The Plattner Story and Others Read online

  THE JILTING OF JANE

  As I sit writing in my study, I can hear our Jane bumping her waydownstairs with a brush and dustpan. She used in the old days to singhymn tunes, or the British national song for the time being, to theseinstruments, but latterly she has been silent and even careful overher work. Time was when I prayed with fervour for such silence, andmy wife with sighs for such care, but now they have come we are notso glad as we might have anticipated we should be. Indeed, I wouldrejoice secretly, though it may be unmanly weakness to admit it, evento hear Jane sing "Daisy," or by the fracture of any plate but one ofEuphemia's best green ones, to learn that the period of brooding hascome to an end.

  Yet how we longed to hear the last of Jane's young man before we heardthe last of him! Jane was always very free with her conversation tomy wife, and discoursed admirably in the kitchen on a variety oftopics--so well, indeed, that I sometimes left my study door open--ourhouse is a small one--to partake of it. But after William came, it wasalways William, nothing but William; William this and William that;and when we thought William was worked out and exhausted altogether,then William all over again. The engagement lasted altogether threeyears; yet how she got introduced to William, and so became thussaturated with him, was always a secret. For my part, I believe itwas at the street corner where the Rev. Barnabas Baux used to hold anopen-air service after evensong on Sundays. Young Cupids were wont toflit like moths round the paraffin flare of that centre of High Churchhymn-singing. I fancy she stood singing hymns there, out of memory andher imagination, instead of coming home to get supper, and Williamcame up beside her and said, "Hello!" "Hello yourself!" she said; and,etiquette being satisfied, they proceeded to talk together.

  As Euphemia has a reprehensible way of letting her servants talk toher, she soon heard of him. "He is _such_ a respectable young man,ma'am," said Jane, "you don't know." Ignoring the slur cast on heracquaintance, my wife inquired further about this William.

  "He is second porter at Maynard's, the draper's," said Jane, "andgets eighteen shillings--nearly a pound--a week, m'm; and when thehead porter leaves he will be head porter. His relatives are quitesuperior people, m'm. Not labouring people at all. His father was agreengrosher, m'm, and had a chumor, and he was bankrup' twice. And oneof his sisters is in a Home for the Dying. It will be a very good matchfor me, m'm," said Jane, "me being an orphan girl."

  "Then you are engaged to him?" asked my wife.

  "Not engaged, ma'am; but he is saving money to buy a ring--hammyfist."

  "Well, Jane, when you are properly engaged to him you may ask him roundhere on Sunday afternoons, and have tea with him in the kitchen."For my Euphemia has a motherly conception of her duty towards hermaid-servants. And presently the amethystine ring was being worn aboutthe house, even with ostentation, and Jane developed a new way ofbringing in the joint, so that this gage was evident. The elder MissMaitland was aggrieved by it, and told my wife that servants ought notto wear rings. But my wife looked it up in _Enquire Within_ and _Mrs.Motherly's Book of Household Management_, and found no prohibition. SoJane remained with this happiness added to her love.

  The treasure of Jane's heart appeared to me to be what respectablepeople call a very deserving young man. "William, ma'am," said Jane oneday suddenly, with ill-concealed complacency, as she counted out thebeer bottles, "William, ma'am, is a teetotaller. Yes, m'm; and he don'tsmoke. Smoking, ma'am," said Jane, as one who reads the heart, "_do_make such a dust about. Beside the waste of money. _And_ the smell.However, I suppose it's necessary to some."

  Possibly it dawned on Jane that she was reflecting a little severelyupon Euphemia's comparative ill-fortune, and she added kindly, "I'msure the master is a hangel when his pipe's alight. Compared to othertimes."

  William was at first a rather shabby young man of the ready-made blackcoat school of costume. He had watery grey eyes, and a complexionappropriate to the brother of one in a Home for the Dying. Euphemiadid not fancy him very much, even at the beginning. His eminentrespectability was vouched for by an alpaca umbrella, from which henever allowed himself to be parted.

  "He goes to chapel," said Jane. "His papa, ma'am"--

  "His _what_, Jane?"

  "His papa, ma'am, was Church; but Mr. Maynard is a Plymouth Brother,and William thinks it Policy, ma'am, to go there too. Mr. Maynard comesand talks to him quite friendly, when they ain't busy, about using upall the ends of string, and about his soul. He takes a lot of notice,do Mr. Maynard, of William, and the way he saves string and his soul,ma'am."

  Presently we heard that the head porter at Maynard's had left, and thatWilliam was head porter at twenty-three shillings a week. "He is reallykind of over the man who drives the van," said Jane, "and him marriedwith three children." And she promised in the pride of her heart tomake interest for us with William to favour us so that we might get ourparcels of drapery from Maynard's with exceptional promptitude.

  After this promotion a rapidly increasing prosperity came upon Jane'syoung man. One day, we learned that Mr. Maynard had given William abook. "Smiles' Elp Yourself, it's called," said Jane; "but it ain'tcomic. It tells you how to get on in the world, and some what Williamread to me was _lovely_, ma'am."

  Euphemia told me of this laughing, and then she became suddenly grave."Do you know, dear," she said, "Jane said one thing I did not like. Shehad been quiet for a minute, and then she suddenly remarked, 'Williamis a lot above me, ma'am, ain't he?'"

  "I don't see anything in that," I said, though later my eyes were to beopened.

  One Sunday afternoon about that time I was sitting at mywriting-desk--possibly I was reading a good book--when a somethingwent by the window. I heard a startled exclamation behind me, andsaw Euphemia with her hands clasped together and her eyes dilated."George," she said in an awestricken whisper, "did you see?"

  Then we both spoke to one another at the same moment, slowly andsolemnly: "_A silk hat! Yellow gloves! A new umbrella!_"

  "It may be my fancy, dear," said Euphemia; "but his tie was very likeyours. I believe Jane keeps him in ties. She told me a little whileago in a way that implied volumes about the rest of your costume, 'Themaster _do_ wear pretty ties, ma'am.' And he echoes all your novelties."

  The young couple passed our window again on their way to theircustomary walk. They were arm in arm. Jane looked exquisitely proud,happy, and uncomfortable, with new white cotton gloves, and William, inthe silk hat, singularly genteel!

  That was the culmination of Jane's happiness. When she returned, "Mr.Maynard has been talking to William, ma'am," she said, "and he is toserve customers, just like the young shop gentlemen, during the nextsale. And if he gets on, he is to be made an assistant, ma'am, at thefirst opportunity. He has got to be as gentlemanly as he can, ma'am;and if he ain't, ma'am, he says it won't be for want of trying. Mr.Maynard has took a great fancy to him."

  "He _is_ getting on, Jane," said my wife.

  "Yes, ma'am," said Jane thoughtfully, "he _is_ getting on."

  And she sighed.

  That next Sunday, as I drank my tea, I interrogated my wife. "How isthis Sunday different from all other Sundays, little woman? What hashappened? Have you altered the curtains, or rearranged the furniture,or where is the indefinable difference of it? Are you wearing your hairin a new way without warning me? I clearly perceive a change in myenvironment, and I cannot for the life of me say what it is."

  Then my wife answered in her most tragic voice: "George," she said,"that--that William has not come near the place to-day! And Jane iscrying her heart out upstairs."

  There followed a period of silence. Jane, as I have said, stoppedsinging about the house, and began to care for our brittle possessions,which struck my wife as being a very sad sign indeed. The next Sunday,and the next, Jane asked to go out, "to walk with William," and mywife, who never attempts to extort confidences, gave her permission,and asked no questions. On each occasion Jane came back lookingflushed and very determined. At last one day she became communicative.

  "Will
iam is being led away," she remarked abruptly, with a catching ofthe breath, apropos of tablecloths. "Yes, m'm. She is a milliner, andshe can play on the piano."

  "I thought," said my wife, "that you went out with him on Sunday."

  "Not out with him, m'm--after him. I walked along by the side of them,and told her he was engaged to me."

  "Dear me, Jane, did you? What did they do?"

  "Took no more notice of me than if I was dirt. So I told her she shouldsuffer for it."

  "It could not have been a very agreeable walk, Jane."

  "Not for no parties, ma'am.

  "I wish," said Jane, "I could play the piano, ma'am. But anyhow, Idon't mean to let _her_ get him away from me. She's older than him, andher hair ain't gold to the roots, ma'am."

  It was on the August Bank Holiday that the crisis came. We do notclearly know the details of the fray, but only such fragments as poorJane let fall. She came home dusty, excited, and with her heart hotwithin her.

  The milliner's mother, the milliner, and William had made a party tothe Art Museum at South Kensington, I think. Anyhow, Jane had calmlybut firmly accosted them somewhere in the streets, and asserted herright to what, in spite of the consensus of literature, she held tobe her inalienable property. She did, I think, go so far as to layhands on him. They dealt with her in a crushingly superior way. They"called a cab." There was a "scene," William being pulled away into thefour-wheeler by his future wife and mother-in-law from the reluctanthands of our discarded Jane. There were threats of giving her "incharge."

  "My poor Jane!" said my wife, mincing veal as though she was mincingWilliam. "It's a shame of them. I would think no more of him. He is notworthy of you."

  "No, m'm," said Jane. "He _is_ weak."

  "But it's that woman has done it," said Jane. She was never knownto bring herself to pronounce "that woman's" name or to admit hergirlishness. "I can't think what minds some women must have--to try andget a girl's young man away from her. But there, it only hurts to talkabout it," said Jane.

  Thereafter our house rested from William. But there was something inthe manner of Jane's scrubbing the front doorstep or sweeping out therooms, a certain viciousness, that persuaded me that the story had notyet ended.

  "Please, m'm, may I go and see a wedding to-morrow?" said Jane one day.

  My wife knew by instinct whose wedding. "Do you think it is wise,Jane?" she said.

  "I would like to see the last of him," said Jane.

  "My dear," said my wife, fluttering into my room about twenty minutesafter Jane had started, "Jane has been to the boot-hole and taken allthe left-off boots and shoes, and gone off to the wedding with them ina bag. Surely she cannot mean"--

  "Jane," I said, "is developing character. Let us hope for the best."

  Jane came back with a pale, hard face. All the boots seemed to be stillin her bag, at which my wife heaved a premature sigh of relief. Weheard her go upstairs and replace the boots with considerable emphasis.

  "Quite a crowd at the wedding, ma'am," she said presently, in a purelyconversational style, sitting in our little kitchen, and scrubbing thepotatoes; "and such a lovely day for them." She proceeded to numerousother details, clearly avoiding some cardinal incident.

  "It was all extremely respectable and nice, ma'am; but _her_ fatherdidn't wear a black coat, and looked quite out of place, ma'am. Mr.Piddingquirk"--

  "_Who?_"

  "Mr. Piddingquirk--William that _was_, ma'am--had white gloves, anda coat like a clergyman, and a lovely chrysanthemum. He looked sonice, ma'am. And there was red carpet down, just like for gentlefolks.And they say he gave the clerk four shillings, ma'am. It was a realkerridge they had--not a fly. When they came out of church there wasrice-throwing, and her two little sisters dropping dead flowers. Andsomeone threw a slipper, and then I threw a boot"--

  "Threw a _boot_, Jane!"

  "Yes, ma'am. Aimed at _her_. But it hit _him_. Yes, ma'am, hard. Gevhim a black eye, I should think. I only threw that one. I hadn't theheart to try again. All the little boys cheered when it hit him."

  After an interval--"I am sorry the boot hit _him_."

  Another pause. The potatoes were being scrubbed violently. "He always_was_ a bit above me, you know, ma'am. And he was led away."

  The potatoes were more than finished. Jane rose sharply, with a sigh,and rapped the basin down on the table.

  "I don't care," she said. "I don't care a rap. He will find out hismistake yet. It serves me right. I was stuck up about him. I ought notto have looked so high. And I am glad things are as things are."

  My wife was in the kitchen, seeing to the higher cookery. After theconfession of the boot-throwing, she must have watched poor Jane fumingwith a certain dismay in those brown eyes of hers. But I imagine theysoftened again very quickly, and then Jane's must have met them.

  "Oh, ma'am," said Jane, with an astonishing change of note, "thinkof all that _might_ have been! Oh, ma'am, I _could_ have been sohappy! I ought to have known, but I didn't know.... You're very kindto let me talk to you, ma'am ... for it's hard on me, ma'am ... it'shar-r-r-r-d"--

  And I gather that Euphemia so far forgot herself as to let Jane sobout some of the fulness of her heart on a sympathetic shoulder. MyEuphemia, thank Heaven, has never properly grasped the importance of"keeping up her position." And since that fit of weeping, much of theaccent of bitterness has gone out of Jane's scrubbing and brush work.

  Indeed, something passed the other day with the butcher-boy--but thatscarcely belongs to this story. However, Jane is young still, and timeand change are at work with her. We all have our sorrows, but I do notbelieve very much in the existence of sorrows that never heal.