Jane's Gentleman

By Owen Oliver

PUT up with a good deal of Jane's carelessness, without saying anything; but, when she mislaid the clothes-basket, I had to speak about it. When I find fault with her she generally argues; but, on this occasion, she only sighed.

"I've got something on my mind, Miss Molly," she said. "That's where it is."

"No, it isn't. It's on the dining-room table."

She stopped in the middle of washing a tea-cup, and dropped it. Luckily, it only fell in the water.

"That jest shows!" she exclaimed.

"It shows that you are very thoughtless."

"Ah!" She shook her head. "You ain't old enough to understand."

"I am fourteen," I reminded her. I have kept house ever since mother died; and I understand more than Jane does.

"I don't deny," she admitted, as you've got sense for your age; but there's some things wot you 'ave to go through to know about." She sighed again, and nearly let a jug slip.

"You will break something in a minute," I warned her. "I have been through that! Why don't you attend to what you are doing?"

"I ain't got no 'eart for washin' up."

She sat down on a chair, and wiped her eyes with her apron. So, I took the tea-cloth, and began drying the things; but she jumped up and snatched it away.

"You ain't goin' to do the work wot I'm paid for," she said, "not while I got strength to stand—wot won't be long!"

I nearly laughed. There is nothing the matter with Jane except her appetite—it is enormous.

"What is wrong, Jane?" I asked.

"It's a—agen'l'man."

I think she blushed; but she is naturally red, so you can never be sure.

"What gentleman?"

"One wot 'as been after me."

"After you?"

"Payin' 'is attentions, as the master calls it in them 'ere stories."

My father is Frank Marchant, the famous author. He writes stories, and sells them—at least, he sells some of them. He would sell them all if editors had literary taste.

"Has he left off paying them?" I inquired.

"Left off! Not 'im."

"Then, why aren't you satisfied?"

She walked over to the dresser, and hung up some cups.

"I ain't good enough for 'im," she said, "an' that's gospel truth. 'E's a perfick gen'l'man, that's wot 'e is. An' as for eddication! Why, 'e can write a letter as easy as kiss my 'and!"

"Does he kiss your hand often?"

"I'd like to ketch 'im!"

"I thought when people were—were 'paying attentions'"

Jane laughed, scornfully. "'Ands wasn't made for kissin'," she said. I do not think Jane's were!

"No-o. What is he like?"

She started cleaning the fender. "There ain't nothink the matter with 'is looks."

"Is he tall?"

"'Bout middlin'."

"And handsome?"

"A proper figger of aman, I call 'im."

"Dark or fair?"

"You might say as 'e's fair, considering 'is 'air is lightish. Some people sez as it's red." She scowled at the fireplace. "Pack of nonsense! An' if it was red, wot 'ud it matter? It's 'is ways wot I look to." "Of course. What is his name?"

"You ain't 'alf inquisitive!"

"Don't be rude, Jane," I said, severely. I am not at all inquisitive; but I like to know about things.

"Well," she said, "it's Claude Montmorency. It was partly the name wot I took to."

I thought that "Mrs. Claude Montmorency" would sound funny for Jane, but I did not say so. Father says that tact is another name for holding one's tongue.

"It ain't nothink to 'is manners," she assured me. "You should 'ear 'im say 'Good evenin', Miss De Vere,' when I—" She stopped suddenly, and turned so very red that I knew she was blushing.

"Miss De Vere!" I looked at her. "Oh, Jane!"

"'Ow could I tell 'im a name like 'Arris?"

"You'll have to tell him sooner or later."

"There's lots of things I'll 'ave to tell 'im sooner or later. That's wot's on my mind." She wiped her eyes.

"You haven't been passing yourself off for somebody else?" She nodded. "It isn't right."

She put the fender down with a bang. "I never said as it was. ... Wish I 'adn't never been born."

I knew it was very wrong, and I ought to have been cross with her; but she began crying dreadfully, so I couldn't. Jane is a great worry to me; but she means well.

"What have you told him?" I asked.

"More'n I can remember. An' bound to go an' contradic' myself some time or other. I said as I was companion to a lady, wot treated me like one of the fambly; an' 'ad expectations from my uncle—wot I 'adn't never none; an' as I could play the planner beautiful, an' sing. Some of them songs of yours an' the master's I tole 'im, like 'Jerusalem, wot Slayest the Profits,' an' '’Oner 'er 'Arms.' They're classy ones, ain't they?"

"Ye-es," I agreed; "I think they are." I am afraid they are not Jane's class!

"An' as I knowed French." I could not help laughing. "Well, I 'ave learned a bit, from 'earin' you teach the boys." I try to help them with their home lessons; but I am afraid my own pronunciation is not very good. "An' 'ad late dinner, I said, an' bête noir afterward."

"Bête noir!" I cried, "What do you mean?"

"Coffee without milk, you said it was."

"Er—yes." She meant café noir, of course!

"An' as I'd been to Paris, an' seed the Bridge of Sighs there, wot 'e 'adn't noticed. So I 'ad the best of 'im for once. I seed it at the Exhibition, wot master give me an' my sister tickets for, you remember." She was thinking of Venice, of course. "I got a rare good mem'ry, excep' for mixin' up things." "Ye-es. If I were you, I shouldn't tell him any more things that aren't—that you haven't seen."

"No more I ain't goin' to; but that won't call back wot I've told 'im already."

"Perhaps he'll forget, if you don't say any more about them."

She shook her head. "Not 'im. 'E's an orful one for recollectin'. Arst me twice last evenin' about Lord Blackfriars."

"About whom?"

She pretended to be looking for something in the cupboard "Another genl'man, wot was after me, I said." "Oh, Jane! how could you?"

"Didn't want 'im to think as I was goin' too cheap. Made 'im rare wild, anyhow. 'E said as 'e'd knock 'is 'ead off for tuppence; an' no lords wasn't never to be trusted—wot I knew, of course, an' ev'rybody does."

Jane knows all about lords—in novelettes.

"What are you going to do now?" I inquired.

"That's wot I was goin' to arsk you, seem' as you're a sharp vm, if you ain't no age." I shook my head. "Suppose as you was in my place?"

"I should not have told him such things."

I do not mean ever to fall in love; but, if I did, I should want him to like me just as I was, and not because I was something else that I wasn't.

"But supposin' you  'ad?"

"Then, I should tell him the truth."

She dropped the broom with a bang. "It ain't never no good askin' people for advice," she grumbled. "They always tell you wot you know; an' ain't goin' to do; an' they wouldn't neither. My aunt sez, wot you've 'eard me speak of—"

"I must go and dust the bedrooms," I said, hastily. I think Jane has told me all that her aunt has ever said; and she cannot work when she is talking.

Jane did not mention the gentleman again till she came in next evening. It was her night out, and I was in the kitchen making the coffee.

"'Ere," she said, "I'll do that." She hates to see me work, but I do not mind. "Do me good to take my mind off things." I could see that she had been crying.

"Have you quarreled?" I inquired.

"No one couldn't quarrel with 'im. 'E's too much of a gen'l'man. An' 'e sez—'e sez—" She put her head down on the table, and her shoulders shook dreadfully. I was so sorry for her.

"What did he say?" I thought she wanted to tell me, or I should not have asked.

"As I was a perfick little lady; an' that was why 'e thought so much of me. Oh, oh!" She rocked herself to and fro. "In course, I 'ad my gloves on; an' this 'at wot you chose for me, an' said yourself was 'refined.' I was glad I didn't 'ave that one with the big feather, 'cause 'e can't abear 'em, 'e sez. I done my best to speak quiet and proper—I done my best!"

"You speak much better lately," I told her. "There, there! Don't cry, there's a dear."

"I think of things more'n I did, don't I, Miss Molly?" "Much more," I agreed. I am afraid it was not quite true, because I had found the coffee in the tea-cannister; but I did not wish to upset her. "Your writing is improving, too." I was setting her copies.

"I'll get done early ev'ry day, an' do some more," she declared. "An', p'r'aps, 'e won't find out about my writin'. But I'll never be a scholar like 'e is."

Jane was very good all the rest of the week. I had to stop her from hitting Bob and Tommy on Saturday; but they had been calling her "Lady Jane," so I could not blame her, really.

She came to ask me if she was "all right," before she went out on Sunday. She wore the "refined" hat, and a new jacket. Father had sold several tales, so I had been able to pay up her wages. She has rather a pretty face, and she was much quieter and paler than usual. So, she really did look almost ladylike.

She was paler still when she came in, and hardly spoke. When I went up to bed, there was a light in her room, and I went in. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, with all her things on, looking at nothing. I sat down beside her, and put my arm around her.

"Poor old Jane!" I whispered.

"I can't go on like this any longer," she told me. "I can't, Miss Molly. I don't mean to see 'im any more. Lies is good enough for some people; but there's some as you can't bear tellin' 'em to. An' one thing leads to another, an', when you've begun, you 'ave to go on with it. There's more as I tole 'im to-night; an' could 'ave bit my tongue out."

"Tell him the truth," I begged. "Say that you did it because you—liked him. He'll forgive you then. I would."

"You are a little angel on earth." She put her head down on my shoulder. "An' 'e's only a man—though 'e's a gen'l'man."

It always makes me feel deceitful when people think I am good, because I know how cross I feel sometimes; but, of course, I try not to show it.

"Men who are kind are kinder than women," I told her. "If he is like father, he will be very nice to you."

"'E won't. An' if 'e did, 'e'd look down on me all the rest of my life. It's no good arguin'. I won't do it. I won't!"

"Then what will you do?"

She caught hold of my wrist so tightly that it hurt.

"I'm goin' to—break it off."

"He'll ask the reason."

"'E won't 'ave the chance. I'm goin' to write to 'im. You'll 'elp me with the spellin', won't you?"

"It would be better for you to see him."

She laughed a funny laugh. "People don't always do wot's best for theirselves. I'm goin' to do wot's best for  'im. I ain't good enough for 'im. Miss Molly; an' I ain't goin' to give 'im no chance of makin' a fool of 'isself, as 'e'd be sorry for afterward. Only, I don't want 'im to think too 'ard of me. If somebody wotdd say a word for me—somebody wot 'ad the gift of persuadin' people!" She looked at me, appealingly.

"Father?" I suggested. Father is very clever, as well as good, and knows how to say things so that they seem different.

"You!" she said.

I drew a deep breath. "I can't say things like father can."

"You'll say the kindest things of me of anybody. You will, won't you, Miss Molly?"

"Yes, dear," I promised. "I will if you wish it. Now, go to bed."

I helped her to get to bed, and I turned down the gas, and went to the door. Then, I went back and kissed her. I knew that, if I were in trouble, she would be kind to me.

She wrote a lot of letters on Monday, and tore them up. Then, I wrote one for her. The spelling was quite right, because I looked out all the long words in the dictionary, and I took great pains with the writing; but she tore it up, like the others.

"It's a beautiful letter, Miss Molly," she said, "but it ain't mine. I won't make no pretense any more. He shall see as I ain't no account at spellin' or writin'. I won't go for to deceive 'im again." And the letter that she wrote was this:

Mr. Montmorency was to meet her by Lion Square, at seven on Tuesday evening, and I agreed to take the letter instead. I should know him, she told me, by his wearing a check cap, and carrying a cane with a gold knob. "Most like 'e'll be whistlin' 'Sally in Our Alley,' or 'Vi'lets,'" she added, as she saw me off at the door. "Sez it sets 'im whistlin' when 'e thinks of me! An' you'll tell 'im as I was orftd sorry—You needn't worrit about me. I'll be 'avin' a fine game with the boys. I'm comin, Master Tommy. You—you'll speak kind of me, won't you, Miss Molly? I'll be better as soon as you've gone."

I thought she would, so I went. I cried a little, myself; but I was all right when I reached the square.

There was nobody there but a round-faced, grinning young man with a reddish mustache. He was walking up and down, and looking around as if he expected somebody. When he passed me for the third time, I noticed that he was whistling "Violets;" and he had a cane with a yellow knob, and a checked cap. It flashed across me that he was Jane's gentleman; and he wasn't a gentleman at all!

He caught me looking at him, and stopped; and I stopped, too. Then, he saw the letter in my hand.

"Beggin' yotir pardon, miss," he said. "Do you 'appen to 'ave a message from Miss de Vere?"

"You are Mr. Montmorency?"

"That's me. Ain't nothink the matter with 'er, is there?"

"She is well, but—" I stopped because I did not know what to say.

"Can't she come?"

"No-o. At least, she thought it better not to. There has been a misunderstanding about—your relative social position." I had made up my mind that this was a good way to put it.

"Ah!" he said; "so that's it?"

"Of course, position isn't everything. You may think it doesn't matter." He seemed a nice young man, but I did not think he was too gentlemanly for Jane.

He shook his head. "It matters a good deal."

"If you think that," I said, "I need not say any more." I was disappointed in him.

"Doesn't she think it matters?" he asked.

"Ye-es; but if you tried to persuade her"

"Not me," he said, decidedly. "She's quite right—I don't deserve 'er."

"I don't think you do," I told him. "She is a very good girl."

"Girl!" he cried. "She's a lady, ev'ry inch of 'er!"

I looked at him in astonishment.

"Then, why don't you marry her?" I asked.

He stared at me. "I'll tell you, missie," he said, slowly. "It won't make me feel no worse'n I've felt this last three weeks. It's because she's a lady— an' I ain't."

"No-o," I agreed; "of course not!"

"But I tried to pass myself off as one—I mean a gen'rman. An' she's foun' me out."

"But, Mr. Montmorency"

He held up his hand. "That ain't my right name. It's 'Ammond—Bill 'Ammond. An' I ain't no gen'l'man, but in the greengrocery line. It ain't a bad bus'ness for the likes of me; an' I got a real good little moke of my own; but I could see as it wouldn't do for the likes of 'er. So I tole 'er—lies. I ain't no class, or I wouldn't never 'ave done it. Good night, miss."

He turned, and walked away so quickly that I was out of breath when I caught him.

"You haven't taken your letter," I said, "Mr.—Hammond. The address is Number 4, Elm Grove—the second house around the comer, if you want to see her." Then, I ran away.

Jane was taking the boys up to bed when I got home. I said that I would see to them, and sent her down-stairs. Before she reached the kitchen, I heard a knock at the side-door.

"Who's that?" the boys asked.

I listened for a moment. "Somebody for Jane," I told them. Then, I shut the door, and romped with them. It was great fun; and I laughed so much that I cried!

I did not go down to the kitchen till I heard the side-door close. It was an hour and three-quarters, and a few minutes over. Jane was running between the dresser and the table to get the supper ready, and smiling all over her face.

"The deceit of the man!" she said. "I give it to 'im proper, I tell you!"

"Oh!" I said; "then it's all off, I suppose?"

Jane grinned.

"You don't suppose nothink of the sort," she said. "An'—an' God bless you, Miss Molly, dear!"

She flung her arms suddenly around me, and kissed me. It was a great liberty—but I did not mind!