Front matter (continued 5)

"For the time being, she was Mrs. Tallet, you see," Curly explained.

"It wasn't her appearance only, her whole atmosphere seemed so grasping and grim."

"That," Curly remarked sententiously, "is acting."

* * * * *

It was gala day at the dancing-class, and Mr. Wycherly sat on the raised daïs reserved for parents and onlookers. He had come to watch Jane-Anne as a pupil for the last time.

There were many "fancy dances" performed by fresh-faced girls who manipulated their accordion-pleated skirts with a certain pretty pride in their achievement—all but Jane-Anne.

She, slender and dark, with little oval face and shadowy heavy hair, drawn back from her forehead, with the upward sweep of Botticelli's angels—she danced!

She wore a plain little frock of black chiffon, caught in round her slender waist by a narrow black cord.

Mrs. Methuen had chosen the dress, and it was full of distinction in its dainty severity; such a plain little dress among its rainbow-hued, fresh-millinered companions.

And how she danced!

Floating to and fro on the waves of sound like an autumn leaf blown by the wind.

Suddenly, by one of those flashes of telepathy that on occasion lighten across the path of all of us, Mr. Wycherly became acutely conscious that his was not the only soul stirred by this perfect dancing. And the knowledge that his enthusiastic appreciation was shared stirred in him no feeling save that of uncomfortable foreboding.

He put on his eye-glasses and looked across the room. There, near the door, he saw Curly accompanied by a small, fair man in a fur coat, a clean-shaven man whose full blue eyes expressed both interest and pleasure, pleasure keen as his own had been. And there was subtly communicated to Mr. Wycherly a sense of impending change, and a sensation of excited interrogation, so strong that he found himself mentally demanding: "What will he do?"

And the ecstasy with which he had at first watched Jane-Anne was interrupted and invaded by a host of alien doubts and speculations.

For he knew that the fates were busy weaving, and that the central figure in their fabric was that of the slender girl in black who danced.

And nothing happened.

Curly and the man in the fur coat went away in a few minutes, and neither of them had attempted to speak to Jane-Anne when her dance ended.

But, all the same, the end was the end Mr. Wycherly had refused to face. When it actually came to the point of granting or withholding his permission, he bade her God speed and sent her forth. The flame in her shone luminous and clear; there was no questioning it; and it seemed to him the better part to feed the fire that burned so steadily on the altar of her high endeavour.

Mrs. Dew neither approved nor opposed. For some years now she had felt Jane-Anne was growing beyond her; always incomprehensible, she was now on a plane that her good aunt could only touch by means of the steady affection she had always felt. That way she could always reach Jane-Anne. Since her niece was not to be a respectable servant in a good family, it seemed to Mrs. Dew that all other careers were equally chimerical and dangerous. The girl might try this play-acting. If it failed—why, the master would have her back. Mrs. Dew was sure of that, and was therefore less anxious than might have been expected.

With a diffidence she had never shown before, she followed Jane-Anne into her bedroom the afternoon before she left Holywell, and stood at the end of the bed watching the tall girl on her knees beside the new trunk she herself had given her.

"Look here, Jane-Anne," she said suddenly, and because she was very much in earnest she lapsed into the broad Gloucestershire of her youth. "I'm not one as can talk religious—a good sharp scoldin's more in my line—but I'd be glad that you should remember as you come of a most respectable family. There's bin Burfords in Great Stanley for two 'undred year, and so far as we do know, never a light woman amongst 'em."

"Two hundred years," Jane-Anne echoed. "Why, then I must have ancestors, after all."

"You can call 'em ancestors, if you do please," Mrs. Dew continued; "we do call 'em forbears where I comes from. Well, as I was sayin', I'd have you remember, an' if you feels carried away and giddy-like, just think as there's a hold aunt down in Oxford as sets great store by you——"

Mrs. Dew's voice broke; Jane-Anne rose hastily from her knees and ran to her aunt, and took her in her arms.

"Aunt, dear," she said, "I will remember."

"I never 'eard," Mrs. Dew went on in a muffled tone, "anything to speak of about your father's people. For all I know, he might 'ave come from some of them 'eathen gods and goddesses, bad lots they were, and it's that as makes we so worrited. Burford blood you can depend on—but I'm sure as it's the Grecian comin' out as drives you to play-acting."

Very gently Jane-Anne withdrew her arms from about her aunt.

"I know I'm often silly," she said humbly, "but you mustn't blame my father for that."

"You're as the Lard made you," Mrs. Dew remarked drily, "and you can but try and make the best of a bad job. But remember this—if you feels ill, or if you wants me any time for any reason, a telegram'll bring me just every bit as quick as I can put foot to the ground and find somebody to do for the master while I be away. You bear that in mind."

"You're very good to me, aunt," said Jane-Anne, and flung her arms round Mrs. Dew's neck once more.

She and Mr. Wycherly went to evensong in the cathedral. It was the fourth of January, and the "proper psalms" were the twenty-second and the twenty-third. Jane-Anne shivered with a chilly sense of foreboding as the wailing chant rang out, echoing eerily in the great arched roof.

"I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint: my heart also in the midst of my body is even like melting wax."

Presently the minor changed to something infinitely serene and sweet and comforting; and to Jane-Anne standing timidly on the threshold of her new life, there was promise of help that could not fail her in the assurance:

"The Lord is my shepherd therefore can I lack nothing." And at the final verse: "But Thy loving kindness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life..." she thrust her little hand into that of her old friend, and his closed over it with a firm and understanding clasp.

When the day, so charged with various emotions, came to an end, and she went to bid him good-night, she found him standing on the hearth-rug in the firelight. Montagu had gone for a few days to a school-friend before he came up to New, and they were all alone.

Mr. Wycherly's lamp was turned out, but the room was full of warm, rosy light, and Jane-Anne remembered how she had looked in and longed wistfully to share in his kind glance, all those long years ago. They had had many talks together, those two, over the coming change, and each knew the other's hopes and fears. The old must realise that farewells are their portion. Only a month or two before Mr. Wycherly had seen Edmund set out on his first voyage, and now this other child was sailing forth on the great sea of life, leaving him behind to dream and pray that fortune and fair winds might enwheel them both.

She came and stood beside him, laying light, gentle hands upon his shoulders, looking at him the while with the kind, faithful eyes he loved so well.

"Dear," she said, "do you know at all how I feel?"

"My child," he answered, "you feel, I know, everything that is best and most beautiful, but there is just one thing that I would like you to write upon the tablets of your heart, and that is, the remembrance that here, in Oxford, there is an old man who would give his life's blood to serve you; to whom all that concerns you is absolutely vital. Will you remember always that, whether you are glad or sorry, successful or unfortunate, most of all if ever—which God forbid—you should be unfortunate—your home is here."

"I will remember," said Jane-Anne, and kissed him.

No one went with her next day to London. She preferred to go alone. Curly was to meet her, and she was to start that night with the rest of the company for the town in the north where their first engagement was.

Gantry Bill wandered disconsolately about the house in Holywell all that day. He could settle nowhere. His beautiful tranquillity was quite broken up. He pattered to and fro, and whined faintly at intervals. Mrs. Dew tempted him in vain with the choicest morsels in his special bowl.

At last, after dinner, he sought Mr. Wycherly in his study, scratching vigorously at the door until he was admitted. Once in, he walked about sniffing dubiously; finally, going to Mr. Wycherly, and with his paws across his knees, leant heavily upon him, and looked up in his face, plainly asking, "Where is she?"

This was Gantry Bill's favourite attitude with Jane-Anne. He was too big and heavy for her to nurse, but he loved to stand on his hind legs and lean his body across her knees, while she, generally immersed in a book, absently stroked his head.

"She's gone, Gantry Bill," Mr. Wycherly said, in answer to his look. "She has gone away and left us, and we must just make the best of it."

Gantry Bill gave a sudden lurch and arranged his whole heavy person across Mr. Wycherly's knees. He weighed forty-four pounds, but somehow Mr. Wycherly had not the heart to drive him away.

Instead, he stroked him absently, and murmured:

"Say I'm weary, say I'm sad;

Say that health and wealth have missed me;

Say I'm growing old, but add—

Jenny kissed me."

THE END