Jan and Her Job

CHAPTER XXII
THE ENCAMPMENT

IT was the morning of the first Monday in June, and Tony had wandered out into the garden all by himself. Monday mornings were very busy, and once Clipture was over Jan and Meg became socially useless to any self-respecting boy.

There was all the washing to sort and divide into two large heaps: what might be sent to Mrs. Chitt in the village, and what might be kept for the ministrations of one Mrs. Mumford, who came every Monday to Wren's End. And this division was never arrived at without a good deal of argument between Jan and Meg.

If Jan had had her way, Mrs. Mumford's heap would have been very small indeed, and would have consisted chiefly of socks and handkerchiefs. If Meg had had hers, nothing at all would have gone to Mrs. Chitt. Usually, too, Hannah was called in as final arbitrator, and she generally sided with Meg. Little Fay took the greatest interest in the whole ceremony, chattered continually, and industriously mixed up the heaps when no one was looking.

At such times Tony was of the opinion that there were far too many women in the world. On this particular morning, too, he felt injured because of something that had happened at breakfast.

It was always a joy to Meg and Jan that whatever poor Fay might have left undone in the matter of disciplining her children, she had at least taught them to eat nicely. Little Fay's management of a spoon was a joy to watch. The dimpled baby hand was so deft, the turn of the plump wrist so sure and purposeful. She never spilled or slopped her food about. Its journey from bowl to little red mouth was calculated and assured. Both children had a horror of anything sticky, and would refuse jam unless it was "well covelled in a sangwidge."

That very morning Jan and Meg exchanged congratulatory glances over their well-behaved charges, sitting side by side.

Then, all at once, with a swift, sure movement, little Fay stretched up and deposited a spoonful of exceedingly hot porridge exactly on the top of her brother's head, with a smart tap.

Tony's hair was always short, and had been cut on Saturday, and the hot mixture ran down into his eyes, which filled him with rage.

He tried to get out of his high chair, exclaiming angrily, "Let me get at her to box her!"

Jan held him down with one hand while she wiped away the offending mess with the other, and all the time Tony cried in crescendo, "Let me get at her!"

Little Fay, quite unmoved, continued to eat her porridge with studied elegance, and in gently reproachful tones remarked, "Tony velly closs littoo boy."

Jan and Meg, who wanted desperately to laugh, tried hard to look shocked, and Meg asked, "What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?"

"Tony's head so shiny and smoove."

Tony rubbed the shiny head ruefully.

"Can't I do nuffin to her?" he demanded.

"No," his sister answered firmly, "loo can't, 'cos I'm plitty littoo Fay."

"Can't I plop some on her head?" he persisted.

"It certainly seems unfair," Jan said thoughtfully, "but I think you'd better not."

"It is unfair," Tony grumbled.

Jan loosed his hands. "Now," she said, "you can do what you like."

Little Fay leaned towards her brother, smiling her irresistible, dimpled, twinkling smile, and held out a spoonful of her porridge.

"Deah littoo Tony," she cooed, "taste it."

And Tony meekly accepted the peace-offering.

"You haven't smacked her," Jan remarked.

Tony sighed. "It's too late now—I don't feel like it any more."

All the same he felt aggrieved as he set out to seek Earley in the kitchen garden.

Earley was not to be found. He saw Mrs. Mumford already hanging kitchen cloths on a line in the orchard, but he felt no desire for Mrs. Mumford's society.

Tony's tormented soul sought for something soothing.

The garden was pleasant, but it wasn't enough.

Ah! he'd got it!

He'd go to the river; all by himself he'd go, and not tell anybody. He'd look over the bridge into that cool deep pool and perhaps that big fat trout would be swimming about. What was it he had heard Captain Middleton say last time he was down at Amber Guiting? "The Mayfly was up."

He had seemed quite delighted about it, therefore it must mean something pleasant.

After all, on a soft, not too sunny morning in early June, with a west wind rustling the leaves in the hedges, the world was not such a bad place; for even if there were rather too many women in it, there were dogs and rivers and country roads where adventurous boys could see life for themselves.

William agreed with Tony in his dislike of Monday mornings. He went and lay on the front door mat so that he was more than ready to accompany anyone who happened to be going out.

By the time they reached the bridge all sense of injury had vanished, and buoyant expectation had taken its place.

Three men were fishing. One was far in the distance, one about three hundred yards up stream, and one Tony recognised as Mr. Dauncey, landlord of "The Full Basket," the square white house standing in its neat garden just on the other side of the bridge. The fourth gentleman, who had forgotten his hat, and was clad in a holland smock, sandals, and no stockings, leaned over luxuriously, with his elbows on the low wall and his bare legs thrust out. He was very still, even trying not to twitch when William licked his bare legs, as he did at intervals just to show he was there on guard.

There had been heavy rain in the night and the water was discoloured. Nobody noticed Tony, and for about an hour nothing happened. Then Mr. Dauncey got a rise. The rigid little figure on the bridge leaned further over as Mr. Dauncey's reel screamed and he followed his cast down stream.

Presently, with a sense of irritation, Tony was aware of footsteps coming over the bridge. He felt that he simply could not bear it just then if anyone leaned over beside him and talked. The footsteps came up behind him and passed; and William, who was lying between Tony's legs and the wall, squeezed as close to him as possible, gave a low growl.

"Hush, William, naughty dog!" Tony whispered crossly.

William hushed, and drooped as he always did when rebuked.

It occurred to Tony to look after this amazing person who could cross a bridge without stopping to look over when a reel was joyfully proclaiming that some fisherman was having luck.

It was a man, and he walked as though he were footsore and tired. There was something dejected and shabby in his appearance, and his clothes looked odd somehow in Amber Guiting. Tony stared after the stranger, and gradually he realised that there was something familiar in the back of the tall figure that walked so slowly and yet seemed trying to walk fast.

The man had a stick and evidently leant upon it as he went. He wore an overcoat and carried nothing in his hand.

Mr. Dauncey's reel chuckled and one of the other anglers ran towards him with a landing-net.

But Tony still stared after the man. Presently, with a deep sigh, he started to follow him.

Just once he turned, in time to see that Mr. Dauncey had landed his trout.

The sun came out from behind the clouds. "The Full Basket," the river, brown and rippled, the bridge, the two men talking eagerly on the bank below, the muddy road growing cream-coloured in patches as it dried, were all photographed upon Tony's mind. When he started to follow the stranger he was out of sight, but now Tony trotted steadily forward and did not look round again.

William was glad. He had been lying in a puddle, and, like little Fay, he preferred "a dly place."

Meanwhile, at Wren's End the washing had taken a long time to count and to divide. There seemed a positively endless number of little smocks and frocks and petticoats and pinafores, and Meg wanted to keep them all for Mrs. Mumford to wash, declaring that she (Meg) could starch and iron them beautifully. This was quite true. She could iron very well, as she did everything she undertook to do. But Jan knew that it tired her dreadfully, that the heat and the wielding of the heavy iron were very bad for her, and after much argument and many insulting remarks from Meg as to Jan's obstinacy and extravagance generally, the things were divided. Meg put on little Fay's hat and swept her out into the garden; whereupon Jan plunged into Mrs. Mumford's heap, removed all the things to be ironed that could not be tackled by Anne Chitt, stuffed them into Mrs. Chitt's basket, fastened it firmly and rang for Anne and Hannah to carry the things away.

She washed her hands and put on her gardening gloves preparatory to going out, humming a gay little snatch of song; and as she ran down the wide staircase she heard the bell ring, and saw the figure of a man standing in the open doorway.

The maids were carrying the linen down the back stairs, and she went across the hall to see what he wanted.

"Well, Jan," he said, and his voice sounded weak and tired. "Here I am at last."

He held out his hand, and as she took it she felt how hot and dry it was.

"Come in, Hugo," she said quietly. "Why didn't you let me know you were coming, and I'd have met you."

The man followed her as she led the way into the cool, fragrant drawing-room. He paused in the doorway and passed his hand across his eyes. "It does bring it all back," he said.

He sat down in a deep chair and leaned his head against the back, closing his eyes. Jan saw that he was thin to emaciation, and that he looked very ill; shabby, too, and broken.

The instinct of the nurse that exists in any woman worth her salt was roused in Jan. All the passionate indignation she had felt against her brother-in-law was merged at the moment in pity and anxiety.

"Hugo," she said gently, "I fear you are ill. Have you had any breakfast?"

"I came by the early train to avoid ordering breakfast; I couldn't have paid for it. I'd only enough for my fare. Jan, I haven't a single rupee left."

He sat forward in the chair with his hands on the arms and closed his eyes again.

Jan looked keenly at the handsome, haggard face. There was no pretence here. The man was gravely ill. His lips (Jan had always mistrusted his well-shaped mouth because it would never really shut) were dry and cracked and discoloured, the cheekbones sharp, and there was that deep hollow at the back of the neck that always betrays the man in ill-health.

She went to him and pressed him back in the chair.

"What do you generally do when you have fever?" she asked.

"Go to bed—if there is a bed; and take quinine and drink hot tea."

"That's what you'd better do now. Where are your things?"

"There's a small bag at the station. They promised to send it up. I couldn't carry it and I had no money to pay a boy. I came the long way round, Jan, not through the village. No one recognised me."

"I'll get you some tea at once, and I have quinine in the house. Will you take some now?"

Hugo laughed. "Your quinine would be of no earthly use to me, but I've already taken it this morning. I've got some here in my pocket. The minute my bag comes I'll go to bed—if you don't mind."

Someone fumbled at the handle of the door, and Tony, followed by William, appeared on the threshold.

Hugo Tancred opened his eyes. "Hullo!" he said. "Do you remember me, young shaver?"

Tony came into the room holding out his hand. "How do you do?" he said solemnly.

Hugo took it and stared at his son with strange glazed eyes. "You look fit enough, anyhow," he said, and dropped the little hand.

"I came as quick as I could," Tony said eagerly to Jan. "But Mr. Dauncey caught a trout, and I had to wait a minute."

"Good heavens!" Hugo exclaimed irritably. "Do you all still think and talk about nothing but fishing?"

"Come," said Jan, holding out her hand to Tony, "and we'll go and see about some breakfast for Daddie."

William, who had been sniffing dubiously at the man in the chair, dashed after them.

As they crossed the hall Tony remarked philosophically: "Daddie's got fever. He'll be very cross, then he'll be very sad, and then he'll want you to give him something, and if you do—p'raps he'll go away."

Jan made no answer.

Tony followed her through the swing door and down the passage to speak to Hannah, who was much moved and excited when she heard Mr. Tancred had arrived. Hannah was full of sympathy for the "poor young widower," and though she could have wished that he had given them notice of his coming, still, she supposed him to be so distracted with grief that he forgot to do anything of the kind. She and Anne Chitt went there and then to make up his bed, while Jan boiled the kettle and got him some breakfast.

While she was doing this Meg and little Fay came round to the back to look for Tony, whom they found making toast.

"Who's tum?" asked little Fay, while Jan rapidly explained the situation to Meg.

"Your Daddie's come."

Little Fay looked rather vague. "What sort of a Daddie?" she asked.

"You take her to see him, Tony, and I'll finish the toast," said Jan, taking the fork out of his hand.

When the children had gone Meg said slowly: "And Mr. Ledgard comes to-morrow?"

"He can't. I must telegraph and put him off for a day or two. Hugo is really ill."

"I shouldn't put him off long, if I were you."

Jan seized the tray: "I'll send a wire now, if you and the children will take it down to the post-office for me."

"Why send it at all?" said Meg. "Let him come."

CHAPTER XXIII
TACTICS

IT was a fortnight since Hugo Tancred arrived at Wren's End, and Jan had twice put off Peter's visit.

During the first few days Hugo's temperature remained so high that she grew thoroughly alarmed; and in spite of his protestations that he was "quite used to it," she sent for the doctor. Happily the doctor in his youth had been in the East and was able to reassure her. His opinion, too, had more weight with Hugo on this account, and though he grumbled he consented to do what the doctor advised. And at the end of a week Hugo was able to come downstairs, looking very white and shaky. He lay out in the garden in a deck-chair for most of the day and managed to eat a good many of the nourishing dishes Hannah prepared for him.

It had been a hard time for Jan, as Hugo was not an invalid who excited compassion in those who had to wait upon him. He took everything for granted, was somewhat morose and exacting, and made no attempt to control the extreme irritability that so often accompanies fever.

When the fever left him, however, his tone changed, and the second stage, indicated by Tony as "sad," set in with severity.

His depression was positively overwhelming, and he seemed to think that its public manifestation should arouse in all beholders the most poignant and respectful sympathy.

Poor Jan found it very difficult to behave in a manner at all calculated to satisfy her brother-in-law. She had not, so far, uttered one word of reproach to him, but she would shrink visibly when he tried to discuss his wife, and she could not even pretend to believe in the deep sincerity of a grief that seemed to find such facile solace in expression. The mode of expression, too, in hackneyed, commonplace phrases, set her teeth on edge.

She knew that poor Hugo—she called him "poor Hugo" just then—thought her cold and unsympathetic because she rather discouraged his outpourings; but Fay's death was too lately-lived a tragedy to make it possible for her to talk of it—above all, with him; and after several abortive attempts Hugo gave up all direct endeavour to make her.

"You are terribly Scotch, Jan," he said one day. "I sometimes wonder whether anything could make you really feel."

Jan looked at him with a sort of contemptuous wonder that caused him to redden angrily, but she made no reply.

He was her guest, he was a broken man, and she knew well that they had not yet even approached their real difference.

Two people, however, took Hugo's attitude of profound dejection in the way he expected and liked it to be taken. These were Mr. Withells and Hannah.

Mr. Withells did not bear Jan a grudge because of her momentary lapse from good manners. In less than a week from the unfortunate interview in the nut-walk he had decided that she could not properly have understood him; and that he had, perhaps, sprung upon her too suddenly the high honour he held in store for her.

So back he came in his neat little two-seater car to call at Wren's End as if nothing had happened, and Jan, guiltily conscious that she had been very rude, was only too thankful to accept the olive-branch in the spirit in which it was offered.

He took to coming almost as often as before, and was thoroughly interested and commiserating when he heard that poor Mrs. Tancred's husband had come home from India and been taken ill almost immediately on arrival. He sent some early strawberries grown in barrels in the houses, and with them a note conjuring Jan "on no account to leave them in the sickroom overnight, as the smell of fruit was so deleterious."

Hannah considered Hugo's impenetrable gloom a most proper and husbandly tribute to the departed. She felt that had there been a Mr. Hannah she could not have wished him to show more proper feeling had Providence thought fit to snatch her from his side. So she expressed her admiration in the strongest of soups, the smoothest of custards, and the most succulent of mutton-chops. Gladly would she have commanded Mrs. Earley to slay her fattest cockerels for the nourishment of "yon poor heartbroken young man," but that she remembered (from her experience of Fay's only visit) that no one just home from India will give a thank-you for chickens.

Jan had cause to bless kind Mr. Withells, for directly Hugo was able for it, he came with his largest and most comfortable car, driven by his trustworthy chauffeur, to take the invalid for a run right into Wiltshire. He pressed Jan to go too, but she pleaded "things to see to" at home.

Hugo had seen practically nothing of Meg. She was fully occupied in keeping the children out of their father's way. Little Fay "pooah daddied" him when they happened to meet, and Tony stared at him in the weighing, measuring way Hugo found so trying, but Meg neither looked at him nor did she address any remark whatever to him unless she positively could not help it.

Meg was thoroughly provoked that he should have chosen to turn up just then. She had been most anxious that Peter should come. Firstly, because, being sharply observant, she had come to the conclusion that his visit would be a real pleasure to Jan, and secondly, because she ardently desired to see him herself that she might judge whether he was "at all good enough."

And now her well-loved Jan, instead of looking her best, was growing thin and haggard, losing her colour, and her sweet serenity, and in their place a patient, tired expression in her eyes that went to Meg's heart.

She had hardly seen Jan alone for over a week; for since Hugo came downstairs Meg had taken all her meals with the children in the nursery, while Jan and Hugo had theirs in the rarely-used dining-room. The girls breakfasted together, as Hugo had his in his room, but as the children were always present there was small chance of any confidential conversation.

The first afternoon Mr. Withells took Hugo for a drive, Meg left her children in Earley's care the minute she heard the car depart, and went to look for Jan in the house.

She found her opening all the windows in the dining-room. Meg shut the door and sat on the polished table, lit a cigarette and regarded her own pretty swinging feet with interest.

"How long does Mr. Tancred propose to stay?" she asked.

"How can I tell," Jan answered wearily, as she sat down in one of the deep window-seats. "He has nowhere to go and no money to go with; and, so far, except for a vague allusion to some tea-plantation in Ceylon, he has suggested no plans. Oh, yes! I forgot, there was something about fruit-farming or vine-growing in California, but I fancy considerable capital would be needed for that."

"And how much longer do you intend to keep Mr. Ledgard waiting for his visit?"

"It would be small pleasure for Mr. Ledgard to come here with Hugo, and horrid for Hugo, for he knows perfectly well what Peter ... Mr. Ledgard thinks of him."

"But if friend Hugo knew Mr. Ledgard was coming, might it not have an accelerating effect upon his movements? You could give him his fare—single, mind—to Guernsey. Let him go and stay with his people for a bit."

Jan shook her head. "I can't turn him out, Meg; and I'm not going to let Mr. Ledgard waste his precious leave on an unpleasant visit. If I could give him a good time it would be different; but after all he did for us while we were in Bombay, it would be rank ingratitude to let him in for more worries at home."

"Perhaps he wouldn't consider them worries. Perhaps he'd like to come."

Jan's strained expression relaxed a little and she smiled with her eyes fixed on Meg's neat swinging feet. "He says he would."

"Well, then, take him at his word. We can turn the excellent Withells on to Hugo. Let him instruct Hugo in the importance of daily free gymnastics after one's bath and the necessity for windows being left open at the top 'day and night, but especially at night.' Let's tell that Peter man to come."

Jan shook her head.

"No, I've explained the situation to him and begged him not to consider us any more for the present. We must think of the maids too. You see, Hugo makes a good deal of extra work, and I'm afraid Hannah might turn grumpy if there was yet another man to do for."

Meg thoughtfully blew beautiful rings of smoke, carefully poked a small finger exactly into the centre of each and continued to swing her feet in silence.

Jan leaned her head against the casement and closed her eyes.

Without so much as a rustle Meg descended from the table. She went over to Jan and dropped a light kiss on the top of the thick wavy hair that was so nearly white. Jan opened her tired eyes and smiled.

This quaint person in the green linen frock and big white apron always looked so restfully neat and clean, so capable and strong with that inward shining strength that burns with a steady light. Jan put her arms round Meg and leaned her head against the admirable apron's cool, smooth bib.

"You're here, anyway," she said. "You don't know how I thank God for that."

Meg held her close. "Listen to me," she said. "You're going on quite a wrong tack with that brother-in-law. You are, Jan—I grieve to say it—standing between him and his children—you don't allow him to see his children, especially his adored daughter, nearly enough. Now that he is well enough to take the air with Mr. Withells I propose that we allow him to study his children—and how can he study them if they are never left with him? Let him realise what it would be if he had them with him constantly, and no interfering aunt to keep them in order—do you understand, Jan? Have you tumbled to it? You are losing a perfectly magnificent opportunity."

Jan pushed Meg a little away from her and looked up: "I believe there's a good deal in what you say."

"There's everything in what I say. As long as the man was ill one couldn't, of course, but now we can and will—eh, Jan?"

"Not Tony," Jan said nervously. "Hugo doesn't care much for Tony, and I'm always afraid what he may say or do to the child."

"If you let him have them both occasionally he may discover that Tony has his points."

"They're both perfect darlings," Jan said resentfully. Meg laughed and danced a two-step to the door.

"They're darlings that need a good deal of diplomatic managing, and if they don't get it they'll raise Cain. I'm going to take them down to the post-office directly with my Indian letters. Why not come with us for the walk?"

Hugo quite enjoyed his run with Mr. Withells and Mr. Withells enjoyed being consulted about Hugo's plans. He felt real sympathy for a young man whose health, ruined by one bad station after another, had forced him to give up his career in India. He suggested various ameliorating treatments to Hugo, who received his advice with respectful gratitude, and they arranged to drive again together on Saturday, which was next day but one.

Hugo sought the sofa in the drawing-room for a quiet hour before dinner and lit a cigar. He had hardly realised his pleasantly tired and rather somnolent condition when his daughter entered carrying a large Teddy-bear, two dolls, a toy trumpet and a box containing a wooden tea-set. She dropped several of these articles just inside the door. "Come and help me pick up my sings," she commanded. "I've come to play wis loo, Daddie."

Hugo did not move. He was fond of little Fay; he admired her good looks and her splendid health, but he didn't in the least desire her society just then.

"Poor Daddie's tired," he said in his "saddest" tone. "I think you'd better go and play in the nursery with Tony."

"No," said little Fay, "Tony's not zere; loo mus' play wis me. Or"—she added as a happy alternative—"loo can tell me sumfin instastin."

"Surely," said Hugo, "it's your bed-time?"

"No," little Fay answered, and the letters were never formed that could express the finality of that "no," "Med will fesh me when it's time. I've come to play wis loo. Det up, Daddie; loo can't play p'oply lying zere."

"Oh, yes, I can," Hugo protested eagerly. "You bring all your nice toys one by one and show them to me."

"'At," she remarked with great scorn, "would be a velly stupid game. Det up!"

"Why can't Meg play with you?" Hugo asked irritably. "What's she doing?"

Little Fay stared at her father. She was unaccustomed to be addressed in that tone, and she resented it. Earley and Mr. Burgess were her humble slaves. Captain Middleton did as he was told and became an elephant, a camel, or a polar bear on the shortest notice, moreover he threw himself into the part with real goodwill and enjoyment. The lazy man lying there on the sofa, who showed no flattering pleasure in her society, must be roused to a sense of his shortcomings. She seized the Teddy-bear, swung it round her head and brought it down with a resounding thump on Hugo's chest. "Det up," she said more loudly. "Loo don't seem to know any stolies, so you mus' play wis me."

Hugo swung his legs off the sofa and sat up to recover his breath, which had been knocked out of him by the Teddy-bear.

"You're a very rude little girl," he said crossly. "You'll have to be punished if you do that sort of thing."

"What sort of sing?"

"What you did just now; it's very naughty indeed."

"What nelse?"

Little Fay stood with her head on one side like an inquisitive sparrow. One of the things she had not dropped was the tin trumpet. She raised it to her lips now, and blew a blast that went through Hugo's head like a knife.

He snatched it from her. "You're not to do that," he said. "I can't stand it. Go and pick up those other things and show them to me."

"Loo can see zem from here."

"Not what's in the box," he suggested diplomatically.

"I'm tah'ed too," she said, suddenly sitting down on the floor. "You fesh 'em."

"Will you play with them if I do?"

She shook her head. "Not if loo're closs, and lude and naughty and ... stupid."

Hugo groaned and stalked over to collect the two dolls and the tea-things. He brought them back and put them down on one end of the sofa while he sat down at the other.

"Now," he said, "show me how you play with them."

His cigar had gone out and he struck a match to light it again. Little Fay scrambled to her feet and blew it out before he had touched his cigar with it.

"Adain," she said joyously. "Make anozer light."

He struck another match, but sheltered it with his hand till he'd got his cigar going, his daughter blowing vigorously all the time.

"Now," she said, "you can be a nengine and I'll be the tlain."

Round that drawing-room the unfortunate Hugo ran, encouraged in his efforts by blasts upon the trumpet. The chairs were arranged as carriages, the dolls as passengers, and the box of tea-things was luggage. None of these transformations were suggested by Hugo, but little Fay had played the game so often under Meg's brilliant supervision that she knew all the properties by heart.

At the end of fifteen minutes Hugo was thoroughly exhausted and audibly thanked God when Meg appeared to fetch her charge. But he hadn't finished even then, for little Fay, aided and abetted by Meg, insisted that every single thing should be tidily put back exactly where it was before.

At the door, just as they were on the point of departure, Meg paused. "You must enjoy having her all to yourself for a little while," she said in honeyed, sympathetic tones such as Hugo, certainly, had never heard from her before. "I fear we've been rather selfish about it, but for the future we must not forget that you have the first right to her.... Did you kiss your dear Daddie, my darling?"

Through the shut door Hugo heard his daughter's voice proclaiming in lofty, pitying tones, "Pooah Daddie velly stupid man, he was a velly bad nengine, he did it all long."

"Damn!" said Hugo Tancred.

During dinner that night Jan talked continually about the children. She consulted Hugo as to things in which he took not the smallest interest, such as what primers he considered the best for earliest instruction in reading, and whether he thought the Montessori method advantageous or not.

As they sat over dessert he volunteered the remark that little Fay was rather an exhausting child.

"All children are," Jan answered, "and I've just been thinking that while you are here to help me, it would be such a good chance to give Meg a little holiday. She has not had a day off since I came back from India, and it would be so nice for her to go to Cheltenham for a few days to see Major Morton."

"But surely," Hugo said uneasily, "that's what she's here for, to look after the children. She's very highly paid; you could get a good nurse for half what you pay her."

"I doubt it, and you must remember that, because she loved Fay, she is accepting less than half of what she could earn elsewhere to help me with Fay's children."

"Of course, if you import sentiment into the matter you must pay for it."

"But I fear that's just what I don't do."

"My dear Jan, you must forgive me if I venture to think that both you and your father, and even Fay, were quite absurd about Meg Morton. She's a nice enough little girl, but nothing so very wonderful, and as for her needing a holiday after a couple of months of the very soft job she has with you ... that's sheer nonsense."

There was silence for a minute. Hugo took another chocolate and said, "You know I don't believe in having children all over the place. The nursery is the proper place for them when they're little, and school is the proper place—most certainly the proper place, anyway, for a boy—as soon as ever any school can be found to take him."

"I quite agree with you as to the benefit of a good school," Jan said sweetly. "I am painfully conscious myself of how much I lost in never having had any regular education. Have you thought yet what preparatory school you'd prefer for Tony?"

"Hardly yet. I've not been home long enough, and, as you know, at present, I've no money at all...."

"I shall be most pleased to help with Tony's education, but in that case I should expect to have some voice in the school selected."

"Certainly, certainly," Hugo agreed. "But what I really want to know is what you propose to do to help me to attain a position in which I can educate my children as we both should wish."

"I don't quite see where I come in."

"My dear Jan, that's absurd. You have money—and a few hundreds now will start me again...."

"Start you again in what direction?"

"That's what we've got to thresh out. I've several propositions to lay before you."

"All propositions will have to be submitted to Mr. Davidson."

"That's nonsense. You must remember that I could contest Fay's will if I liked—it was grossly unfair to leave that two thousand pounds away from me."

"She left it to her children, Hugo, and you must remember you spent eight thousand pounds of her money."

"I didn't spend it. Do you think I benefited? The investments were unfortunate, I grant you, but that's not to say I had it."

"Anyway that money is gone."

"And the sooner I set about making some more to replace it the better, but I must have help."

"It takes every penny of my income to run things here."

"Well, you know, Jan, to be quite candid, I think it's rather ridiculous of you to live here. You could let this place easily and for a good rent. In a smaller house you'd be equally comfortable and in easier circumstances. I'm not at all sure I approve of my children being brought up with the false ideas they will inevitably acquire if they continue to live in a big place like this."

"You see, Hugo, it happens to be my house, and I'm fond of it."

"No doubt, but if you make a fetish of the house, if the house stands in the way of your helping your own flesh and blood...."

"I don't think I've ever refused to help my own relations."

"Which means, I suppose, that your sister's husband is nothing to you."

Jan rose. "You are rather unjust, I think," she said quietly. "I must put the children first."

"And suppose you marry——"

"I certainly wouldn't marry any man who would object to my doing all I could for my sister's children."

"You think so now, but wait till a man comes along. You're just getting to the age, Jan, when a woman is most apt to make a fool of herself over a man. And, remember this, I'd much rather my children were brought up simply with my people in Guernsey than that they should grow up with all sorts of false ideas with nothing to back them."

Jan clenched her teeth, and though outwardly she was silent, her soul was repeating, "I will not fear," over and over again.

"Perhaps you are right, Hugo," she said quietly. "You must arrange as you think best; only please remember that you can hardly expect me to contribute to the keeping of the children if I am allowed no voice in their upbringing. Have you consulted your parents as to their living with them in Guernsey? Shall we go out? It's such a beautiful evening."

Hugo followed her into the hall and out into the garden. Involuntarily he looked after her with considerable admiration. She held herself well, that quiet woman. She waited for him in the drive, and as she did so Tony's words came back to her: "I used to feel frightened inside, but I wouldn't let him know it, and then—it was funny—but quite sunnly I wasn't frightened any more. You try it."

Jan had tried it, and, again to quote Tony, "it just happened."

CHAPTER XXIV
"THE WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID"

PETER began to feel annoyed. More and more clearly did he realise that his chief object in coming home was to see Jan again; and here was he, still in London in the third week of June, and never so much as a glimpse of her.

Her last letter, too, had postponed his visit indefinitely, and he almost thought she was not treating him quite fairly. It was, of course, a confounded bore that Hugo Tancred should have turned up just now, but Peter saw no reason for staying away for ever on that account. He knew Wren's End was a good-sized house, and though he appreciated Jan's understanding of the fact that he wouldn't exactly choose to be a fellow-guest with such a thoroughly bad hat as Hugo Tancred, still he considered it was laying too much stress upon the finer shades of feeling to keep him away so long.

His aunt was delighted to have him; London was very pleasant; he had dined out quite a number of times, attended some big parties, seen all the best plays, and bought or ordered all the new clothes he needed, and a good deal that he didn't need at all. He had also bought a motor to take out with him. It was more than time to get within range of the main objective of his leave.

Suggestions that Jan must have shopping to do and might as well come up for a day or two to do it only elicited the reply that she had no money for shopping and that it was most unlikely that she would be in London again for ages.

She hadn't answered his last letter, either, which was another grievance.

Then came a letter with the Amber Guiting post-mark, and in a handwriting he did not know—a funny little, clear, square handwriting with character in every stroke.

He opened it and read:

Peter put the letter in his pocket and left the rest of his correspondence till after breakfast, and his aunt decided that he really was a most amusing and agreeable companion, and that she must have been mistaken last night in thinking he seemed rather depressed and worried.

After breakfast he went out to send a reply-paid telegram, and then to the garage, where he kept his car. Among other places he drove to "Hardy Brothers" in Pall Mall, where he stayed over an hour.

By the time he got back to Artillery Mansions it was lunch time. More letters awaited him, also a telegram.

During lunch he mentioned casually that he was going down into the country for the week-end to fish. He was going to motor down.

"Yes," in answer to his aunt's inquiry, "I do know people down there, but I'm not going to stay with them. I'm going to the inn—one's freer, you know, and if the sport's good I may stay on a few days."

Mr. Withells came again for Hugo on Saturday morning and proposed a run right over to Cheltenham for a rose show. Hugo declined the rose show, but gratefully accepted the drive. He would potter about the town while Mr. Withells inspected the flowers. The Grange head-gardener had several exhibits, and was to be taken on the front seat.

They started soon after breakfast and would be gone the whole day, for it was an hour and three-quarters run by road and two by train.

"I wish he had offered to take you," Jan said to Meg when the big motor had vanished out of the drive. "It would have been so nice for you to see Major Morton."

"And sit bodkin between Hugo and Mr. Withells or on one of those horrid little folding-seats—no, thank you! When I go to see my poor little papa I shall go by train by myself. I'll choose a day when their dear father can help you with the children."

After lunch Meg began to find fault with Jan's appearance. "I simply won't see you in that old grey skirt a minute longer—go and put on a white frock—a nice white frock. You've got plenty."

"Who is always grumbling about the washing? Besides, I want to garden."

"You can't garden this afternoon. On such a lovely day it's your duty to dress in accordance with it. I'm going to clean up my children, and then we'll all go down to the post-office to buy stamps and show ourselves. You ought to call on Lady Mary—you know you ought. Go and change, and then come and see if I approve of you. You might leave a card at the vicarage, too. I know they're going to the rose show, so you'd be quite safe."

"You're a nuisance, Meg," Jan complained. "Let you and little Fay go swanking down the village if you like, but why can't you leave Tony and me to potter comfortably in our old clothes?"

"I'm tired of your old clothes; I want you to look decent for once. You haven't done anything I asked you for ages. You might as well do this."

Jan sighed. "It seems rather absurd when you yourself say every soul we know will be at the flower show."

"I never said anything of the kind. I said Mrs. Fream was going to the flower show. Hurry up, Jan."

"Well, will I do? Will I satisfy the hedges and ditches, do you think?" Jan asked later, as she appeared in the hall clad in the white raiment Meg had commanded.

Meg turned her round. "Very nice indeed," she said. "I'm glad you put on the expensive one. It's funny why the very plain things cost such a lot. I like the black hat with your white hair. Yes, I consent to take you out; I don't mind owning you for my missus. Children, come and admire Auntie Jan."

Jan dutifully delivered a card at the vicarage, and the nursery party left her to walk up the Manor drive alone. Lady Mary was in, and pleased to see her, but she only stayed a quarter of an hour, because Meg had made her promise to meet them again in the village. They were to have tea in the garden with the children and make it a little festival.

What a funny little thing Meg was, she thought as she strolled down the drive under the splendid beeches. So determined to have her own way in small things, such an incarnation of self-sacrifice in big ones.

A man was standing just outside the great gates in a patch of black shade thrown by a holly-tree in the lodge garden. Jan was long-sighted, and something in the figure and its pose caused her to stop suddenly. He wore the usual grey summer suit and a straw hat. Yet he reminded her of somebody, but him she had always seen in a topee, out of doors.

Of course it was only a resemblance—but what was he waiting there for?

He moved out from the patch of shade and looked up the drive through the open gates. He took off his hat and waved it, and came quickly towards her.

"I couldn't wait any longer," he said. "I won't be the least bit of a nuisance. I've come to fish, and I'm staying at 'The Green Hart'.... And how are you?"

She could never make it out, when she thought it over afterwards, but Jan found herself standing with both her hands in his and her beautiful black parasol tumbled unheeded in the dust.

"I happened to meet the children and Miss Morton, and they asked me to tell you they've gone home. They also invited me to tea."

"So do I," said Jan.

"I should hardly have known Tony," he continued; "he looks capital. And as for little Fay—she's a picture, but she always was."

"Did they know you?"

"Did they know me!"

"Were they awfully pleased?"

"They were ever so jolly; even Tony shouted."

At the lodge they met the Squire. Jan introduced Peter and explained that he had just come down for a few days' fishing and was staying at "The Green Hart." The Squire proffered advice as to the best flies and a warning that he must not hope for much sport. The Amber was a difficult river, very; and variable; and it had been a particularly dry June.

Peter bore up under this depressing intelligence and he and Jan walked on through warm, scented lanes to Wren's End; and Peter looked at Jan a good deal.

Those who happened to be in London during the season of 1914 will remember that it was a period of powder and paint and frankest touching-up of complexions. The young and pretty were blackened and whitened and reddened quite as crudely as the old and ugly. There was no attempt at concealment. The faces of many Mayfair ladies filled Peter with disrespectful astonishment. He had not been home for four years, and then nice girls didn't do that sort of thing—much.

Now one of Jan's best points was her complexion; it was so fair and fresh. The touch of sunburn, too, was becoming, for she didn't freckle.

Peter found himself positively thankful to behold a really clean face; a face, too, that just then positively beamed with warm welcome and frank pleasure.

A clean face; a cool, clean frock; kind, candid eyes and a gentle, sincere voice—yes, they were all there just as he remembered them, just as he had so often dreamt of them. Moreover, he decided there and then that the Georgian ladies knew what they were about when they powdered their hair—white hair, he thought, was extraordinarily becoming to a woman.

"You are looking better than when I was in Bombay. I think your leave must have done you good already," said the kind, friendly voice.

"I need a spell of country air, really to set me up," said Peter.

They had an hilarious tea with the children on the Wren's lawn, and the tamest of the robins hopped about on the step just to show that he didn't care a fig for any of them.

Meg was just going to take the children to bed when Mr. Withells brought Hugo back. It was an awkward moment. Peter knew far too much about Hugo to simulate the smallest cordiality; and Hugo was too well aware of some of the things Peter knew to feel at all comfortable in his presence. But he had no intention of giving way an inch. He took the chair Meg had just vacated and sat down. Mr. Withells, too, sat down for a few minutes, and no sooner had he done so than William dashed out from amongst them, and, returning, was accompanied by Captain Middleton.

"No tea, thank you. Just got down from town, came with a message from my uncle—would Miss Ross's friend care for a rod on the Manor water on Monday? A brother officer who had been coming had failed at the last minute—there was room for four rods, but there wasn't a chance of much sport."

Miles was introduced to Peter and sat down by him. The children rushed at Miles and, ably impeded by William, swarmed over him in riotous welcome, wholly regardless of their nurse's voice which summoned them to bed.

Meg stood waiting.

"Miss Morton's father lives in Cheltenham," Jan said to Mr. Withells, who seemed rather left out. "She's going to see him on Tuesday—to spend the day."

"Then," said Mr. Withells in his clear staccato, "she must take the 9.15—it's much the best train in the day. And the 4.55 back. No other trains are at all suitable. I hope you will be guided by me in this matter, Miss Morton. I've made the journey many times."

So had Meg; but Mr. Withells always irritated her to such an extent that had it been possible, she would have declared her intention to go and return by quite different trains. As it was, she nodded pleasantly and said those were the very trains she had selected.

Miles thrust his head out from among the encompassing three and respectfully implored Mr. Withells' advice about trains to Cricklade, which lay off the Cheltenham route, even going so far as to note the hours of departure and arrival carefully in a little book.

Finally Meg came and disencumbered Miles of the children and bore them away.

When her voice took on a certain tone it was as useless to cope with Meg as with Auntie Jan. They knew this, and like wise children gave in gracefully.

Elaborate farewells had to be said to everybody, and with a final warm embrace for Miles, little Fay called to him "Tum and see me in my baff."

"Captain Middleton will have gone long before you are ready for that," Meg said inhospitably, and trying to look very tall and dignified she walked up the three steps leading to the nursery. But it is almost impossible to look imposing with a lagging child dragging at each hand, and poor Meg felt that her exit was far from effective.

William settled himself comfortably across his master's knees and in two minutes was snoring softly.

Miles manifested so keen an interest in Mr. Withells' exhibits (he had got a second prize and a highly commended) that the kindly little man was quite attracted; and when Miles inquired about trains to Cheltenham he gave him precisely the same advice that he had given Meg.

The station at Amber Guiting is seldom crowded; it's on a shuttle line, and except on market-day there is but little passenger traffic.

Therefore a small young lady with rather conspicuously red hair, a neat grey coat and skirt, a shady grey straw hat trimmed with white clover and green leaves, and a green parasol, was noticeable upon the platform out of all proportion to her size.

The train was waiting. The lady entered an empty third-class carriage, and sitting in the corner with her back to the engine, shut herself in. The train departed punctually, and she took out from her bag a note-book which she studied with frowning concentration.

Ten minutes further down the line the train stops again at Guiting Green, and here the young lady looked out of the window to see whether anyone was travelling that she recognised.

There was. But it was impossible to judge from the young lady's expression whether the recognition gave her pleasure or not.

She drew in her head very quickly, but not before she had been seen.

"Hullo, Miss Morton! Where are you going? May I get in here?"

"Aren't you travelling first?"

"Not a bit of it. Sure you don't mind? How jolly to have met you!"

Miles looked so smiling, so big and well turned out, and pleased with life, that Meg's severe expression relaxed somewhat.

"I suppose," she said, "you're just going to the junction. But why come to Guiting Green?"

"I came to Guiting Green because it's exactly four miles from the Manor House. And I've walked those four miles, Miss Morton, walked 'em for the good of my health. Wish it wasn't so dusty, though—look at my boots! I'm going to Cheltenham. Where are you going?"

"Cheltenham?" Meg repeated suspiciously. "What are you going to do there?"

"I'm going to see about a horse—not a dog this time—I hear that Smith's have got a horse that may suit me; really up to my weight they say it is, so I took the chance of going over while I'm with my uncle—it's a lot nearer than town, you know. But where are you going?"

"I," said Meg, "am going to Cheltenham——"

"To Cheltenham!" Miles exclaimed in rather overdone astonishment. "What an extraordinary coincidence! And what are you going to buy in Cheltenham?"

"I am going to see my father. I thought I had told you he lives there."

"So you did, of course. How stupid of me to forget! Well, it's very jolly we should happen to be going down together, isn't it?"

They looked at one another, and Miles laughed.

"I'm not at all sure that we ought to travel together after we reach the junction, and I don't believe you've got a third-class ticket." Meg looked very prim.

Miles produced his ticket—it was third-class.

"There!" he said triumphantly.

"You would be much more comfortable in a smoker."

"So would you. We'll take a smoker; I've got the sort of cigarette you like."

At the junction they got a smoker, and Miles saw to it that they had it to themselves; he also persuaded the guard to give Meg a square wooden box to put her feet on, because he thought the seats were too high for her.

It seemed a very short journey.

Major Morton was awaiting Meg when they arrived; a little gentleman immaculately neat (it was quite clear whence Meg got her love of detail and finish)—who looked both washed-out and dried-up. He embraced her with considerable solemnity, exclaiming, "God bless you, my dear child! You look better than I expected."

"Papa, dear, here is Captain Middleton, a friend from Amber Guiting. We happened to travel together."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," said the little Major graciously; and somehow Miles contrived in two minutes so to ingratiate himself with Meg's "poor little papa" that they all walked out of the station together as a matter of course.

Then came the question of plans.

Meg had shopping to do, declared she had a list as long as her arm, but was entirely at her father's disposal as to whether she should do it before or after lunch.

Miles boldly suggested she should do it now, at once, while it was still fairly cool, and then she could have all her parcels sent to the station to meet her. He seemed quite eager to get rid of Meg. The little Major agreed that this would be the best course. He would stroll round to his club while Meg was shopping, and meet her when she thought she would have finished. They walked to the promenade and dropped her at Cavendish House. Miles, explaining that he had to go to Smith's to look at a horse, asked for directions from the Major. Their way was the same, and without so much as bidding her farewell, Miles strolled up one of the prettiest promenades in England in company with her father. Meg felt rather dazed.

She prided herself on having reduced shopping to a fine art, but to-day, somehow, she didn't get through as quickly as usual, and there was a number of items on her list still unticked when it was time to meet her father just outside his club at the top of the promenade.

Major Morton was the essence of punctuality. Meg flew to meet him, and found he had waited five minutes. He was not, however, upset, as might have been expected. He took her to his rooms in a quiet terrace behind the promenade and comfortably near his club. The sun-blinds were down outside his sitting-room windows, and the room seemed cool and pleasant.

Then it was that Meg discovered that her father was looking at her in quite a new way. Almost, in fact, as though he had never seen her before.

Was it her short hair? she wondered.

Yet that was not very noticeable under such a shady hat.

Major Morton had vigorously opposed the nursemaid scheme. To the sympathetic ladies who attended the same strictly evangelical church of which he was a pillar, he confided that his only daughter did not care for "a quiet domestic life." It was a grief to him—but, after all, parents are shelved nowadays; every girl wants to "live her own life," and he would be the last man to stand in the way of his child's happiness. The ladies felt very sorry for Major Morton and indignant with the hard-hearted, unfilial Meg. They did not realise that had Meg lived with her father—in rooms—and earned nothing, the Major's delicate digestion might occasionally have suffered, and Meg would undoubtedly have been half-starved.

To-day, however, he was more hopeful about Meg than he had been for a long time. Since the Trent episode he had ceased even to imagine her possible marriage. By her own headstrong folly she had ruined all her chances. "The weariful rich" who had got her the post did not spare him this aspect of her deplorable conduct. To-day, however, there was a rift in these dark clouds of consequence.

Captain Middleton—he only knows how—had persuaded Major Morton to go with him to see the horse, had asked his quite useless advice, and had subtly and insidiously conveyed to the Major, without one single incriminating sentence, a very clear idea as to his own feelings for the Major's daughter.

Major Morton felt cheered.

He had no idea who Miles really was, but he had remarked the gunner tie, and, asking to what part of the Royal Regiment Miles belonged, decided that no mere pauper could be a Horse-Gunner.

He regarded his daughter with new eyes.

She was undoubtedly attractive. He discovered certain resemblances to himself that he had never noticed before.

Then he informed her that he had promised they would both lunch with her agreeable friend at the Queen's Hotel: "He made such a point of it," said Major Morton, "I could hardly refuse; begged us to take pity on his loneliness, and so on—and I'm feeling rather better to-day."

Meg decided that the tide of fate was too strong for her, she must just drift with it.

It was a most pleasant lunch, save for one incident. Lady Penelope Pottinger and her husband, accompanied by Lottie Trent and a man, were lunching at another table.

Lady Penelope's party came in late. Miles and his guests had already arrived at coffee when they appeared.

They had to pass Miles' table, and Lady Penelope stopped; so did her husband. She shook hands with Meg. Miss Trent passed by with her nose in the air.

Miles presented his relations to the Major and they passed on.

The Major was quite pleased and rather flattered. He had no idea that the tall young woman with Lady Penelope had deliberately cut his host. But Meg knew just why she had done it.

After lunch Miles very properly effaced himself, but made a point of asking the Major if he might act as Miss Morton's escort on the journey back to Amber Guiting.

The Major graciously accompanied Meg while she did the rest of her shopping, and in the promenade they met the Pottinger party again.

The 4.55 was crowded. Miles collected Meg's parcels and suggested to the Major that it would be less tiring for his daughter if they returned first-class. Should he change the tickets?

The Major thought it a sensible proposition, especially with all those parcels. Meg would pay Captain Middleton the difference.

Again an amiable porter secured them an empty carriage. The parcels spread themselves luxuriously upon the unoccupied seats. The Major kissed his daughter and gave her his benediction, shaking hands quite warmly with her "pleasant young friend."

The 4.55 runs right up to the junction without a stop. Meg took off her best hat and placed it carefully in the rack. She leaned her bewildered head against the cushions and closed her eyes. She would drift with the tide just a few minutes more, and then——

Miles put a box of groceries for Lady Mary under her feet. She smiled faintly, but did not speak.

Presently she opened her eyes to find him regarding her with that expression she had surprised once or twice before, and never understood.

"Tired?" he asked.

"Only pleasantly. I think I've only travelled first-class about five times in my life before—and then it was with Mr. Ross."

"And now it's with me, and I hope it's the first of many."

"You say very odd things."

"What I mean isn't in the least odd—it's the most natural thing in the world."

"What is?"

"To want to go on travelling with you."

"If you're going to talk nonsense, I shall go to sleep again."

"No, I don't think I can allow you to go to sleep. I want you to wake up and face facts."

"Facts?"

"A fact."

"Facts are sometimes very unpleasant."

"I hope the fact I want you to face isn't exactly that—if it is ... then I'm ... a jolly miserable chap. Miss Morton—Meg—you must see how it is with me—you must know that you're dearer to me than anything on earth. I think your father tumbled to it—and I don't think he minded ... that I should want you for my wife."

"My poor little papa would be relieved to think that anyone could...."

"Could what?"

"Care for me ... in that way."

"Nonsense! But I'm exceedingly glad to have met your father."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to meet him."

"Again, why?"

"Because he's your father."

"Did you observe that Miss Lotty Trent cut you dead at the Queen's to-day?"

"I did notice it, and, like you, I wonder why."

"I can tell you."

"I don't think you'd better bother. Miss Trent's opinion of me really doesn't matter——"

"It was because you were with me."

"But what a silly reason—if it is a reason."

"Captain Middleton, will you answer a question quite truthfully?"

"I'll try."

"What have you heard about me in connection with the Trents?"

"Not much, and that I don't believe."

"But you must believe it, some of it. It may not be so bad—as it might have been—but I put myself entirely in the wrong. I deceived Mrs. Trent and I did a thing no girl in her senses ought to have done."