CHAPTER II.

Jane balanced her spoon on the brim of the shell-like cup and smiled at Mr. Scott.

“Yesterday, Billie, I received another of those Willoughby epistles--about my extravagance, you know.”

“The idea of anybody thinking you extravagant,” murmured Mr. Scott, with an adoring glance.

“Oh, as to that,” observed Jane, airily, “I admit I’m extravagant, but I’m purposely so. Listen, my child, and I’ll tell you the story of my life. But first let me put a drop more rum in your tea.” Mr. Scott held out his cup.

“It does taste of tea,” he admitted. “And you know I’ve always cracked up the flavor of your--er--tea, Jane.” She dropped the rum out of a silver filigree bottle with an amethyst in the stopper.

“You see,” she continued, thoughtfully, “before my eyes were opened or my teeth cut, those Willoughby relations of mine married me to De Mille because he had money. He was--oh, well, Billie, he was the biggest bore I ever met. However, I saw as little of him as possible, but you can imagine that I did my best to make life miserable for those Willoughbys who blighted my youth. What _are_ you laughing at, Billie? Well, De Mille got into financial difficulties, and selfishly took to his bed. I got the best nurse in town, and went to see him every day. Yes, I did. It was good for me, of course!”--Jane’s conversation usually took the form of a monologue. “Finally, he had the good taste to die. When one of the Willoughbys, who came up to town to help me bear my grief, came in and told me that he had passed to a better land, I said: ‘Well, God knows best.’” Mr. Scott tittered. “Aunt Susan--that was the Willoughby--assured the family that I was showing a beautiful spirit. As a matter of fact, I really could have danced up and down, I was so relieved. You see, Billie, if the man had ever pretended to love me, I should not have been such a wretch. But he just wanted a good-looking woman to preside over his house, and he wanted to marry into the Willoughby family, and the Willoughby family wanted to get me married to money and off their hands, so it was just a disgraceful bargain, about which your humble servant had no more to say than the dress goods on a bargain counter. When it was discovered that De Mille had left me nothing but debts, I refused to worry, and informed my beloved relations that my support was their business. Otherwise, the stage for Jane, and the Willoughbys’ view of the stage is very similar to the devil’s view of holy water.”

“Well, they’ve got plenty of this world’s goods,” commented Mr. Scott, who was quite content to have Jane do most of the talking, an arrangement that suited her to perfection.

“They’re rolling in wealth!” she exclaimed, filling her own cup. “But they’re as close as bark on a tree, and how to bring them to time after De Mille’s death kept me awake nights. I made up my mind to get even with them for marrying me off like a slave, and the first thing I did was to order the most expensive mourning New York affords. I still cling to it, for black is _so_ becoming to me.”

“I should think it was,” said Mr. Scott, fervently. “You are simply ravishing in that cap.”

“The cap was my own idea,” observed Jane, sweetly. “The real lace ones are so stunning and so--er--expensive. But where was I? Oh, yes. The Willoughbys held a mass meeting, or convocation, or something, to talk me over. Finally it was decided that they would pay my bills among them--if I was not too extravagant--and that I should spend my time with each of them in turn, handed around from house to house like a poor relation. But it was at that point in their proceedings that Jane rose and gave them an ultimatum.”

“I put my money on Jane,” spoke up Mr. Scott, promptly.

“You won’t lose,” answered that young woman. “I rose, wiped my eyes with a handkerchief--black border, two inches; price, three dollars--and spoke my mind. I said that I had married to suit them, and that henceforth I would live to suit myself; that I was perfectly willing they should pay my bills, but that I intended to take an apartment in town and go on living as before. I said it was not my fault that my poor, dear husband--I shed a tear or two--had met with financial reverses and was not able to leave me anything. I said, further, that I would not be dictated to about the size of my bills, that everyone knew I was not extravagant--yes, Billie, I said that with a straight face--and that I was in deep grief, and could not bear any more discussion of my affairs, and so I would just take my leave and send in the bills.”

“Bet they were paralyzed,” observed Billie.

“That’s not the word for it. I left them gasping for breath. But they hate gossip, and that’s where I had them. They hate to be called mean, though being mean doesn’t worry them. That’s the way with some people, you know. So I rented this apartment, moved my things in, drew a few checks on uncle Jacob--the best of the lot, by the way--and here I have lived in my deep grief.”

Jane smiled at Mr. Scott and leaned back in her chair.

“That’s the first chapter,” he said.

“Yes,” she answered, “and yesterday’s letter, which I’m coming to, is the beginning of the second. This letter informed me that my bills were becoming outrageously large, that I needed a chaperon--fancy a widow in her first grief needing a chaperon, Billie--and the long and short of it is that I must give up this apartment and go and live among them as originally proposed.

“Well?” queried Mr. Scott.

“Well, what?” demanded Jane. “You certainly didn’t for a moment think I would do it?”

“No,” he responded. “There’s a very simple way out, you know. Marry me and let the Willoughbys go to----”

“Thunder,” finished Jane. “Oh, Billie, I do appreciate the fact that you love me and want me. And if I loved you, I’d live in a cottage with you--though I hate cottages--and work like a slave. But the awful fact must be faced that I do not love you. I am horribly fond of you, though, Billie, and I wish I could marry you, but I never could make you understand how I hate being married. I was knocked down to the highest bidder, and the experience was too disagreeable to permit me to marry again or to fall in love with anyone.”

“But you’re flirting awfully with Kingston and Maitland--and there’s Dick Thomas--oh, Jane, it’s pretty tough on me!” The boy--for Mr. Scott wasn’t much more--looked as though he were going to cry.

“Fiddlesticks!” exclaimed Jane, contemptuously. “Nothing in the world would induce me to marry one of those men--or any other. Freedom is the breath of life to me, Billie, but I must have my little recreations. You can’t understand--no man can--how flirting to a woman is a justifiable evening up of the sufferings that some women have to endure. Why, I’m leading Jack Maitland an awful existence because he flirted desperately with Betty Lockwood, who loves him to distraction. I’m doing it for Betty’s sake, and it’s good for him. Betty married Maurice just out of pique.” Jane put down her cup. “I’m really trying to do good, in my own way, Billie.”

“You should join the Humane Society,” observed Mr. Scott, sarcastically.

“The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children will rescue you from my clutches if you persist in coming here all the time,” she retorted, severely. “I’ll tell you what I am going to do”--changing the subject, swiftly. “I’ll answer the Willoughby epistle in person. I’ll go down to Rosemount to-morrow and tell them things that I hope will do them good. I do not intend to reduce my bills, or live with them. Whenever I get a letter from them like this last one, I go out and buy something.”

“What did you buy yesterday?” queried Mr. Scott, with lively interest.

“A pair of high-boys--genuine colonials! I’ve no place for them here, of course, but the Willoughbys needed them for a lesson.”

“Let me drive you down to Rosemount in my car,” said Mr. Scott, with sudden inspiration.

“Um--I’d like the car and the chauffeur, but you, Billie, cannot come. It might cause gossip.”

“Let ’em talk, who cares?” exclaimed Mr. Scott, defiantly.

“I do,” said Jane, decidedly. “No, you can’t come, Billie, but if you’ll have the car here to-morrow, at ten, I’ll drive down in it, stay all night, and come back the next day.”

“I’m afraid they’ll persuade you to live with them,” murmured Mr. Scott, miserably.

“To think that you would say that to me,” said Jane, reproachfully. “I intend to live alone from this time on. I hate living with anybody.”

“Wait until you’re in love!” warned Billie.

“Yes, I’ll wait,” responded his hostess, briskly. “A woman who has had my luck would be an ungrateful wretch if she permitted herself to become entangled again. Why, it isn’t one woman in ten who marries for money whose husband dies in two years. No wonder I’ve clung to deep mourning. It’s an expression of thankfulness--of the warmest gratitude on my part. No one can say of me, Billie, that I do not realize my blessings!”

Mr. Scott rose and tried to kiss Jane’s hand, but she put it determinedly behind her.

“Respect my mourning, my child,” she said, rebukingly.

After Mr. Scott had taken his departure, she ordered two suit cases packed, gave orders to her two servants about the care of the apartment during her absence, and telegraphed a lengthy message to the Willoughbys.