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by H. G. Wells
As I sit writing in my study, I can hear our Jane bumping her way downstairs with a brush and dust-pan. She used in the old days to sing hymn tunes, or the British national song for the time being, to these instruments, but latterly she has been silent and even careful over her work. Time was when I prayed with fervour for such silence, and my wife with sighs for such care, but now they have come we are not so glad as we might have anticipated we should be. Indeed, I would rejoice secretly, though it may be unmanly weakness to admit it, even to hear Jane sing âDaisy,â or, by the fracture of any plate but one of Euphemiaâs best green ones, to learn that the period of brooding has come to an end.
Yet how we longed to hear the last of Janeâs young man before we heard the last of him! Jane was always very free with her conversation to my wife, and discoursed admirably in the kitchen on a variety of topicsâso well, indeed, that I sometimes left my study door openâour house is a small oneâto partake of it. But after William came, it was always William, nothing but William; William this and William that; and when we thought William was worked out and exhausted altogether, then William all over again. The engagement lasted altogether three years; yet how she got introduced to William, and so became thus saturated with him, was always a secret. For my part, I believe it was at the street corner where the Rev. Barnabas Baux used to hold an open-air service after evensong on Sundays. Young Cupids were wont to flit like moths round the paraffin flare of that centre of High Church hymn-singing. I fancy she stood singing hymns there, out of memory and her imagination, instead of coming home to get supper, and William came up beside her and said, âHello!â âHello yourself!â she said; and etiquette being satisfied, they proceeded to talk together.
As Euphemia has a reprehensible way of letting her servants talk to her, she soon heard of him. âHe is SUCH a respectable young man, maâam,â said Jane, âyou donât know.â Ignoring the slur cast on her acquaintance, my wife inquired further about this William.
âHe is second porter at Maynardâs, the draperâs,â said Jane, âand gets eighteen shillingsânearly a poundâa week, mâm; and when the head porter leaves he will be head porter. His relatives are quite superior people, mâm. Not labouring people at all. His father was a greengrosher, mâm, and had a churnor, and he was bankrupâ twice. And one of his sisters is in a Home for the Dying. It will be a very good match for me, mâm,â said Jane, âme being an orphan girl.â
âThen you are engaged to him?â asked my wife.
âNot engaged, maâam; but he is saving money to buy a ringâhammyfist.â
âWell, Jane, when you are properly engaged to him you may ask him round here on Sunday afternoons, and have tea with him in the kitchen;â for my Euphemia has a motherly conception of her duty towards her maid-servants. And presently the amethystine ring was being worn about the house, even with ostentation, and Jane developed a new way of bringing in the joint so that this gage was evident. The elder Miss Maitland was aggrieved by it, and told my wife that servants ought not to wear rings. But my wife looked it up in âEnquire Withinâ and âMrs. Motherlyâs Book of Household Managementâ, and found no prohibition. So Jane remained with this happiness added to her love.
The treasure of Janeâs heart appeared to me to be what respectable people call a very deserving young man. âWilliam, maâam,â said Jane one day suddenly, with ill-concealed complacency, as she counted out the beer bottles, âWilliam, maâam, is a teetotaller. Yes, mâm; and he donât smoke. Smoking, maâam,â said Jane, as one who reads the heart, âDO make such a dust about. Beside the waste of money. AND the smell. However, I suppose they got to do itâsome of them...â
William was at first a rather shabby young man of the ready-made black coat school of costume. He had watery gray eyes, and a complexion appropriate to the brother of one in a Home for the Dying. Euphemia did not fancy him very much, even at the beginning. His eminent respectability was vouched for by an alpaca umbrella, from which he never allowed himself to be parted.
âHe goes to chapel,â said Jane. âHis papa, maâamââ
âHis WHAT, Jane?â
âHis papa, maâam, was Church: but Mr. Maynard is a Plymouth Brother, and William thinks it Policy, maâam, to go there too. Mr. Maynard comes and talks to him quite friendly when they ainât busy, about using up all the ends of string, and about his soul. He takes a lot of notice, do Mr. Maynard, of William, and the way he saves his soul, maâam.â
Presently we heard that the head porter at Maynardâs had left, and that William was head porter at twenty-three shillings a week. âHe is really kind of over the man who drives the van,â said Jane, âand him married, with three children.â And she promised in the pride of her heart to make interest for us with William to favour us so that we might get our parcels of drapery from Maynardâs with exceptional promptitude.
After this promotion a rapidly-increasing prosperity came upon Janeâs young man. One day we learned that Mr. Maynard had given William a book. ââSmilesâ âElp Yourself,â itâs called,â said Jane; âbut it ainât comic. It tells you how to get on in the world, and some what William read to me was LOVELY, maâam.â
Euphemia told me of this, laughing, and then she became suddenly grave. âDo you know, dear,â she said, âJane said one thing I did not like. She had been quiet for a minute, and then she suddenly remarked, âWilliam is a lot above me, maâam, ainât he?ââ
âI donât see anything in that,â I said, though later my eyes were to be opened.
One Sunday afternoon about that time I was sitting at my writing-deskâ possibly I was reading a good bookâwhen a something went by the window. I heard a startled exclamation behind me, and saw Euphemia with her hands clasped together and her eyes dilated. âGeorge,â she said in an awe-stricken whisper, âdid you see?â
Then we both spoke to one another at the same moment, slowly and solemnly: âA silk hat! Yellow gloves! A new umbrella!â
âIt may be my fancy, dear,â said Euphemia; âbut his tie was very like yours. I believe Jane keeps him in ties. She told me a little while ago, in a way that implied volumes about the rest of your costume, âThe master DO wear pretty ties, maâam.â And he echoes all your novelties.â
The young couple passed our window again on their way to their customary walk. They were arm in arm. Jane looked exquisitely proud, happy, and uncomfortable, with new white cotton gloves, and William, in the silk hat, singularly genteel!
That was the culmination of Janeâs happiness. When she returned, âMr. Maynard has been talking to William, maâam,â she said, âand he is to serve customers, just like the young shop gentlemen, during the next sale. And if he gets on, he is to be made an assistant, maâam, at the first opportunity. He has got to be as gentlemanly as he can, maâam; and if he ainât, maâam, he says it wonât be for want of trying. Mr. Maynard has took a great fancy to him.â
âHe IS getting on, Jane,â said my wife.
âYes, maâam,â said Jane thoughtfully; âhe IS getting on.â
And she sighed.
That next Sunday as I drank my tea I interrogated my wife. âHow is this Sunday different from all other Sundays, little woman? What has happened? Have you altered the curtains, or re-arranged the furniture, or where is the indefinable difference of it? Are you wearing your hair in a new way without warning me? I perceive a change clearly, and I cannot for the life of me say what it is.â
Then my wife answered in her most tragic voice, âGeorge,â she said, âthat William has not come near the place to-day! And Jane is crying her heart out upstairs.â
There followed a period of silence. Jane, as I have said, stopped singing about the house, and began to care for our brittle possessions, which struck my wife as being a very sad sign indeed. The next Sunday, and the next, Jane asked to go out, âto walk with William,â and my wife, who never attempts to extort confidences, gave her permission, and asked no questions. On each occasion Jane came back looking flushed and very determined. At last one day she became communicative.
âWilliam is being led away,â she remarked abruptly, with a catching of the breath, apropos of tablecloths. âYes, mâm. She is a milliner, and she can play on the piano.â
âI thought,â said my wife, âthat you went out with him on Sunday.â
âNot out with him, mâmâafter him. I walked along by the side of them, and told her he was engaged to me.â
âDear me, Jane, did you? What did they do?â
âTook no more notice of me than if I was dirt. So I told her she should suffer for it.â
âIt could not have been a very agreeable walk, Jane.â
âNot for no parties, maâam.â
âI wish,â said Jane, âI could play the piano, maâam. But anyhow, I donât mean to let HER get him away from me. Sheâs older than him, and her hair ainât gold to the roots, maâam.â
It was on the August Bank Holiday that the crisis came. We do not clearly know the details of the fray, but only such fragments as poor Jane let fall. She came home dusty, excited, and with her heart hot within her.
The millinerâs mother, the milliner, and William had made a party to the Art Museum at South Kensington, I think. Anyhow, Jane had calmly but firmly accosted them somewhere in the streets, and asserted her right to what, in spite of the consensus of literature, she held to be her inalienable property. She did, I think, go so far as to lay hands on him. They dealt with her in a crushingly superior way. They âcalled a cab.â There was a âscene,â William being pulled away into the four-wheeler by his future wife and mother-in-law from the reluctant hands of our discarded Jane. There were threats of giving her âin charge.â
âMy poor Jane!â said my wife, mincing veal as though she was mincing William. âItâs a shame of them. I would think no more of him. He is not worthy of you.â
âNo, mâm,â said Jane. âHe IS weak.
âBut itâs that woman has done it,â said Jane. She was never known to bring herself to pronounce âthat womanâsâ name or to admit her girlishness. âI canât think what minds some women must haveâto try and get a girlâs young man away from her. But there, it only hurts to talk about it,â said Jane.
Thereafter our house rested from William. But there was something in the manner of Janeâs scrubbing the front doorstep or sweeping out the rooms, a certain viciousness, that persuaded me that the story had not yet ended.
âPlease, mâm, may I go and see a wedding tomorrow?â said Jane one day.
My wife knew by instinct whose wedding. âDo you think it is wise, Jane?â she said.
âI would like to see the last of him,â said Jane.
âMy dear,â said my wife, fluttering into my room about twenty minutes after Jane had started, âJane has been to the boot-hole and taken all the left-off boots and shoes, and gone off to the wedding with them in a bag. Surely she cannot meanââ
âJane,â I said, âis developing character. Let us hope for the best.â
Jane came back with a pale, hard face. All the boots seemed to be still in her bag, at which my wife heaved a premature sigh of relief. We heard her go upstairs and replace the boots with considerable emphasis.
âQuite a crowd at the wedding, maâam,â she said presently, in a purely conversational style, sitting in our little kitchen, and scrubbing the potatoes; âand such a lovely day for them.â She proceeded to numerous other details, clearly avoiding some cardinal incident.
âIt was all extremely respectable and nice, maâam; but HER father didnât wear a black coat, and looked quite out of place, maâam. Mr. Piddingquirkââ
âWHO?â
âMr. PiddingquirkâWilliam that was, maâamâhad white gloves, and a coat like a clergyman, and a lovely chrysanthemum. He looked so nice, maâam. And there was red carpet down, just like for gentlefolks. And they say he gave the clerk four shillings, maâam. It was a real kerridge they hadânot a fly. When they came out of church there was rice-throwing, and her two little sisters dropping dead flowers. And someone threw a slipper, and then I threw a bootââ
âThrew a BOOT, Jane!â
âYes, maâam. Aimed at her. But it hit HIM. Yes, maâam, hard. Gev him a black eye, I should think. I only threw that one. I hadnât the heart to try again. All the little boys cheered when it hit him.â
After an intervalââI am sorry the boot hit HIM.â
Another pause. The potatoes were being scrubbed violently. âHe always WAS a bit above me, you know, maâam. And he was led away.â
The potatoes were more than finished. Jane rose sharply with a sigh, and rapped the basin down on the table.
âI donât care,â she said. âI donât care a rap. He will find out his mistake yet. It serves me right. I was stuck up about him. I ought not to have looked so high. And I am glad things are as things are.â
My wife was in the kitchen, seeing to the higher cookery. After the confession of the boot-throwing, she must have watched poor Jane fuming with a certain dismay in those brown eyes of hers. But I imagine they softened again very quickly, and then Janeâs must have met them.
âOh, maâam,â said Jane, with an astonishing change of note, âthink of all that MIGHT have been! Oh, maâam, I COULD have been so happy! I ought to have known, but I didnât know...Youâre very kind to let me talk to you, maâam...for itâs hard on me, maâam...itâs har-r-r-r-dââ
And I gather that Euphemia so far forgot herself as to let Jane sob out some of the fullness of her heart on a sympathetic shoulder. My Euphemia, thank Heaven, has never properly grasped the importance of âkeeping up her position.â And since that fit of weeping, much of the accent of bitterness has gone out of Janeâs scrubbing and brush work.
Indeed, something passed the other day with the butcher-boyâbut that scarcely belongs to this story. However, Jane is young still, and time and change are at work with her. We all have our sorrows, but I do not believe very much in the existence of sorrows that never heal.