
 and he reverencing her as his own soul, had thrilled at 
 the touch of her hand, had been almost sorry when she 
 danced with him. When her face looked up so close 
 to his he had turned his head away; and she had 
 been jilted by Witting! His arm about her, perhaps 
 Witting had not turned his head away ; had kissed her 
 eyes — her lips! He put his hand on a chair-back to 
 steady himself. 
 
 The stream of words ceased; but now, along with 
 the minor, " rag-time " melody of the hand-organ, they 
 seemed to be coming back in waves, and breaking over 
 him; as if they had waited somewhere until he had 
 comprehended the story of Jane and Witting, and then 
 had rushed up to him with other sorts of torture. And 
 that tune, that clanging, brazen tune would ring in his 
 
 383 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 mind and his ears till he died ! Then clearly through 
 all he heard Mrs. Saunders say, " Sit down, and let us 
 finish." 
 
 That was kind, and he obeyed. After that, she 
 looked at the clock, then rang the bell, and the man 
 brought some wine and biscuits. She took another 
 rose in her hand while the servant was there, and pulled 
 off some of the petals, dropping them, one by one, on 
 the other wrecked rose, and said what seemed to be 
 queer, unmeaning things. 
 
 " I shall have to consider it carefully, Mr. Creswick," 
 she said. " I shall have to consult my husband." 
 Then Simmons went away, shutting the door behind 
 him. 
 
 " Drink some wine," were her next words ; " one 
 does not look for such faithful hearts in these days; 
 Mark Witting took my revelations as to Jane quite dif- 
 ferently ; drink some wine ; empty the glass. Leave the 
 affair in my hands. I will not tell Marion until to- 
 morrow ; you need not see her but once before we leave, 
 and at the steamer, that will be before a crowd. I 
 promise to help you out of it. After a little it will be 
 better ; time heals everything." 
 
 " Yes," Creswick answered slowly, as if hunting for 
 his words, while Mrs. Saunders watched his face anx- 
 iously. What was he going to say, to do? Why 
 would he not drink the wine she still held out to him, 
 and bring some color back to his blue lips, some light 
 to his dead eyes? How awful to lose all comeliness, to 
 grow old in a few minutes ! 
 
 " Yes," Creswick repeated, " time cures things." 
 
 384 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Then he rose from his chair and drew himself up, and, 
 though the color nor the comeliness were back in his 
 face, the eyes that looked into Mrs. Saunders's eyes 
 were not dead. Quiet they were, and cold as ice, and 
 scornful, matching his voice. " I feel very much 
 honored by your suggestion," he said, " that I have 
 found favor in the eyes of Miss Marion Ormonde. 
 With your permission, Mrs. Saunders, I will call to- 
 morrow evening to receive her answer. Good-morn- 
 ing. 
 
 And Simmons, ushering him out, and returning to 
 remove the unusual tray, found wine-stains everywhere, 
 and a shattered glass on the floor with the scattered 
 rose-leaves. 
 
 38S 
 
XXIV 
 
 " White shall not neutralise the black, nor good 
 Compensate bad in man, absolve him so : 
 Life's business being just the terrible choice, " 
 
 IT was an extraordinary piece of news! Jane sat 
 quite still in the shop with a note in her hand. 
 The grocer next door had brought it to her, and there 
 were greasy finger-marks defacing the white correct- 
 ness of the envelope, and an odor of coal-oil lurking 
 about it and mingling incongruously with the faint 
 perfume of violets with which Mrs. Saunders had en- 
 dued it. She had been surprised to see that it was 
 from Mrs. Saunders, then had smiled to think how 
 Mrs. Saunders would have shuddered if she could 
 have seen the present condition of her missive. Of 
 course there would be something in it to hurt her; 
 Mrs. Saunders never wrote unless she had a special 
 shaft to send. But the day was so hot, and she was 
 so tired, so unrecovered from the strain, the ridicu- 
 lous strain of the shop and the school together; and 
 the flies had so buzzed, and droned, and tickled her 
 senses away that she seemed to have lost some of her 
 mind, and had opened the note carelessly. 
 
 " I write on the eve of sailing, my dear Jane, to 
 tell you the happy news that Laurence Creswick has 
 
 386 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 addressed Marion and has been accepted. He looks 
 a different creature; you would scarcely know him, 
 and there are no words to express my happiness, nor 
 Marion's. I have watched it coming all winter, and 
 the only unhappy person is poor Mark Witting. Dear 
 Laurence will join us in Europe in the autumn. We 
 may be gone a year. I hope that you are accomplish- 
 ing all that you set out to do. Laurence tells us that 
 you are not only satisfied, but most successful. You 
 will not bear malice if I say that at last I am reconciled 
 to your departure; and Marion has pleased me so 
 much that I am thinking of announcing her as my 
 heiress. Good-by; I cannot help looking on you as 
 mistaken. 
 
 " Your affectionate cousin, 
 
 "Jane Saunders." 
 
 The hum of the flies rose and fell almost rhythmi- 
 cally. Louder, when weary of trying to get through 
 the netting to the candy or the lemons, they would 
 rise and join the throng that seemed to hum so aim- 
 lessly in the upper air of the hot shop; lower, when 
 another swarm would settle where their brethren had 
 failed. Not a sound but this humming disturbed the 
 drowsy noonday stillness, save the intermittent stamp- 
 ing of a horse tied in front of the next shop, and the 
 grind of a locust that somewhere, far away, scraped 
 the song of the summer heat. So still that the hum 
 of the flies seemed to be out of all proportion to their 
 size and ability, and Jane looked up at them slowly. 
 Presently some little negroes went by, wrangling 
 
 387 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 among themselves; then a coatless clerk, with his 
 sleeves held up with rubber straps, came in to ask for 
 change. 
 
 She rose, and the note slipped to the floor. The 
 young man picked it up and held it while she found 
 her purse, then gave it to her as he turned away. 
 She read it over again, quite slowly; she went back 
 to her seat and her work. Trimming a hat, the last 
 of the season, probably, for a girl out in the country; 
 after that she did not know what she would sell. Of 
 course her stock was there, and if any more hats were 
 wanted she could furnish them. Perhaps some more 
 country girls would want hats. Since the hot weather 
 had come the ladies of the town had ceased to as- 
 semble for tea, even the iced tea failed to attract them. 
 
 She looked about her. The words " attract them " 
 made her wonder a little. " Dear Laurence tells us 
 that you are not only satisfied, but successful." " Dear 
 Laurence" had obeyed her; she had ordered him to 
 say that — she had impressed it on him that such was 
 the case. She clipped her thread and took a long 
 time to knot it again. " Waiting free until you shall 
 need me," he had said. Could this news be true? 
 Loved someone else. Why had he not written to her 
 about this engagement? Had he remembered his own 
 protestations? Had he feared that she would care? 
 He had loved her well — as well as he could. Men's 
 love seemed not very enduring. 
 
 The thread was knotted now, and a few stitches 
 taken. And what a strange thing if Marion should 
 be announced the heiress of the money that Mark 
 
 388 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Witting had so wanted, and how strange that Mark 
 Witting should also love Marion, and that she should 
 prefer Laurence Creswick. Fate was ironical. Poor 
 Mark! 
 
 The day wore on. She went up the hot street to 
 Mrs. Dunlap's for the early dinner, and did her best 
 to eat it, but it was too hot, both the day and the din- 
 ner, and in spite of the fly-brush which a negro waved 
 incessantly the flies buzzed and hummed as unceas- 
 ingly as they did down in the shop. 
 
 " I believe we're going to have a storm," Mrs. Dun- 
 lap said, " it's so sultry. I think it'd almost kill you, 
 Miss Jane." 
 
 Jane shook her head, smiling. "We are hard to 
 kill," she answered. 
 
 Some .more customers came in that afternoon, order- 
 ing another hat, and later a storm did roll up, with 
 vivid lightning and a sudden rush of rain. Jane went 
 to the door, but in a moment it was over, and a steam 
 seemed to be rising from the earth. The sun glared 
 down even while the last drops of rain were tinkling 
 in the gutters, and it seemed hotter than before. She 
 went back to her work; it would be called for in the 
 morning. It was an extremely ugly hat, she thought, 
 and she hated it; and a red-headed, freckled girl, with 
 light blue eyes and white eyelashes, was going to wear 
 it. She was going to be married, and this was a part 
 of her outfit, and she had looked so insanely happy. 
 Did Marion look so? 
 
 How awfully hot it was; how long would it be 
 before the cool weather would come? She had arrived 
 
 389 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 last year early in November, and fires were comfort- 
 able, most comfortable. How bright and cool it had 
 been on the hills then; those brown, empty uplands, 
 where the wind had its own way and the crickets 
 cried. She seemed to hear them now, almost, and al- 
 ways connected with her first insane sense of freedom. 
 What was freedom, save another way of saying re- 
 sponsibility? 
 
 She looked about her at her freedom. Everyone 
 had left her alone with it, quite alone. She was abso- 
 lutely free, and she owned the stock in this wonderful 
 shop ! It was a great thing, freedom, of course it was ; 
 practically it was all, and she still valued it. She had 
 been right, perfectly right. Marion's future would be 
 far more brilliant than hers, and possibly much hap- 
 pier, but then Marion had been fortunate enough to 
 fall in love with the right man. Some people were 
 more fortunate than others ; that was all. Some peo- 
 ple had to fight every foot of the way through life, 
 while others, like the dreadful hymn, were carried to 
 heaven on " Flowery beds of ease." She would write 
 both to Marion and Creswick that night, sending 
 Marion's letter to the bankers in London. How well 
 she knew the address. It seemed to her that one of 
 her lives or the other must be a dream. 
 
 Day after day she went down to the shop, her trade 
 decreasing as the heat increased; but she was always 
 in her place, growing paler and thinner meanwhile. 
 A break came in a note from Creswick, the only brief 
 note she had ever had from him, thanking her for her 
 good wishes. Absolutely correct, but not one word 
 
 390 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 more. She was glad on the whole, because it called 
 for no answer, and, not writing to him, the last link 
 with her old life would be broken. Better so. Then 
 an ecstatic note from Marion, ending: "And just 
 think, I can always live in New York now; I can go 
 to Europe whenever I like, and always have beautiful 
 things!" 
 
 After this the summer seemed to close in on her, 
 as it were, and the smell of watermelons to pervade 
 the air. Every negro, big and little, seemed to be 
 able to eat melons at all hours of the day, and to be 
 allowed to eat them where they pleased, and to be fol- 
 lowed usually by pigs that gobbled up the rinds. At 
 first she had had the energy to be astonished and to 
 inquire, but Mr. Dunlap's answer that the negroes 
 voted down all laws of public cleanliness reduced her 
 energy to keeping them from the front of her own 
 door. Later she had given up even this protest; she 
 had come to watch the greedy joy of the melon-eaters 
 with some amusement, and after them the pigs that 
 squealed and grunted and jostled each other over the 
 debris. Sometimes the Dunlap children would come 
 to the shop; sometimes Tena would be left there by 
 a servant who was going farther on an errand, and on 
 Sunday afternoons Jane would take them to walk as 
 of old; a walk that really became something to look 
 forward to, and she began to realize the possible vivid- 
 ness of a small joy in a monotonous life. Yes, she 
 was learning many things, more especially what a 
 minor woe flies were in comparison with mosquitoes! 
 Life went with deadly quietude, deadly regularity. 
 
 391 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 There was no hurry, no push; there could not be in 
 this heat. Never in all her life before had she felt so 
 listless, so as if all her muscles had been cut. She 
 even ceased to vi'onder why the town had been built 
 down in a hollow. She had an unacknowledged feel- 
 ing that the wood, and stones, and bricks had rolled 
 down the hills and that the people had piled them up 
 anyhow, anywhere, to shelter themselves from the 
 sun. She'd never blame anyone again for anything 
 in a climate like this. 
 
 Sitting in the shop, ripping some of the superfluous 
 lace oG of one of her last summer frocks, looking 
 from time to time at some small negroes and their pig 
 satellites eating melons on the curb, and smiling a 
 little at herself that she could be as she was now, and 
 looking back at herself as she had been when last she 
 had worn the frock in hand, she heard a step coming 
 down the empty, sun-baked street, a step strangely 
 alert and firm for the season, and an authoritative 
 voice that scattered the pickaninnies and the pigs, and 
 Ned Beaton came in. It was the first time that he 
 had ever been in the shop, and his greeting was to 
 look about him with a smile, then to come forward to 
 where she had risen from her seat. 
 
 " I have been wishing to come here for some time," 
 he began, shaking hands with her, and taking the 
 chair she offered, " but I've been dreadfully busy, and 
 have been over here only once, to your celebration." 
 
 Jane smiled slowly. " I was done to death that 
 afternoon," she said, in an almost toneless voice. 
 
 " You looked so ; but not so dead as now." 
 392 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 His hand had been so cool and firm, his white clothes 
 and hat were so immaculate, his voice was so deep 
 and strong that new life seemed to be creeping into 
 the air. 
 
 Jane raised her eyes to his. " It is the heat," she 
 said, hesitatingly, as if not quite certain. 
 
 " Because you are fighting it," was answered, 
 promptly. "We cannot defy climate," he went on, 
 " any more than we can defy fate, and there is no use 
 in trying. All that one can do in the arctic zone is 
 to keep warm, and in the torrid to keep cool; and to 
 attempt to bring the energy or the fashions of one zone 
 into another is the purest folly. At this time of the 
 year and day all people in this section should be tak- 
 ing siestas in appropriate draperies, with iced melons 
 on one hand and iced lemonade on the other, and 
 little darkies to wave fans." 
 
 " This is meant for me, I suppose." 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 "And my shop?" 
 
 " Seems just now as if it could keep itself." 
 
 Again Jane looked up and smiled with him. 
 
 " But," Beaton went on, " I've come on business, 
 and wish to ask a few very direct questions; may I? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Has this thing paid you?" 
 
 " I have cleared a little money on it." 
 
 " Tell me." 
 
 "There is not much to tell. I added the freight, 
 and the rent for six months, and the cost of my stock 
 together, and priced things accordingly, and have 
 
 393 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 cleared fifteen dollars in all, and now everything that 
 I sell is clear gain." 
 
 " And where did you buy your stock? " 
 
 " In New York." 
 
 " Your freights must have been heavy." 
 
 " Yes, but in addition to millinery I have had a 
 tea-table." 
 
 " Yes." He leaned back in his chair and looked 
 at the girl. She had grown very thin, but the anatomy 
 of her face was good, and her skin was transparently 
 clear. She was in white, and all the folds of lace she 
 was ripping, and that she had thrown up over her 
 shoulder to keep it off the floor, made a diaphanous 
 cloud about her that lent to the delicacy of her appear- 
 ance. She went on with the ripping, the clip, clip of 
 her scissors and the hum of the flies being the only 
 sounds to break the stillness. Presently the silence, or 
 Beaton's intent look, caused her to raise her eyes, and 
 she asked : " Is there anything else ? " 
 
 " Of course," came quickly, " of course. I did not 
 come simply to explore your affairs. But first, about 
 the school; will you continue the shop along with 
 the school?" 
 
 Jane shook her head. " I do not think that I can 
 do that again ; my present plan is to give up the school. 
 There is not much future in this shop, but there is 
 more than in a select school." 
 
 " That is just what I wanted to know, but I had 
 first to try to gauge your business abilities. You were 
 perfectly inexperienced, of course, and you have made 
 this little venture pay, and that in an absolutely dead 
 
 394 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 town; further, you are still headstrong enough to 
 wish to continue in business." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Then my proposition is to buy you out, lock, 
 stock, and barrel, as we say down here, and to move 
 you over to my town." 
 
 Jane stopped her clipping, and raised her head. 
 
 "There is plenty of money behind me," Beaton 
 went on, " and I am manager of and for that money. 
 We have made a combination with another company, 
 and their iron-ore is to be brought down to our coal, 
 and we are to have furnaces and the like. The de- 
 tails do not matter just now, but we are on the main 
 line of road, and the other fellows are on a branch 
 line; so it's cheaper for them to come to us, and this 
 means a growing town in a very little while. So far, 
 we have only one shop over there, which I personally 
 own. I do not keep it, but I built it and stocked it. 
 My plan is to build regular department shops, and 
 have clerks and bookkeepers and the rest of it, and I 
 come to offer you the head of one of the departments, 
 with your expenses and fifty dollars a month." 
 
 Jane was listening intently. 
 
 " It is not a nice town yet," he continued ; " but 
 it is in higher country than this, and much cooler. 
 Everything is new and rough, but clean ; I can assure 
 you of that; and everything possible will be done to 
 make you comfortable. Further, there is no risk in 
 it for you, and, let me tell you, the old women in this 
 town wear their bonnets for fifty years." 
 
 " Is there any future in it? " 
 
 395 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 "Any higher salary? Yes." 
 
 " Not that. Is there any advancement; can I rise 
 to the top if I show ability; can I be a part of the 
 business, and grow along with the speculation? You 
 said once," fastening her eyes on him, " that no woman 
 was ever allowed to rise to the top of any corporation 
 where men were engaged, and so I imagine that you 
 are taking me simply as a woman who has managed 
 a very small venture so as not to swamp herself; who 
 may earn a larger salary as time goes on; may even 
 be the head of a department. I won't go on those 
 terms." 
 
 " I said," Beaton answered, slowly, as if a little bit 
 surprised, " I said that women did not rise to such 
 positions because they could not be depended on, and 
 we could not depend on them because at any moment 
 they might give up the position for matrimony. I 
 was half way in fun," he continued, taking up the 
 flounce and holding it, so that Jane could go on more 
 readily with the ripping which she had resumed, " but 
 what I said was true." 
 
 " Say it again." 
 
 "Why, a man, of course, may marry just as soon 
 as he pleases, and it makes no difference to his em- 
 ployer, or to the company of which he is a member; 
 but a woman is otherwise. However hard the case 
 may seem, it is nevertheless the case. Law — limita- 
 tion — is everywhere, and your law, your limitations, 
 stand up and say, 'you must pause here and make 
 choice, choice between marriage and achievement! ' 
 A man may accomplish both, a woman may not." 
 
 396 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " Yes," Jane said, slowly, then added, " and I would 
 be free to choose? " 
 
 "I think so; I think that I can arrange it if you 
 pledge yourself," and Beaton looked at her curiously. 
 
 There was silence after this, when the hum of the 
 flies and the snip of Jane's scissors again came into 
 prominence; but she made no answer, and Beaton 
 kept his eyes fixed on her with the same inquiring 
 look. 
 
 " There is another possibility," he said at last, " that 
 a woman might achieve a fortune early in life, say in 
 the thirties, then of course she would be at liberty 
 to say to some comely young man, 'I have made a 
 fortune; let us join forces and be happy.'" 
 
 Jane looked up quickly. 
 
 Beaton shook his head. " I mean no harm," he 
 said, " we are talking now as two human beings dis- 
 cussing a problem, not as warring sexes; and doubt- 
 less the young man would say yes, and spend her 
 money with alacrity." 
 
 Jane returned to her clipping, giving Beaton an- 
 other bit to hold, in a quite unconscious way. 
 
 "This state of things may obtain in the future," 
 Beaton went on, " and we cannot say until it is tried 
 whether it will be a good or a bad change. For one 
 thing, women will have to take life less hysterically, 
 and will have to regard love as men regard it. Men 
 love each other and women deeply and strongly, but 
 if a friend betray one, if a love is false, it is not allowed 
 to wreck one's life. Life must go on, and go on in 
 connection with others, and it is not morally sanitary 
 
 397 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 to have graves all about in one's inner consciousness. 
 All such views will have to be altered; women will 
 have to become hardened to many things, and men's 
 taste in women will have to change. If women enter 
 the lists with men they must expect the same hard 
 knocks that men get. I'll grant, God knows, that 
 they get many hard knocks now, poor souls; but buf- 
 fetings given in private are very different to buffetings 
 given in public. And the misery is, that if this state 
 of things obtains, we cannot tell how it is going to 
 turn out until we have tried it. That's the trouble 
 with all progress; we are obliged to go plunging 
 along blindly most of the time, and all the while know- 
 ing that, good or bad, there is no return. And if in 
 this case our sisters, and daughters, and wives grow 
 to be as hard as nails, we'll have to grin and bear it 
 — as I said before, change our taste in women. But 
 we don't want to; women were made to be tender 
 and gentle; they were meant to be timid, and de- 
 pendent; to be mothers; their eyes were made so 
 sweet to answer the looks of their little children ; they 
 were made to keep life kind, to make the world beau- 
 tiful; why should they strive to be different, to enter 
 our field of labor? We don't want you there, because 
 we love you as you are, where you are. We are not 
 jealous of your progress, but anxious that the poetry 
 of life shall not turn itself into prose; that the roses 
 shall not become cornstalks and cabbages; that the 
 vines shall not become stiff saplings." He drew a 
 long breath and let more flounce slip through his fingers. 
 " This is not business," he went on, " though it came 
 
 398 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 out of our business talk quite naturally. To return, 
 there is no need to hurry you in this matter, and you 
 may have a week for consideration." 
 
 Jane neither looked up nor answered, and Beaton 
 waited patiently. Quickly the sharp little scissors did 
 their work, and he observed that they had delicately 
 chased silver handles; that the lace he was holding 
 was fine; and the gown itself of a most delicate web. 
 What had brought the girl down to her present sur- 
 roundings, and what was she thinking now? The 
 curve he had so admired in her cheek and throat was 
 gone, but there was a square set to her delicate chin 
 that pleased him just as well, perhaps better. The 
 girl was high-strung, was spirited; how dreadful for 
 her to be in the plough! — and he spoke again: 
 
 " Let me take the liberty," he said, " of begging 
 you to turn back; let me persuade you to decline my 
 proposal, to give up this losing fight and to go back 
 to where you came from. Believe me, the beaten 
 track is best. Somewhere there is a better life for you 
 than this; somewhere there is someone waiting for 
 you — someone longing for you " 
 
 All the bundle of lace and lawn fell about him with 
 a quick dash, and Jane walked swiftly down the shop 
 to the door. Beaton sat quite still, not moving under 
 the burden cast upon him, save to turn his head in 
 the direction of the girl who stood in the doorway. 
 She looked up and down the street, not seeming to 
 heed the glare of the sun that fell all about her; then 
 across to where, exactly opposite, the little negroes, 
 driven away by Beaton, had taken their seats. She 
 
 399 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 could see the whites of their eyes as they rolled them 
 around over the tops of the sections of melon in which 
 the rest of their faces were buried. What a ridiculous 
 picture! They were watching the shop, too; waiting 
 possibly for their enemy to appear, and ready for in- 
 stant flight. How funny th'ey were, and how inde- 
 scribable was their lingo, mixed with the squeaks of 
 the pigs. " Go back to the one who is longing for 
 you," that was almost as funny as the little negroes 
 and the pigs. " The one who was waiting for her ! " 
 Once this man had said, " To those who think, life is 
 a farce " — undoubtedly. Sum up her own life, its 
 irony was amusing, most amusing. And men loved 
 calmly, he said, and when a love or a friend failed 
 them, nothing was wrecked. 
 
 What would the little negroes do now? Their melon 
 being eaten to the green skin, they were still watching 
 the shop. She had seen them so often that she felt as 
 if they were old friends, and many times they had di- 
 verted her; they had almost become a part of her 
 present death in life, that yet had been bearable. Men 
 were wiser — much. The more she thought, the more 
 forcible it all seemed, and for what did she need a 
 week — to go back to the one who was longing, who 
 was waiting? 
 
 She turned with a last look at the jabbering little 
 blacks, a glance that almost seemed to linger as if 
 saying farewell. She walked slowly to her place, 
 gathered back her work from where she had thrown it 
 on Beaton, and sat down. " I do not need a week," 
 she said, looking straight at her companion. " If I 
 
 400 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 am permitted, I will put my stock, my work, and what 
 money I have into the business, and will ask to be a 
 member of the company." 
 
 " You persist? " 
 
 " Yes, I mean to pledge myself to achievement." 
 
 " Don't," and Beaton put out his hand as if to stop 
 her from some immediate, tangible peril. 
 
 Jane looked at the warning hand as if it were some- 
 thing detached, then up into Beaton's face. His usual 
 expression of amused aloofness was gone, and in its 
 place a new look; Jane studied it for a second, then 
 began to roll up the lace she had ripped. 
 
 " Don't," he said again, and now he laid his hand 
 on hers, stopping her work. 
 
 " If I may," she answered, " I will. I shall be ready 
 to move to Newtown, Mr. Beaton, just as soon as you 
 need me," and she drew her hand from under his. 
 
 401 
 
XXV 
 
 " With aching hands and bleeding feet 
 We dig and heap, lay stone on stone ; 
 
 We bear the burden and the heat 
 Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. 
 
 Nor till the hours of light return, 
 
 All we have built do we discern." 
 
 IT was a bitterly cold night between Christmas and 
 New Year. The snow was falling thick and fast, 
 and a howling wind was shaking everything that could 
 be shaken, and driving the snow against Jane's blind- 
 less windows. There were shades to pull down and 
 curtains to be drawn which would have shut out the 
 wild night, but they had not been touched. The dying 
 fire, too, needed to be repaired, and the hands of the 
 clock were nearing the hour of midnight. 
 
 From the day when she had given her decision to 
 Ned Beaton, time for Jane had seemed to go at a 
 hard run, and, despite heat, and dust, and languor, 
 events had seemed to jump over each other in their 
 haste, and she had been obliged to keep up with them. 
 Of course there had been in Stony Ridge lamentations 
 because of her leaving, especially from the children, 
 and deep regrets from the mothers, who felt that never 
 again could they hope to get such a stylish teacher as 
 Jane. Added to this there had been solemn warnings 
 
 402 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 whispered among the mothers, and conveyed to Jane 
 by Mrs. Dunlap, warnings as to what people would 
 say when she went to Newtown under the patronage 
 of such a man as Ned Beaton. Jane had seemed to 
 listen, but her preparations had gone on without pause. 
 She had not even asked what they knew against Ned 
 Beaton; his explanation of why he had been called a 
 " sooty sheep " had amused her, and for the rest was 
 his own business, not hers. He could not hurt her; 
 talk could not hurt her; nothing could hurt her but 
 her own folly; nothing had ever hurt her but her own 
 folly. She was always taking steps, good, bad, or in- 
 different; she would take another and, sooner or later, 
 she would reach either the bottom, or the top step, 
 she did not know which, she had not cared very much, 
 but she had felt that she must go on stepping. She had 
 seemed to be a little bit glad to take this step, and 
 she had not reasoned why; she had been glad to lock 
 the shop-door finally, glad to look her last on the 
 hats and bonnets of Stony Ridge, then in a vehicle 
 sent over from Newtown, she and her belongings had 
 been driven away up the long yellow road, where Tena 
 waved her little handkerchief over the gate, and where, 
 from the hill-top, Jane took a farewell look over the 
 village and across the high green uplands that, when 
 she had first seen them, had been so brown and wind- 
 blown, and where the crickets had cried. 
 
 She had found Newtown worthy of its name. Up- 
 hill and down-hill; clay roads and stumps; primeval 
 forests with the names of streets nailed to the trees. 
 " Newtown Stores," as her place of work was called, 
 
 403 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 was the most imposing building in the place, and from 
 the moment of her entrance there her life had been 
 crammed full of work. She had found, also, that the 
 Ned Beaton of Newtown was quite a different person 
 from the Ned Beaton of Stony Ridge. Clear-headed, 
 prompt, unswerving, nothing done because she was a 
 woman or a friend. She had made her choice, and he 
 had agreed, and from the first she had been treated 
 as a partner in a business concern, and had been early 
 taught that she had to look out for her own interests. 
 It had not been play. The place was rushing on with 
 the sudden, marvellous growth of the towns of the 
 present day, and the " Stores " were designed to fill 
 every possible want of the people so completely, and 
 at such prices, that no private venture could live under 
 its shadow. It was the scheme of Ned Beaton, con- 
 sented to and invested in by the rest of the company, 
 and Jane, before having been allowed to enter, had 
 been obUged not only to be vouched for in every par- 
 ticular and to invest all her little savings, but had to 
 borrow money in order to be able to put in the amount 
 required from each member of the company. By ad- 
 vice, her next move had been to insure her life for the 
 amount borrowed, and she had then entered into the 
 work with an excitement such as she had never felt 
 before in her life or had ever dreamed it was possible 
 for her to feel. 
 
 The summer, and autumn, and winter had swept by 
 with bewildering swiftness, and the town and the Stores 
 had developed beyond the greatest expectations ; for all 
 the small towns and villages, every cross-road shop, 
 
 404 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 and blacksmith, and carpenter came there to buy their 
 stock and tools. Department after department had 
 been inaugurated; experts of all kinds were employed, 
 and Jane found her office-hours growing longer and 
 longer, and had felt almost as if all the business of the 
 world met and centred on her desk. 
 
 According to agreement she had started at the top 
 of the first department, and since then her effort had 
 been to stay at the top; to hold the sway successfully 
 as the business spread and enlarged. Of course Ned- 
 Beaton had been there for her to consult, and once a 
 month an overlooking of every department took place, 
 and not yet had he questioned any of her arrange- 
 ments; nevertheless, his only word of praise had been: 
 "We are so successful. Miss Ormonde, that even the 
 Jew pack-peddlers have given up this section." 
 
 At last Christmas had come, and Jane remembered, 
 almost as she remembered the cut-flower gardens and 
 dust cities of her childhood, that the money which had 
 been the germ of all her advancement she had received 
 from her father and cousin just one year ago. She 
 had not told her father of her change of work or of 
 residence; she had not wished to face further disap- 
 proval until she was sure of success — ^until she was 
 out of debt. To compass this her letters were still 
 allowed to go to Stony Ridge, and so it happened that 
 it was not until a day or two after her one day's holi- 
 day at Christmas that the memorials of the season 
 reached her. No check had come this time, because 
 she had protested against it, so there were only a few 
 little mementoes and letters, one of which she now 
 
 405 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 held in her hand, one that had seemed to make her 
 forget the falHng temperature of the room and the 
 uses of the curtains. 
 
 Very still she sat, while the dead, white ashes gath- 
 ered over the fire and the snow banked drearily against 
 the windows. 
 
 Laurence Creswick ruined; Marion engaged to 
 Mark Witting! That was what she had read in her 
 mother's letter that had seemed so strange. Was it 
 she who was confused or the letter? She had read it 
 more than once, but the confusion remained. Her 
 mother was puzzled, and her father. There was some- 
 thing extraordinary behind it all. What had Mrs. 
 Saunders done; what was Marion suffering? Her 
 mother was confused, her father puzzled; they could 
 not understand Mrs. Saunders. Perhaps — ^perhaps they 
 might now begin to understand her! 
 
 " Lost his fortune by wild speculation," the letter 
 said, and yet Laurence Creswick had never been in 
 business. It seemed an impossible thing. Had Marion 
 jilted him first, and then had he thrown away his 
 money? That was the order in which the facts had 
 been mentioned; that was what Mrs. Sa,unders would 
 like them to believe; but that was not like Laurence 
 Creswick. He was too well balanced, too sensible. 
 Despair would never possess him to that extent. He 
 had loved her, herself, she knew that he had loved 
 her. " Waiting free until you may need me, will not 
 be waste," he had said. He had loved her d^ply ; 
 later she had added, as deeply as he could. And a man 
 who could change so quickly would be too fickle to 
 
 406 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 be driven to desperation. Had he really loved Marion? 
 Why had she accepted that as true? There was some- 
 thing extraordinary behind. And Marion had seemed 
 to be so fortunate; she had loved the right man, the 
 rich man; according to the letter she had rendered 
 the rich man desperate by jilting him in order to marry 
 the poor one. That was not like Mrs. Saunders. 
 
 The rich man had lost his money; how, why? Why 
 had he touched speculation? Why had he not gone 
 with them to Europe, and idled the time away? It 
 would have gone quickly, so quickly in a dream of love. 
 Why had they not married at once? But now Mark 
 Witting was the lover. How soft his voice could be, 
 how winning his smile. And he would get the money 
 he had wanted. Her thoughts seemed to halt. How 
 did she know that Mark Witting had wanted the 
 money? She had had no proof; had never had any 
 proof except Mrs. Saunders's word. 
 
 She drew her hand across her brow. Too late to 
 go back to that; yet, just a moment. Whg,t would 
 have been Mrs. Saunders's motive? Mark Witting 
 was poor, Laurence Creswick was rich. And who was 
 it had told her that Mark Witting was danghng after 
 his old aunt, hoping to inherit her fortune? Mrs. 
 Saunders. Too late to go back to that; but how easily 
 she had been managed— if she had been managed. 
 
 The murder of her childhood, the murder of her 
 youth. She clasped her hands about her knees, 
 crumpling the letter in them, and swayed back and 
 forth a little in her chair. Too late for that, and she 
 had no proof. She straightened up and smoothed the 
 
 407 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 letter out. She had let that part of her Ufe go. That 
 Jane Ormonde, so young, so cowed, so desperate, had 
 been done to death long ago. The murder of her 
 childhood; the murder of her youth. That Jane Or- 
 monde was dead and buried, and her grave levelled 
 and sodded over decently. Let it be. Poor girl; poor 
 little child ; and there had been no one to have mercy ! 
 
 Again she smoothed the letter, smoothed it out as 
 carefully as if it were a vital thing that it should be 
 returned into the original folds. Two sisters and one 
 set of lovers, what a poor little farce ! Men took things 
 more quietly. " If a friend or a love were false, it did 
 not wreck things." This last man, this Ned Beaton, 
 with his cheerful smile, had said that. He had had 
 occasion to study women, he had said, of course, and 
 who knew what his study had done; who knew where 
 the women were who could have told. Did not wreck 
 things. She stopped smoothing the letter. It was 
 not true, for here was a man who apparently had 
 wrecked things. And women took life too hysteri- 
 cally; what more hysterical than to throw away a 
 fortune? and a man, a well-balanced man had done 
 that. Why had he done it? — a whole big fortune. 
 How strange it was, and now he was free once more. 
 She would give no sign. " Hard as nails," she would 
 be a flint before life had done with her, life and Mrs. 
 Saunders. 
 
 She laughed a little, then looked about her as if 
 startled, as if the echoing sound of her own mirth had 
 wakened her. She looked at the dying fire, at the 
 ghostly staring windows, and began to shiver. All 
 
 408 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 over, from head to foot, she shivered. Mrs. Saunders 
 would kill her yet. Never! She would be sane, she 
 would stop shivering. No one should ever know. 
 She would stamp down the grave of that child, that 
 Jane Ormonde, flatter still, until no vestige remained. 
 She would never wonder, never investigate, never go 
 below the surface of what Mrs. Saunders had done, 
 of what Mrs. Saunders's motives had been. The judg- 
 ment-day would be soon enough to solve the problem ; 
 would be soon enough to know how nearly Mrs. Saun- 
 ders was related to the fates. Now this present Jane 
 Ormonde, the head of the Newtown Department 
 Stores, would build the fire; would draw the curtains; 
 would stop shivering; would harden, harden to the 
 nails that life could not hurt; would go to bed. 
 
 In the pile of ordinary correspondence on her desk 
 the next day she came upon a letter from Mr. Saun- 
 ders. He had not written to her since the Christmas 
 before, so of course it was only a Christmas letter. 
 There was only a second's hesitation, then the little 
 paper-cutter slipped in and along the edge as swiftly 
 and as surely as usual. The Christmas check which 
 she could not forestall as she had done her father's, 
 because she had no right to presume on its being sent, 
 and she put it down quickly. Only a half-sheet, writ- 
 ten late at night from his club in Paris. All were well. 
 Marion, Mrs. Saunders, and Witting were at the opera. 
 Jane must always remember that, though he did not 
 write, she was continually in his thoughts, and she 
 must call on him at any time for anything; he loved 
 ' her very much, and had never forgiven himself. Yes, 
 
 * 409 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 there was something very strange behind, but it was 
 not for her to investigate. Mark Witting nor Lau- 
 rence Creswick were anything to her now, nor was 
 she responsible for Marion. From the letters of Mar- 
 ion, which had been forwarded to her, the girl seemed 
 spirited enough. Her childhood had not been cowed, 
 and she was capable of taking care of herself. It was 
 wiser for Jane to keep quiet, and she settled the mat- 
 ter by answering Mr. Saunders to the club, as he had 
 directed, and by saying frankly to her mother that 
 she did not understand Marion nor Mrs. Saunders and 
 their change of plan. Her hand trembled a little as 
 she went on to the next letter of her pile, but only 
 for a moment, then her nerves steadied, and business 
 was resumed. 
 
 After this she threw herself into her work with more 
 earnestness than ever, and her past life, that for a 
 moment had surged up about her so suddenly, flash- 
 ing out at her so vividly, was put out of sight once 
 more to become shadowy and unreal. The weeks 
 went into months, and the spring came upon her with 
 astonishing swiftness, but no further word had come to 
 her concerning Creswick. The Saunders and Marion 
 had not returned from Europe, and apparently were 
 making no plans in that direction; but they seemed 
 to be happy and well, and Marion wrote with seeming 
 cheerfulness. " She does not take things hysterically," 
 Jane said to herself, " and is wiser than ever I was." 
 
 June came in hot and glaring, and Jane had been 
 in Newtown for one year. It did not seem so long 
 as that, and she felt a sudden gladness to think how 
 
 410 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 swiftly and imperceptibly life sped by; how impossible 
 it would be for it to seem long. As the town grew, 
 the business would grow, and her life would be fuller 
 and the days go more quickly. So it was that men 
 lived down things. And she was prospering, too; she 
 had almost paid her debt to Ned Beaton, would make 
 the last payment in July, and that done, she would 
 feel herself on the way to making the fortune she had 
 laughed about; that, later, she had despaired over. 
 In the middle of the month Ned Beaton came to her. 
 
 " I am going away for a week," he said, " at the 
 end of that time I shall return, and as soon as things 
 can be turned over to me I will take your place for a 
 month. The first two weeks you will spend in New 
 York as a buyer; the last two weeks you will take 
 as a holiday." 
 
 " I would rather have my holiday in the winter," 
 Jane said, quickly. 
 
 " You need it now," Beaton answered, " and for the 
 good of the work you must take it. You don't look 
 quite as dead as you did last year at this time, but 
 you look dead enough. Perhaps we can arrange for 
 a week at Christmas also. Of course the company 
 will pay all your expenses to and from New York — 
 expenses, mind, not ticket," smiling down at her, " and 
 all your expenses as a buyer. We will have a little 
 while after I come back so that you can turn things 
 over to me, and I only hope. Miss Ormonde, that 
 I will do it half as well as you have done it. The 
 company is thoroughly satisfied, and now that you are 
 out of debt you can resign as any of us could, but we 
 hope that you will not." 
 
 411 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Going back to New York! Of course in August it 
 would be absolutely empty of anyone she knew, and 
 she was glad that it should be so; but the very sight 
 of the streets, of the Saunders's house, of the dark 
 green door and the egg-shaped brass knobs, and the 
 round latch that had clicked! How strange to see it 
 all again. She might see old Simmons — kind old 
 Simmons, who stayed on so steadily, who was so de- 
 voted to Mr. Saunders; who in a quiet way ruled 
 Mrs. Saunders. She might see him; he used to be 
 left in charge of everything when they were in Europe. 
 Simmons had always been good to her, had always 
 been sorry for her. Then she could spend her two 
 weeks' holiday at the seashore somewhere, she had a 
 great longing for the water. There she could rest from 
 working or feeling; keep still because the sea would 
 be there to move continually and take the restlessness 
 away. That would be a true reward for all her labor, 
 for all the flies, for all the mosquitoes! She had not 
 known how tired she was until the holiday had been 
 offered her. For her New York would be empty, 
 but she could walk the streets she knew; could go 
 to the church of her childhood and sit in the same 
 seat, the uncomfortable middle seat in the pew, and 
 imagine Mr. and Mrs. Saunders at either end. She 
 could drive in the park as she used to do, those weary 
 long drives when all her faults and failings used to 
 be led in review before her hopeless eyes. There would 
 not be any opera or theatre to go to, but there would 
 be memories enough without that. 
 
 Going back to New York! Then a new thought 
 412 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 came up, she would be entirely alone, absolutely un- 
 attended ! Going to hotels, to watering-places alone ! 
 How horrified Mrs. Saunders's world would be, and 
 she laughed. For a year she had worked with men, 
 had had men working under her direction; how su- 
 premely absurd a chaperon would seem to her now 
 — ^what a bore! But Simmons would be shocked if 
 he knew, and if she stumbled on any whom she had 
 known they might ignore her because of her unpro- 
 tected state. How funny! and she laughed, ending 
 with a long sigh. What a poor, frightened thing she 
 had been. 
 
 There were no terrors for her in this journey, rather 
 a sense of triumph was coming over her. In a meas- 
 ure she had conquered fate; in a measure she had 
 righted her life, had made a place for herself. She 
 had blundered, she had made mistakes, she had suf- 
 fered, but it was through all these things that she had 
 developed. When she had broken away so blindly 
 from her old life she had been guided by an instinct 
 of self-preservation, and she had saved herself. She 
 was a woman now, and a better, stronger woman than 
 she would ever have been but for the course she had 
 taken. Mrs. Saunders would think scorn of her pres- 
 ent position, but now she had come to know that Mrs. 
 Saunders understood only her own small world. A 
 house in a certain locality, a dressmaker and tailor of 
 certain standing; proper liveries, and rigid social lines 
 were more to her than any consideration of soul or of 
 the eternal heights. And how blindly in her imma- 
 turity she had fought against these limitations. Later, 
 
 413 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 she had descended to the depth of hating Mrs. Saun- 
 ders; of wishing her evil; but now as she thought 
 she seemed to be lifted above that. At the best, life 
 was not so joyful a thing that one need wish another 
 even a momentary evil. It is difficult to be forgiving 
 when you are down in the ditch, and see your enemy 
 on the greensward above you; but once you, your- 
 self, have attained to the greensward, it is easier to 
 endure the company of your enemy. She had at- 
 tained to the greensward, and the past was taking its 
 true perspective, and she had begun actually to pity 
 her cousin. 
 
 Also, the time had come when she could write to 
 her father, send him a confession; tell him of all that 
 she had done since opening her little shop, and ask 
 him to forgive her that she had not told him before. 
 Only success could have proved the wisdom of her 
 venture, and she had waited for that. Ask his forgive- 
 ness, and tell him how she longed to come home, and 
 had longed all her life. She would write this just be- 
 fore she left, and ask that the answer be sent to New 
 York. There was a little exultation in the throbbing 
 of her blood as she thought, and an excitement as to 
 the answer that her letter would bring. Of course he 
 would forgive her, and after a time he would allow 
 her to help him. For a little while this vision had 
 left her, but now again it was with her, giving point 
 and compensation to her life. 
 
 Going back to New York. How different life 
 would look; how her relative values would have 
 changed, and her understanding of things; she felt 
 herself quite an old woman now. 
 
 414 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " And I will meet you here, at this very spot, on 
 the evening of the second of September," Ned Beaton 
 said as he stood with Jane on the railway platform. 
 " Remember that, and I pin you down because I am 
 almost afraid to let you out of my sight, now that 
 you are out of debt." 
 
 " Am I not making a fortune? " Jane asked. " Am 
 I not yet masculine enough to be held by money ? " 
 " And is that all? Do you not love us a little bit? " 
 " When one is training down to be as hard as nails, 
 love is left out of the diet, is it not? " 
 
 " You so often quote me to my own detriment." 
 " Which proves that I always remember what you 
 say. Good-by. You have been very good to me, and 
 behind the ' nails ' I appreciate it deeply. Good-by," 
 and as long as she could see, he stood where she had 
 left him on the platform. 
 
 415 
 
XXVII 
 
 " I count life just a stuff 
 To try the soul's strength on." 
 
 THERE was a more flaring, glaring hotel farther 
 down the river on the cliffs that faced the sea, 
 but Jane remembered from her childhood that the 
 smaller hotel was considered the better. Mrs. Kennet 
 used always to be at this smaller hotel, and old Mr. De- 
 Long, and she thought that she would like to see them 
 once more, if only from a distance. And they were 
 there, but as yet she had not come near them. Possi- 
 bly they would not remember her. If they should 
 meet casually and they did remember, it would be well ; 
 if not, it would be just as well. She had come, not for 
 rest, but because of restlessness. 
 
 Her little sense of triumph had died in New York, 
 and its place had been taken by an irresistible sadness. 
 She had gone to Mrs. Saunders's dressmaker, who had 
 been quite a moment in recognizing her, and then, while 
 getting some garments that would permit her to go to 
 the seaside, she heard some things that she could not 
 understand, that puzzled her ; but she waited until she 
 was properly clothed before she went near the house. 
 She was sure that Simmons would be there, and she 
 must look prosperous before Simmons saw her. And 
 the old man had been glad, and had let her wander at 
 
 416 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 will over the house, at the last standing before her as 
 she sat in the drawing-room, telling her of the various 
 changes. 
 
 Colby was in Europe, of course, and there was no 
 telling when Mrs. Saunders would come back ; and Mr. 
 Saunders, Miss Jane would scarcely know him. Joseph 
 had gone; dismissed. It was Colby's fault, telling 
 Mrs. Saunders of what Joseph had said about the time 
 when Mr. Witting had come so often in the mornings — 
 " The winter ye was goin' to your classes. Miss Jane," 
 he explained, " when me an' Joseph was carryin' your 
 books. Mr. Witting did use to come, but not so often, 
 after all, an' that was all dead an' gone, an' what use 
 had Colby to dig it up again ? " — so Joseph had been 
 dismissed. 
 
 Things had seemed to waver a little before Jane's 
 eyes, for this had come strangely on top the gossip the 
 dressmaker had let fall, but she steadied herself and 
 said, gently : " That could not have been the reason of 
 his dismissal, Simmons, for everyone knew that Mr. 
 Witting came to the house." Then Simmons had an- 
 swered, slowly: "Yes, Miss," and had changed the 
 subject, saying that the doll-house had been sent to 
 the Orphan Asylum. 
 
 Some strange thoughts had come with her from the 
 house, thoughts that she found hard to dismiss. New 
 York was not helping her, she had decided, and as soon 
 as her business and her clothes were finished, she had 
 come away. She had gone about to one or two places 
 that she remembered, but she could not bring herself 
 to go to Hillside Springs. Old Mrs. Creswick would 
 
 417 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 be there. No, that would not be possible; and she 
 took her way to this seaside place that she remembered 
 as a child. 
 
 Horribly restless and as lonely, she had not realized 
 what the old things and places meant until she had 
 come back to them ; but now her time was up ; the next 
 day she must leave, must go back to Newtown. Down 
 through all the far hills and mountains, through all 
 the dim wildernesses, to where Beaton, with his watch- 
 ful eyes and amused smile, was waiting for her on the 
 platform. Once more at work, all these idle suspicions 
 would be driven from her mind — all these saddening 
 memories would go to sleep again, and her ambitions 
 would wake up once more, and once more she would 
 think of herself as a success. The little tiny bit of a 
 success, that had to go to a country town to find a level 
 that was sufficiently low to throw it up as a height. 
 The big dog of a small kennel. Ambition, yes, and 
 aggressive staying power, that was what men had — 
 women had endurance. Women were ambitious, too, 
 but not ambitious enough, it seemed. A little success, 
 a little praise satisfied them ; then they wanted rest and 
 comfort. At least that was the rule; and she herself 
 was tired, very tired. How Beaton would laugh if 
 he could read her thoughts ; and if he were near her he 
 could have read them ; his eyes were so keen, and he had 
 studied women, had had occasion to study women, and 
 he was sorry for them, for their useless struggles. And 
 well he might be. Through all the ages they had been 
 trained to be seductive, so that at last they loved seduc- 
 tive things, illusive things, beautiful things, 
 
 418 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Out in the dim twilight of the deep piazza she sat 
 withdrawn on this last evening of her holiday. Through 
 the wide-open windows she could watch the dancing, 
 hear the music. Up the dim reaches of the river the 
 shadows deepened, the lights twinkled here and there, 
 the young moon hung in the sky. Illusive things, 
 beautiful things, and the music that was floating about 
 her seemed to whisper that this was her place, here in 
 these surroundings was where she belonged; no, she 
 had not realized how much such things meant until she 
 had come back to them. It was not strange that after 
 awhile people worshipped money, worshipped their so- 
 cial gods. The soft movement of gliding feet, flowers 
 and fair draperies, rippling laughter and watching eyes, 
 the cry of the violins, the throb of the harps. And 
 after this the sob of the wind through the wilderness, 
 the beat of the rain among the everlasting hills ! Work, 
 and when she was old — money ! 
 
 There was a pause ; the dancers sat down and voices 
 on the inside of the window became audible. Mrs. 
 Kennet it was, and her incisive treble came clearly to 
 Jane's ears. 
 
 " His grandmother is just dead, you know," she was 
 saying, " killed, I think, by a return of her great wealth 
 because of some resuscitated mines. I don't know very 
 much about the details, but I do know that she is richer 
 than she ever was, and she was sinfully rich at one time. 
 Of course it has all come to him, and he is singing to- 
 night simply to fulfil his engagement; fine, is it not? 
 The proprietor had advertised him, you see, and as 
 the man had stood by him when he was down, he now 
 
 419 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 stands by the man. But when I think of what he has 
 gone through it makes my blood boil ; and I do not see 
 how she did it, I cannot imagine how she achieved it. 
 I've known her all her life, and she is made of steel and 
 stone, still I do not know how she accomplished it, 
 how she squeezed all the life, and soul, and ambition 
 out of him as she seems to have done. It will be a 
 long story for you, as you've been out of the country, 
 and of course I don't want to mention names in a crowd 
 like this. She, you know, adopted a child, a cousin, 
 a gentle creature, and I waited to see the little thing 
 die of nervous prostration, or, surviving that, go into 
 a lunatic asylum just as soon as she was old enough to 
 realize things. She did neither, as it happened, and I 
 will tell you why. He, you know, who is going to sing, 
 and the other man whom you met travelling with them 
 in Europe, went a great deal to the house, and of course 
 people thought that it was on account of the girl; it 
 seemed to develop, however, that the other man was 
 paying more attention to the elder woman. People 
 laughed, I among them, for it was such a new de- 
 parture for her, but it proves that a woman is never 
 too old to be a fool, and since then I have heard strange 
 things. This fellow, however, who is going to sing, 
 was in love with the girl. He was rich and a gentle- 
 man, and the usual ruck of anxious mothers were 
 watching him, so that a good deal was said and con- 
 tradicted, and said over again. Suddenly, just as things 
 seemed to be culminating, the girl ran away. That is 
 what happened when she realized things, and that is the 
 plain English of it, though it was explained differently. 
 
 420 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 But she did, absolutely and actually, she ran away and 
 was lost, apparently. Then what followed ? Immedi- 
 ately, instantly, another girl popped up in her place ; her 
 sister, not as pretty, not as attractive, but sufficient for 
 all purposes. The world heard that there were ten or 
 twenty daughters, more or less, in this remarkable fam- 
 ily, and that each must have a glimpse of the world. At 
 the same time, the two lovers of the elder sister were 
 carefully held on to as friends of the family, the poor 
 lover as well as the rich. It looked well, you know, to 
 have two followers. At the end of the second girl's first 
 season it was announced that she was engaged to the 
 rich lover, then she was whisked off to Europe. Now 
 comes the tragedy." And Mrs. Kennet beat on the 
 arm of her chair with her fan. " The poor fellow who 
 is going to sing changed so that his best friends did 
 not recognize him; and knowing not one thing about 
 business, he began to play with his fortune. People 
 scarcely realized at first what he was doing, and did 
 not fully comprehend until the crash came. Everyone 
 did everything they could then, but then it was too late ; 
 he was ruined, absolutely ruined. It nearly killed his 
 grandmother, especially as he would not take a cent 
 from her ; the mines had not come in then and she had 
 not much, so he would not take a cent and turned in to 
 make his living as a singer, a choir and concert singer ; 
 but before he did that he borrowed money and bolted 
 off to Europe. He came of solid, sane people, so I 
 knew that he was not crazy ; he went to give the girl 
 her freedom; see? He had never loved the second 
 girl ; see ? The next thing that I heard was, that the en- 
 
 421 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 gagement was oS, that the girl had discovered that she 
 loved the poor lover; the poor lover who had been 
 talked about in connection with the elder woman, but 
 who, I am sure, loved the elder girl. There is a mys- 
 tery there, a mystery as to what hold the elder woman 
 had over that poor fellow, a mystery that your story 
 does not quite clear up. A little side light came to me 
 through a servant, which is a disgraceful acknowledg- 
 ment, but I was hiring him and had to ask him why he 
 had left the lady in question. He answered quite 
 promptly that it was because he had spoken of how she 
 had received this young man in the morning when she 
 had sent the young lady off to classes. I was so pleased 
 with my side light that I hired him at once, and an excel- 
 lent servant he is. But I assure you, my dear, that when 
 all this came to my ears — ^that the engagement was off 
 — ^that the girl had discovered that she loved the other 
 man and had been announced as the heiress of the elder 
 woman, I roared with laughter — laughed aloud; for 
 then I understood why this young man who is going 
 to sing threw away his money; threw it away just as 
 surely as if he had poked it into the fire ; had thrown 
 it away because he did not know what poverty meant, 
 and because that was the only method by which he 
 could escape from marriage with a woman he did not 
 love, being, at the same time, too much of a gentleman 
 to jilt her. It is very trying to marry where you do 
 not love, you know ; but to marry one sister while you 
 love the other sister, as he surely did, is more trying 
 still. At least he did not seem able to face the situa- 
 tion, preferring to face poverty. Two ills of which he 
 
 422 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 knew nothing, he chose that which seemed the least. 
 All this is clear enough ; what is not clear, is how that 
 woman managed to kill all his spirit, how she made 
 him so hopeless, took all the life out of him, quenched 
 him so entirely. I've always known her to be a clever 
 woman, a dangerous woman, and I can understand 
 his sacrificing a fortune as he did to get away from 
 her ; but this last thing that you tell me is stranger than 
 all, and puzzles me ; I wish you'd say it over again." 
 
 " Why," a strange voice answered, " when first we 
 met them, the elder woman looked well and the girl 
 unhappy ; and the man whom you speak of as the poor 
 lover seemed extremely careless in his manners; sud- 
 denly his old aunt died, and, as you know, cut him off 
 with only about ten or fifteen thousand dollars — I for- 
 get which — just then we left and went to Paris. We 
 had not been there a week, when my husband met him 
 on the street, and suggested the club, but he said no, 
 that he had given up all clubs, and had gone to work. 
 My husband exclaimed, ' Why, you came into a lump 
 just the other day.' He laughed and answered, ' Yes, 
 and I used it up at once paying ' Glad life's arrears.' 
 Which, I suppose, meant his debts." 
 
 "Yes; and then?" 
 
 " Why, we met the elder woman and the girl again 
 very soon, and they had changed places in the matter of 
 looks ; the girl looked happier than I'd ever seen her, 
 and the elder woman looked twenty years older. She 
 at once told us that the engagement was off — mutual 
 consent," she explained. 
 
 " It's the strangest thing I've ever heard," Mrs. Ken- 
 
 423 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 net said, slowly, " and I shall have to take all I know 
 about it to pieces and try to match it all together again ; 
 but what is her power? how did she get such a hold? 
 how did she manage them so ? I can understand how 
 anyone would sacrifice anything and everything to get 
 away from Jane Saunders — " The speaker stopped 
 short, and looked over her shoulder as if startled. 
 " Someone sighed," she said ; " sighed directly in my 
 ear — positively ! " 
 
 " The wind stirred the curtain." 
 
 " Excuse me ; curtains do not sigh, even in a hurri- 
 cane. Just as I mentioned a name, too ; and I've been 
 so careful about that." 
 
 " In such a buzz of talk no one could have heard you. 
 But here he comes, and since your explanation, I am 
 wild to hear him sing." 
 
 Jane had no need to look in, to raise her head from 
 where it leaned against the wall, in order to see the 
 hero of the story. She knew who it was that had been 
 making his living by singing at summer resorts, whose 
 mellow voice it was that hushed the hum of talk. " To 
 get away from Jane Saunders." The words seemed 
 to stand out before her; not for one moment did she 
 doubt them; it was all too plain, too cruelly plain. 
 And the other one? How clearly she remembered — 
 he had compromised his debts — ^he had accepted money 
 from a source he despised ! She tried to stop thinking ; 
 the next step would almost overthrow her faith in her 
 kind. He had used his legacy in paying " Glad life's 
 arrears " ! The universe seemed to pause for a mo- 
 ment. Joseph's testimony loomed up next. She could 
 
 424 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 have cried aloud — if only she could implore Mrs. Saun- 
 ders to contradict it all. Hard she had been, unsym- 
 pathetic, yes, but not wicked — no — ^no! She would 
 put it out of her life; she would not believe it; ser- 
 vant's talk ; disgraceful, indeed. She would forget it ; it 
 seemed to have soiled her whole being, her very soul ! 
 Thank God ! oh, thank God ! she had gone away. And 
 she had loved that man ; but yet he had paid the debts 
 that had held him, " Glad life's arrears," she could 
 hear him say it. And that childish glamour had been 
 revealed to Laurence Creswick, of course ; and she had 
 found the thread to the maze. Of course! and all 
 along he had loved her. 
 
 The song had ceased, and once more the talk buzzed 
 up, and once more Mrs. Kennet's voice came to her 
 ears. 
 
 " He has seen me, poor fellow, and is coming to speak 
 to me. I'll introduce him." 
 
 Then, not a foot away from her, Laurence Creswick 
 took his seat on the window-sill ; seated himself so that 
 but for the darkness he would have looked straight into 
 her eyes. She dared not move away. He was looking 
 out now — he must see her ! 
 
 A man pausing to light a cigarette, struck a match. 
 She felt as if the skies had opened and the glare of 
 heaven was shining on her face. She was conscious 
 that Creswick had risen suddenly to his feet, and as 
 suddenly had sat down again. It was over in a second, 
 and she heard Mrs. Kennet say: "Saw a ghost? I 
 believe that window is haunted. I heard a sigh there 
 just as you began to sing— a distinct sigh." 
 
 425 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 " It is haunted by a draught," her friend rejoined ; 
 " and now, if Mr. Creswick is not to sing again, I shall 
 say good-night. So glad to have met you, Mr. Cres- 
 wick. You coming, too, Mrs. Kennet ? " 
 
 " Think I shall, it grows late, and the music'll soon 
 stop now. The management is awfully stingy with 
 the music — awfully stingy. Good-night, Laurence." 
 
 There was a scraping of chairs on the waxed floor, 
 a moment's pause, then Laurence Creswick stepped 
 out over the low sill and stood beside her. 
 
 "Jane!" he whispered under his breath, "Jane?" 
 
 Perhaps he was blinded, coming out from the light; 
 perhaps he had forgotten Mrs. Saunders's talk, set 
 to the mad clamor of the street-organ; perhaps he 
 had forgotten Marion. Perhaps he had forgotten all 
 this, else he would not have stepped out of the win- 
 dow, have bent so low over the woman sitting shrouded 
 in the shadows. 
 
 "Jane?" 
 
 She swept her white draperies aside from the bench 
 that he might sit down, then, in a carefully level voice, 
 that would have done credit to Mrs. Saunders herself, 
 she said: "I am so glad to see you, Mr. Creswick, 
 and of course you are surprised to see me here. Take 
 it all in all, I am a little bit surprised myself." 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " I am here on a holiday," she went on, " given me 
 by my firm in return for one year's meritorious ser- 
 vice." She laughed a little. Creswick sat quite still, 
 and the laughter, that had a strange sound, died away. 
 
 " You do not understand about my firm," Jane be- 
 426 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 gan again. "I have kept that quite a secret until 
 just before I left Newtown." 
 
 " Newtown? " Creswick repeated. 
 
 "Yes, that is where I live." Her words were be- 
 ginning to crowd each other now, were becoming a 
 little breathless. " You left me in a milliner's shop," 
 she went on. " You were awfully good about that, 
 and, thanks to you, I made the shop pay, actually pay 
 — I cleared fifteen dollars! Don't laugh, don't even 
 smile, thinking that I cannot see you out here in the 
 dark, for that fifteen dollars was the corner-stone of 
 my fortune. Mr. Beaton, who owns the greater part 
 of Newtown, watched my brilliant career, and when 
 he wanted a head for his department shop in New- 
 town he offered me the position on a rising salary, 
 which I declined. Do not you congratulate me on 
 my enormous advance in self-confidence ? " She paused 
 abruptly, perhaps to catch her breath, but Creswick 
 did not answer. He was leaning back, and even in 
 the darkness it could be seen that his white face was 
 turned toward the far, unseeable reaches of the river. 
 
 " I declined," Jane went on, " because I wanted to 
 be a member of the company, and I succeeded. They 
 hesitated over a woman, but I pledged myself to them 
 in perpetuity, so to speak. Promised to be manly, to 
 become as hard as nails, and have given satisfaction." 
 
 Still Creswick did not speak, did not move. 
 
 " You remember we talked about it once, long ago? 
 About women making hvings and not fortunes? I 
 shall make a fortune. I think it very satisfactory, do 
 not you? And so, after a year of unbroken work, they 
 
 427 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 presented me with two weeks' holiday. I went first 
 to New York, and, as a relaxation from working like 
 a man, I hunted up my old dressmaker and bought 
 clothes like a woman. She wanted me to wait until 
 she came back from Europe with the autumn styles. 
 Think of the autumn styles in Newtown! I saw old 
 Simmons, too, went to the house and had a long talk 
 with the old fellow, a long, long talk. He was the 
 first creature I had met that belonged to my past life, 
 and he seemed an old friend. And I made the old 
 man stand aside so that I could shut the front door 
 myself, and I told him quite frankly why I did it. 
 That I wanted to hear the latch click as it had clicked 
 that fateful morning when I ran away; that cold, gray, 
 dismal autumn morning when I took my life into my 
 own hands, to end in pledging it to the Newtown 
 Land Company." 
 
 There was another pause, when someone sighed, a 
 sigh with a catch in it; then once more, quickly, Jane 
 took up her story: 
 
 " It is a good investment," she said, " at least — well, 
 the flies and the mosquitoes were worrying me so, and 
 it was so hot." 
 
 "When did you go to Newtown?" Creswick had 
 turned to look at Jane. " When was it? " 
 
 " In June — yes, it was June," she paused a second, 
 "June a year ago. It is very hot in Stony Ridge in 
 June, very hot." Then, in a lower voice, hesitating 
 a little, she went on: "A strange thought came to 
 me," she said, "when I made Simmons let me shut 
 the door. At each crisis of my life I have had a door 
 
 428 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 to shut, a door that seemed to separate me forever 
 from what had gone before. The first, I was a little 
 child playing in the nursery with my brother Jim and 
 — Marion — and outside it was raining. Mawm Elsie 
 was rocking the baby to sleep in a big chair that 
 creaked and groaned, and the fire burned red and 
 warm, and struck up against the ceiling. And a lion 
 was coming after us, me and Jim, and we were trying 
 so hard to reach the trundle-bed. The door opened; 
 mother came in. Her face looked so small and white, 
 I think she must have been sorry, and she took us 
 down to Cousin Henry. I shut the door, you see, 
 that was the first door. When I ran away I shut the 
 door again, and the latch clicked so clear, so loud, I 
 can hear it still. And I shut the shop door, the little 
 shop door, and the lock was rusty." She cleared her 
 throat and straightened up. "And each time," she 
 went on, " I have gone into a new life in equal blind- 
 ness, and each time it has been more irrevocable than 
 the time before." 
 
 Creswick had turned away again, had leaned for- 
 ward, resting his forearms on his knees, his hands 
 clasped together loosely, and his head drooped over 
 them. 
 
 "And now," and Jane drooped a little as if with 
 weariness, "now I seem to be peeping through the 
 key-holes of the doors, being allowed to catch little 
 glimpses of what I have left behind, what I was driven 
 away from " 
 
 Creswick turned his head slightly. " Driven away? " 
 
 " Yes, by many things; it was not all wilful flight," 
 429 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 and she sighed. "The dressmaker, you know, was a 
 part of one picture, and the talk with old Simmons. 
 Then coming here to rest gave me another glimpse 
 of the same picture ; the dancing, the music, my wear- 
 ing of fine raiment, the food " 
 
 " You have never been in need, Jane? " Creswick 
 interrupted, quickly. 
 
 " Never in need." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, when Creswick again 
 drooped his head as if gazing on the floor, then Jane 
 went on: 
 
 " And sitting here I've heard Mrs. Kennet talking, 
 talking, talking the old talk of the world I used to 
 know; giving me another view through the key-hole. 
 Tearing people to pieces, and the longer she had known 
 them, the smaller were the pieces to which she re- 
 duced them. She was talking of Mrs. Saunders — of 
 me — " Jane paused, but Creswick did not move. " She 
 gave me some new lights ; she put together some puz- 
 zles; made plain some things about, about — Simmons 
 had just hinted at." Again she stopped, but Creswick 
 did not move, did not speak. 
 
 " And this winter," Jane went on, " I shall see a pict- 
 ure I have much longed for, I shall go home. I shall 
 go back to the old nursery, shall sit in the old chair, 
 shall see the fire burn red and warm, shall hunt for 
 the lost delights of my childhood. I shall go back 
 to the time, the little time of my life when I was happy. 
 I could build a fire just like the fire I left that night; 
 I would know the trundle-beds among a million, and 
 if I could go into Paradise I could put my hand on 
 
 430 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 Jim among all the little angels. I can hear Marion's 
 cries until she got my doll and chair; I can see the 
 lion's red eyes gleaming in the corner; I can hear 
 the door-latch turn. I can feel the big emptiness of 
 Mrs. Saunders's house; I can feel my heart, my little 
 child's heart breaking day by day. I have never told 
 before, save once — once I told her that I hated her, 
 once. Now I am sorry for her; now I am free of her, 
 and the world is wide. I have been deceived; I have 
 blundered, and blunders are punished like sins ; I have 
 made mistakes, but I have learned that life must be 
 lived, and to live it to any eiifect we must live it calmly. 
 I have learned to rise above hatred; I have learned 
 not to despair." 
 
 " I hate Mrs. Saunders." Creswick's voice was very 
 quiet. " Whether she told me truth or not, I hate 
 her." 
 
 Then nothing was heard save the boom of the sea 
 that seemed to come nearer and nearer. Long ago 
 the young moon had set, the music had ceased. Up 
 and down the river the lights had gone out one by 
 one; the sounds of life were fading, and a wringing 
 wet mist was creeping up from the sea. Very still, 
 while the mist wrapped them round, drenching Jane's 
 draperies until they clung to her; beading all the rip- 
 ples of her hair; resting like tears on their cheeks. 
 At last she rose, holding out her hand. " Good-by," 
 she said, " I go in the morning." 
 
 Creswick rose. " Good-by? " he repeated. " No," 
 and he came very close to her. " No, there is one 
 more door to be closed," he went on quietly, " and 
 
 431 
 
The Making of Jane 
 
 my hand is on the latch, not yours this time, but mine. 
 I shall close the door of the Newtown Land Com- 
 pany; I shall buy it out if necessary. For a little 
 while I lost faith in you, and I went down into Hell. 
 Now, now," and he put his hands on the two sides 
 of her face and lifted it up, "Now I shall not ask you; 
 I shall close the door and take you away — you will 
 come with me, Jane? " 
 
 432