The Country of the Blind and Other Stories Read online

  I.

  THE JILTING OF JANE.

  As I sit writing in my study, I can hear our Jane bumping her waydownstairs with a brush and dust-pan. 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 over herwork. Time was when I prayed with fervour for such silence, and my wifewith sighs for such care, but now they have come we are not so glad as wemight have anticipated we should be. Indeed, I would rejoice secretly,though it may be unmanly weakness to admit it, even to hear Jane sing"Daisy," or, by the fracture of any plate but one of Euphemia's best greenones, to learn that the period of brooding has come to an end.

  Yet how we longed to hear the last of Jane's young man before we heard thelast of him! Jane was always very free with her conversation to my wife,and discoursed admirably in the kitchen on a variety of topics--so well,indeed, that I sometimes left my study door open--our house is a smallone--to partake of it. But after William came, it was always William,nothing but William; William this and William that; and when we thoughtWilliam was worked out and exhausted altogether, then William all overagain. The engagement lasted altogether three years; yet how she gotintroduced to William, and so became thus saturated with him, was always asecret. For my part, I believe it was at the street corner where the Rev.Barnabas Baux used to hold an open-air service after evensong on Sundays.Young Cupids were wont to flit like moths round the paraffin flare of thatcentre of High Church hymn-singing. I fancy she stood singing hymns there,out of memory and her imagination, instead of coming home to get supper,and William came up beside her and said, "Hello!" "Hello yourself!" shesaid; and etiquette being satisfied, they proceeded to talk together.

  As Euphemia has a reprehensible way of letting her servants talk to her,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 her acquaintance,my wife inquired further about this William.

  "He is second porter at Maynard's, the draper's," said Jane, "and getseighteen shillings--nearly a pound--a week, m'm; and when the head porterleaves he will be head porter. His relatives are quite superior people,m'm. Not labouring people at all. His father was a greengrosher, m'm, andhad a churnor, and he was bankrup' twice. And one of his sisters is in aHome for the Dying. It will be a very good match for 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 myEuphemia has a motherly conception of her duty towards her maid-servants.And presently the amethystine ring was being worn about the house, evenwith ostentation, and Jane developed a new way of bringing in the joint sothat this gage was evident. The elder Miss Maitland was aggrieved by it,and told my wife that servants ought not to wear rings. But my wife lookedit up in _Enquire Within_ and _Mrs. Motherly's Book of HouseholdManagement_, and found no prohibition. So Jane remained with thishappiness added to her love.

  The treasure of Jane's heart appeared to me to be what respectable peoplecall a very deserving young man. "William, ma'am," said Jane one daysuddenly, with ill-concealed complacency, as she counted out the beerbottles, "William, ma'am, is a teetotaller. Yes, m'm; and he don't smoke.Smoking, ma'am," said Jane, as one who reads the heart, "_do_ makesuch a dust about. Beside the waste of money. _And_ the smell.However, I suppose they got to do it--some of them..."

  William was at first a rather shabby young man of the ready-made blackcoat school of costume. He had watery gray eyes, and a complexionappropriate to the brother of one in a Home for the Dying. Euphemia didnot fancy him very much, even at the beginning. His eminent respectabilitywas vouched for by an alpaca umbrella, from which he never allowed himselfto 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, andWilliam thinks it Policy, ma'am, to go there too. Mr. Maynard comes andtalks to him quite friendly when they ain't busy, about using up all theends of string, and about his soul. He takes a lot of notice, do Mr.Maynard, of William, and the way he saves 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 married,with three children." And she promised in the pride of her heart to makeinterest for us with William to favour us so that we might get our parcelsof 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 a book."'Smiles' 'Elp Yourself,' it's called," said Jane; "but it ain't comic. Ittells you how to get on in the world, and some what William read 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, 'William is alot 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 my writing-desk--possibly I was reading a good book--when a something went by the window. Iheard a startled exclamation behind me, and saw Euphemia with her handsclasped together and her eyes dilated. "George," she said in anawe-stricken whisper, "did you see?"

  Then we both spoke to one another at the same moment, slowly and solemnly:"_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 while ago,in a way that implied volumes about the rest of your costume, 'The master_do_ wear pretty ties, ma'am.' And he echoes all your novelties."

  The young couple passed our window again on their way to their customarywalk. They were arm in arm. Jane looked exquisitely proud, happy, anduncomfortable, with new white cotton gloves, and William, in the 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 to servecustomers, just like the young shop gentlemen, during the next sale. Andif he gets on, he is to be made an assistant, ma'am, at the firstopportunity. He has got to be as gentlemanly as he can, ma'am; and if heain't, ma'am, he says it won't be for want of trying. Mr. Maynard has tooka 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 is thisSunday different from all other Sundays, little woman? What has happened?Have you altered the curtains, or re-arranged the furniture, or where isthe indefinable difference of it? Are you wearing your hair in a new waywithout warning me? I perceive a change clearly, and I cannot for the lifeof me say what it is."

  Then my wife answered in her most tragic voice, "George," she said, "thatWilliam has not come near the place to-day! And Jane is crying her heartout upstairs."

  There followed a period of silence. Jane, as I have said, stopped singingabout the house, and began to care for our brittle possessions, whichstruck my wife as being a very sad sign indeed. The next Sunday, and thenext, Jane asked to go out, "to walk with William," and my wife, who neverattempts to extort confidences, gave her permission, and asked noquestions. On each occasion Jane came back looking flushed and verydetermined. At last one day she became communicative.

  "William is being led away," she remarked abruptly, with a catching of thebreath, apropos of tablecloths. "Yes, m'm. She is a milliner, and she canplay 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, andtold 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, I don'tmean to let _her_ get him away from me. She's older than him, and herhair ain't gold to the roots, ma'am."

  It was on the August Bank Holiday that the crisis came. We do not clearlyknow the details of the fray, but only such fragments as poor Jane letfall. She came home dusty, excited, and with her heart hot within her.

  The milliner's mother, the milliner, and William had made a party to theArt Museum at South Kensington, I think. Anyhow, Jane had calmly butfirmly accosted them somewhere in the streets, and asserted her right towhat, in spite of the consensus of literature, she held to be herinalienable property. She did, I think, go so far as to lay hands on him.They dealt with her in a crushingly superior way. They "called a cab."There was a "scene," William being pulled away into the four-wheeler byhis future wife and mother-in-law from the reluctant hands of ourdiscarded Jane. There were threats of giving her "in charge."

  "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 known to bringherself to pronounce "that woman's" name or to admit her girlishness. "Ican't think what minds some women must have--to try and get a girl's youngman away from her. But there, it only hurts to talk about it," said Jane.

  Thereafter our house rested from William. But there was something in themanner of Jane's scrubbing the front doorstep or sweeping out the rooms, acertain viciousness, that persuaded me that the story had not yet ended.

  "Please, m'm, may I go and see a wedding tomorrow?" 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 all theleft-off boots and shoes, and gone off to the wedding with them in a 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 still inher bag, at which my wife heaved a premature sigh of relief. We heard hergo 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, and a coatlike a clergyman, and a lovely chrysanthemum. He looked so nice, ma'am.And there was red carpet down, just like for gentlefolks. And they say hegave the clerk four shillings, ma'am. It was a real kerridge they had--nota fly. When they came out of church there was rice-throwing, and her twolittle sisters dropping dead flowers. And someone threw a slipper, andthen 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 the heartto 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, andrapped 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 not tohave 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, "think of allthat _might_ have been! Oh, ma'am, I _could_ have been so happy!I ought to have known, but I didn't know...You're very kind to let me talkto you, ma'am...for it's hard on me, ma'am...it's har-r-r-r-d--"

  And I gather that Euphemia so far forgot herself as to let Jane sob outsome of the fullness of her heart on a sympathetic shoulder. My Euphemia,thank Heaven, has never properly grasped the importance of "keeping up herposition." And since that fit of weeping, much of the accent of bitternesshas 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 time andchange are at work with her. We all have our sorrows, but I do not believevery much in the existence of sorrows that never heal.