Part 11

The dew of genius had fallen upon the thought, and the words bloomed again in their fiery beauty for this small, unlettered girl, who, with something of the spirit of old Greece, sat weeping over the wonder of it.

Over and over again she read those sixteen verses, till she heard her aunt calling her to come to dinner, and, carrying the precious work with her, she darted upstairs to her bedroom, hid it in a drawer, and rushed down again in a tumult of excitement that could find no outlet.

"You've got a cold, Jane-Anne," said Mrs. Dew as she carved the joint. "Your nose is red an' you're sniffling."

Jane-Anne did not explain. The imputation must be borne.

"I don't think it's much, aunt," she said meekly. "Did you ever," she added in her eager way, "hear of anybody called Lord Byron?"

"He never visited where I lived," Mrs. Dew answered; "but then there's a-many lords as I never heerd on. Why do you want to know?"

"I only wondered. It would have been nice if you'd known about him. He wrote poetry."

"Then I shouldn't think as he was much of a lord. The real old families don't do such things. Perhaps he made his money in beer (there's a good many such) and then took to writing poetry to amuse himself when he'd retired. You may depend it was somethin' of the sort. Now you come to mention it, I've a notion as your mother had some of his poetry books. She'd seen the places as he wrote about--yet I don't hold much with poetry myself, and the books was all sold--only a few pence they fetched--after she died."

Jane-Anne felt chilled and disappointed. She disliked the smell of beer exceedingly, and to connect it with the author of these soul-stirring verses was impossible. She could find out, she was sure, all about Lord Byron when Mr. Wycherly returned; but she was an impatient person--how could she wait until then?

A bright thought struck her.

"Aunt, don't you think I ought to answer Master Montagu's letter?" she asked diplomatically. "Will you give me a stamp and I'll do it this afternoon."

"Mind you're respectful and proper--you'd better let me see the letter before it goes. And if it's suitable, I'll give you a stamp."

"Very well, aunt," Jane-Anne sighed. It was very hard to write what would seem suitable to those unsympathetic eyes--but she'd have a try for the thing she wanted.

Ink was provided, one sheet of paper, an envelope, a pen, with a point like a needle, and a single sheet of much-used blotting-paper.

Jane-Anne sat down at the table in the housekeeper's room and wrote in a neat, round hand:

"DEAR MASTER MONTAGU,

"I send my duty and the master was quite well when he left yesterday.

"I wait upon him at meals and he doesn't read at all now; he talks to me, and I think he eats pretty well considering. I also go out with him, which is very beautiful. It is very sad here now he is gone. I wonder if you are acquainted with a poetry book named 'Don-Juan,' or if you think it squish like 'Home Influence.' I don't think it is like 'Home Influence,' but I love it, I shall read it all, it is in two vols. The master said I was to read any books I liked in the parlour; there are ten volumes by his Lordship there. I shall read them all. Can you tell me if he is one of the real gentry like Lord Dursley. I would like to see him.

"Yours respectfully, "JANE-ANNE."

Mrs. Dew read the letter through and grunted that it was much too long, but she gave Jane-Anne a stamp, which she immediately affixed. Then she frolicked gleefully to the post and put her precious missive in the box.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*A FAR CRY*

"I have not loved the world, nor the world me-- But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things, hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing; I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; That two, or one, are almost what they seem, That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream." _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage._

The boys always wrote to Mr. Wycherly on Sundays and as they knew he was to be in London over the week-end, he duly received his weekly letters on Monday morning at Morley's Hotel.

Edmund's was, as usual, brief and to the point. He hoped his guardian was well; he announced the cheering intelligence that he himself was well, and after a brief reference to his most recent scores at cricket, concluded with the information: "It is expensive here at school; the munny I came back with is all gone; it is very inconvenient. Could you spair me a little more?"

Montagu talked of his work and of the Greek play they were reading, and then he finished up with: "I had quite a decent letter from Jane-Anne. Whatever made you start her on Byron? I haven't read 'Don Juan' myself, but I suppose I must, as she has, then we can talk about it in the holidays."

Mr. Wycherly read this portion of Montagu's letter three times, frowned over it, pondered it; and finally, _apropos_ of nothing, found himself repeating Miss Stukely's favourite quotation which had remained in his mind with provoking persistency.

"You in your small corner, I in mine." He hadn't the vaguest notion whence this flower of thought was culled, but it occurred to him at that moment that Jane-Anne's small corner must have been considerably enlarged during the last few days if she had read much of "Don Juan."

"It is quite time I returned to Holywell," Mr. Wycherly reflected. "What possible wind of fate has blown 'Don Juan,' of all things, across the child's path? And what in the world will she make of it?"

He went back to Holywell that afternoon, and Jane-Anne carried in his tea in her best parlour-maid manner, only to relapse immediately into herself, falling upon her knees by his chair and covering his hand with kisses the moment she had set down the tray.

"My child, my child," exclaimed Mr. Wycherly, "it is very wonderful and delightful of you to be so glad. But you must get up and sit beside me and pour out tea, and tell me all the news, and what has been happening since I went away, and what you have been doing with yourself?"

"A very great thing has happened," Jane-Anne said solemnly, holding the teapot poised in mid-air. "I have found it."

Mr. Wycherly nearly said, "Found what?" but he stopped himself just in time, and remembered "the mountains," and asked kindly:

"Well, and where is it?"

"In Marathon," said Jane-Anne gravely. "Do you know it?"

"Yes," Mr. Wycherly replied, "and it is a curious thing that I was reminded of that very poem when I saw you dancing in the garden. I wonder why I didn't connect it with your mountains?"

"I often dance. I dance when I'm happy, and I dance when I'm very full of feelings, not exactly happy, but--big, tremendous feelings."

"Tell me, my child, what you think of 'Don Juan' as far as you have read."

"Poor dear," cried Jane-Anne, "he was so unfortunate. No sooner did he get comfortably settled with a nice, beautiful lady than some cross old husband or father, or somebody, interfered. It was a shame."

"Perhaps," Mr. Wycherly suggested, "there may have been something to say on their side, too, you know. Though it is a side less often treated by the writers of romance."

"Haidee's father was horrid," she cried vehemently. "You must think so, too, don't you?"

"Suppose," said Mr. Wycherly, "I went away for a long time, so long that you came to the conclusion I was dead----"

"I should die, too," Jane-Anne interrupted.

"Oh, no, you wouldn't. Suppose, say, that some very charming and delightful youth appeared who took up all your attention, and suddenly I came back to find you giving a grand party in the garden."

"Aunt would never permit it for one minute," she cried, aghast.

"But we must eliminate aunt; Haidee, so far as we know, had no wise and excellent aunt to look after her. Let me see. Oh, yes! Suppose I came back and found this festivity going on, the agreeable youth acting as host, and you, my dear, entirely absorbed in him, and the whole house upside down. Would you expect me to feel very amiable?"

Jane-Anne gazed earnestly at Mr. Wycherly. The gentle, high-bred face was quite grave, though persons better versed than Jane-Anne in subtleties of expression might have noted a look of considerable amusement in his handsome eyes.

"But Haidee's father wasn't a bit like you," she objected. "He was a cruel pirate."

"Even pirates have their parental feelings," he pleaded.

Jane-Anne looked much perturbed.

"It sounds horrid said like that," she murmured sadly; "but it's beautiful in the poetry book."

"How much have you read?" asked Mr. Wycherly.

"Only to where poor, pretty Haidee dies. I don't read very fast, you know--not like you, sir, and Master Montagu; and when I like a bit I read it over and over again."

"And what do you like best in the book so far as you have gone?"

"Oh, my father's poem, far, far the best. I can say it nearly all by heart. But one reason I've been so slow is, I wanted dreadfully to know about Lord Byron, and in the bottom shelf, where 'Sir Stafford Raffles' is, I found a book all about him, a fat crimson book, and I've been reading that."

"Really," Mr. Wycherly remarked, "you've lost no time. Well, and what do you make of that?"

"It's rather difficult, sir, so many letters; but he seems to have been very unlucky, too, like Don Juan. A _most_ unkind mother; fancy, she threw the fireirons at him, and her one of the gentry--and his wife didn't seem very nice either--and then I looked at the end----"

"Well?" said Mr. Wycherly, for Jane-Anne paused suddenly.

"And I found he's dead, and he died to help Greece; and I'm so sorry."

"Sorry he died to help Greece?"

"No, for that's why my daddie loved him, I'm sure of that; but because he's dead. _I_ should have loved him dearly."

"A great many people did that," said Mr. Wycherly.

"I shall read all his poetry books, and learn all the bits I like; and then--perhaps--do you think that, up in heaven, he could ever know how much I cared?"

Mr. Wycherly looked into the eager, wistful face, and wondered, too.

"Listen to me, my child," he said. "I think that if Lord Byron does know, he is very pleased and touched; but I also think that he would be the very first person to suggest that you should wait a little before you read all his poetry. If you will allow me, I will select the volumes I think he would prefer you to begin on. 'Don Juan,' for instance, I should leave alone for the present; directly you know by heart and can write out, in your most beautiful writing, the whole of your favourite poem from the third canto----"

"I can do that now," she cried eagerly. "Would it please Lord Byron, do you think, sir?"

"I am certain of it."

"And you'll tell me what you think he'd like me to read. I should so love to do something for him; poor dear, so sad and lonely often. Did you ever know him, sir?"

Mr. Wycherly shook his head. "He died a good many years before I was born."

"So long ago!" Jane-Anne's voice was solemn and awestruck, for Mr. Wycherly seemed to her incalculably old and wise.

"One thing, sir," she continued in quite a different tone, "I have quite altered. I shan't marry a first footman--I shall marry a poet. I shall hunt about till I find someone like Lord Byron--if he's a lord so much the better. I'd like that; but if he isn't--if he can say very beautiful things, I shall love him just the same. Shall you like that better, sir?"

Mr. Wycherly sighed. "I'm afraid, my dear, that I'm a selfish old curmudgeon, who would like to keep you in his heart-pocket always. I shan't like any of them."

"Then I shall stay in your pocket," said Jane-Anne.

It was time to clear away, and she took the tea-things back to the kitchen.

Mr. Wycherly went into the parlour, a room he rarely entered except when the boys were at home. He set his glasses firmly on his nose and inspected the contents of the book-case.

Just before he went away, Jane-Anne had pressed her favourite "Bruey" upon him, and he had read it. Now he took down the second volume of "Don Juan"--the first was missing--from the top shelf, and turned the leaves, shaking his head:

"It's a far cry from Bruey to Byron," thought Mr. Wycherly. "I wonder if I have done the right thing? On one point I am quite convinced, for the ultimate safety of that child, we must set about developing her sense of humour at once."

Jane-Anne was so excited over her find, that she wrote to Miss Stukely to tell her about it. This time she begged a sheet of paper and an envelope from Mr. Wycherly, and he gave her a packet of each, the envelopes ready stamped being the kind he always used. She was highly elated, carried the ink to her bedroom without consulting her aunt, and sat down at her washstand to indite the following letter:

"DEAR TEACHER,

"I hope you are well. I am well and most happy. I live with my aunt, and I have a carpet in my bedroom--not oilcloth; and it is a beautiful big room. The master here is like an angel--he is so kind and good. There are a most enormous lot of books in this house. I hope to read them all before I am grown up. I am learning the Greek alphabet. The master is teaching me. Do you know of a poet called Lord Byron? I am reading all his poetry books. I am sure you would love them. I found a poem my father used to say to me when I was a little girl. I was so glad. Lord Byron wrote it, too. He is in heaven, so I can't see him. With love and duty, from your affectionate friend,

"JANE-ANNE."

By return of post came a letter from Miss Stukely.

"MY DEAR JANE-ANNE,

"I was glad to hear from you that your health is better. But, dear childie, there was much in your letter to disquiet me. I do beg of you to read no more poetry that is not known to be of sound evangelical teaching. I should like you to promise me that you will not read any poetry except what is by Frances Ridley Havergal, Eliza Cook, or Mrs. Hemans. The works of those three saintly women can only do you good, and there is only too great reason to fear that poetry as a rule leads one's thoughts away from higher things. So promise me this, my dear girlie, that my mind may be at rest about you. As to this Lord Byron you mention, I have never read any poem of his and I never shall, for I understand that he was a man of very evil life, and an unbeliever, and that it is quite unlikely he is in heaven, as you seem to suppose. I hope you will dismiss him and all his works from your mind. I cannot see any use in your learning the Greek alphabet. The Ancient Greeks were wicked heathens, and it can do no one any good to know about them. I hope you read 'The Upward Path' regularly. I shall always be glad to hear from you, and I shall never fail to remember you in my prayers. Like our dear Bruey, I keep my daily little list and I hope you do the same.

"Let me have your promise, dear girlie, and I shall feel more happy about you--although we are parted in body we can still commune in spirit, and I shall be most happy to supervise your reading, and to send you little suitable books from time to time. I have a sweet class at the Bainbridge, and our weekly meetings are very helpful. Always your friend and well-wisher,

"BLANCHE STUKELY."

Jane-Anne found this letter somewhat difficult to decipher, as Miss Stukely wrote a sloping, pointed hand, much more trying to read than that of Montagu or his guardian.

So, in defiance of all her aunt's rules, she invaded Mr. Wycherly in his study directly after breakfast, and asked him to read it aloud for her. He did so, and when he had finished she cast herself upon the ground despairingly, and burst into violent sobs.

This tragic reception of what, to him, seemed a singularly ill-considered and narrow-minded letter, fairly flabbergasted Mr. Wycherly, and for a minute or two he sat at his table in perfect silence, holding Miss Stukely's missive in his hand, irritably aware that it was written on scented note-paper, and that he abominated the odour. He looked down at the lithe, slender figure prone upon the floor in absolute abandonment of grief, and at last he asked:

"Why do you cry, Jane-Anne?"

Jane-Anne rolled over, sat up, and gasped out between her sobs:

"Because she says he isn't in heaven, and if he isn't in heaven then he must be in hell for ever and ever, and I can never, never feel happy any more."

"Get up, child, and sit upon a chair," Mr. Wycherly said sternly. He had an old-fashioned objection to scenes, and an indefinable feeling that to lie on the floor was neither decorous nor dignified, even for a little girl of twelve. Neither physical nor mental _deshabille_ appealed to him. "Now tell me, why should you take it for granted that Lord Byron--is not in heaven?"

A ray of light pierced the gloom of her outlook, and she stopped crying to ask eagerly: "Is Miss Stukely wrong, then; was he a good man after all?"

"Even supposing he were not what is popularly considered a good man. Even so, what right has this Miss Stukely, or anybody else, to conclude that Lord Byron----"

"Is in hell." Jane-Anne glibly finished the sentence.

"Exactly," said Mr. Wycherly. "What right has she, I say, to assume anything of the kind?"

"But the wicked do go there."

"What about the thief on the cross?" asked Mr. Wycherly.

"But he repented," she answered promptly.

"And how do you, or Miss Stukely, or I, or anyone know that Lord Byron was unrepentant?"

"Then you think it is all right?" she asked anxiously.

"I am sure it is all right," Mr. Wycherly replied confidently.

"Could you lend me your handkerchief, sir?" Jane-Anne asked. "I seem to have lost mine."

Refreshed by the borrowed handkerchief, and much comforted in soul, she turned to another part of the letter, asking:

"Do those ladies she speaks of write beautiful poetry, like my mountains piece?"

"I am not well versed in the writings of the ladies Miss Stukely mentions," Mr. Wycherly said cautiously, "but I fancy I am safe in saying that their work does not display the highest poetical genius, although it is doubtless very pleasing to their admirers."

"Would you promise, if you was me?"

"Certainly not," he answered vigorously. "Nothing would induce me to promise anything so absurd."

"Absurd?" Jane-Anne's voice was astonished; it was not an adjective which she would have applied to anything so serious.

"Most ridiculous," Mr. Wycherly repeated.

"She will be sorry, and she was very kind to me."

"Never forget her kindness, repay it if ever you get the chance; but never promise anybody anything without fully understanding what you undertake."

"Not even you, sir?"

"Certainly not me, of all people--but I hope I should never ask you to make impossible promises."

"Then I may go on loving Lord Byron?"

"It seems to me that you ought to love him more if you think that he was sinful and unfortunate, and unhappy. It's a poor sort of love that only cares for the good, the fortunate, the successful."

"Christ was fond of unfortunate people," Jane-Anne said softly. Not altogether in vain had she read her New Testament.

"Ah," said Mr. Wycherly, "that is a phase of His character certain of His followers are apt to forget."

"I shall tell Miss Stukely that," Jane-Anne remarked perkily.

"You most certainly will do nothing of the kind. You must not preach at people--it's--it's so ill-bred."

Poor Jane-Anne looked very puzzled.

"It's a very funny thing," she said thoughtfully. "Nothing could be differenter than aunt and a real gentleman like you, and yet, sometimes, you both say the same sort of thing. Only, you call it ill-bred, and she'd call it the heighth of impidence."

"You may take it that we both mean the same thing," said Mr. Wycherly; and his kind eyes twinkled.

"Well, I don't understand, and I know aunt'll be raging because I'm not there to help to make the beds, but I'm happier. Here's your handkerchief, sir, and many thanks."

And Jane-Anne thrust a damp and sticky ball into Mr. Wycherly's hand, quite unconscious of offence.

When the door shut behind her, he dropped the handkerchief into his waste-paper basket, and he laughed. It was so like Montagu or Edmund.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*AN EXPERIMENT*

"Canst play the fiddle?" asked the stranger. "I don't know," quoth the Irishman, "but I'll try if you'll lend me the instrument." _Old Legend_.

Mrs. Methuen was having tea with Mr. Wycherly under the apple-tree at the side of the lawn. She came very often to see him for the simple reason that she found it so exceedingly difficult to persuade him to come and see her. He always protested that he had lived out of the world too long to go a-visiting now, that he did not know how to behave in society, that he was a fusty old anchorite whom no one could really want.

Now, Mrs. Methuen really did want him, so she came to see him instead, to their great mutual satisfaction, and as it was a fine summer and she generally came at teatime, Mrs. Dew would set it for them under the apple-tree on the lawn, and Jane-Anne was allowed to carry out the cakes and bread-and-butter.

On this particular afternoon they had discussed Jane-Anne's future, for Mrs. Methuen was full of a new plan, and when she had a new plan she was wont to be most enthusiastic.

"You see," she was saying, "it would be so much more original than being a governess; they don't do any heavy work, and the uniform is so charming, she'd look sweet in it."

"But do you think," Mr. Wycherly asked dubiously, "that Jane-Anne has any special gift for looking after little children? She has had no experience; why should she be particularly fitted for that?"

"She would be trained," cried Mrs. Methuen eagerly; "it is a splendid training, and the girls are so sought after--Norland Nurses are never out of a place----"

"Is your nurse a Norland Nurse?" asked Mr. Wycherly, trying to remember if he had seen Mrs. Methuen's nurse in any very enchanting uniform, but only succeeding in a faint remembrance of a stout, comfortable person who certainly did look "used to babies."

"Well, no," Mrs. Methuen answered, a trifle shamefaced. "You see, mother thought I was young and inexperienced and we had all known Nannie such years, and--she's Nannie you see, and no one else was possible."

"Of course, of course," Mr. Wycherly agreed hastily. "I'm sure it is most good of you to interest yourself so warmly in Jane-Anne, and such a career might prove most suitable--but would it not be well to see--could we not bring her into contact with some little child and see how they get on?"

"I have it," cried Mrs. Methuen; "she shall go and mind Mrs. Cox's baby on the days the nursery is turned out; it would be a great help to her. They're not well off, you know, and she has only one servant besides the nurse, and it will give Jane-Anne a taste for babies: her baby's a perfect darling. It's a beautiful idea--so helpful to poor Mrs. Cox and so good for Jane-Anne, and she lives so close, too, only a few doors down the street. I'll go and propose it to her now and come back and tell you what she says."

No sooner said than done. Mrs. Methuen found Mrs. Cox at home, unfolded her scheme to her, laying stress on the benefit it would be to Jane-Anne and on Jane-Anne's exceptional fitness for the task. She also pointed out the unusual advantages the baby would enjoy in having so refined and charming an unpaid under-nurse (Mrs. Methuen was fond of Jane-Anne) and hinted at all sorts of possibilities when she should be older and more experienced.

Mrs. Cox, wife of a young doctor as yet not very abundantly blessed with patients, embraced the idea with effusion, and Mrs. Methuen flew back to Mr. Wycherly to tell him she had arranged it and that Jane-Anne might make her debut as an embryo Norland Nurse on Tuesday, that day being Friday.