JAUNTY 
 N CHARGE 
 
 MRS. GEORGE WEMYSS
 
 r 
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. GEORGE WEMYSS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 C81 FIFTH AVENUE
 
 PUBLISHED, IBIS, 
 
 BT 
 
 B. P. DUTTON & CO. 
 
 Pviated to the Uaited SUte* of Amri*
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 WHEN old Mr. Lawrence died he left a share of his busi- 
 ness to his nephew John Lawrence, and such piece of 
 furniture or picture as his nephew should choose. Now 
 John Lawrence knew well both the furniture and the pic- 
 tures, and wanted none of them. But it was willed he must 
 make his choice, so he pondered perplexedly. 
 
 In one of the armchairs, it was said, the great Duke of 
 Wellington had once sat. In the other a chair just as 
 old, just as strong, just as spacious no one had ventured 
 to say the great Napoleon had ever sat. Whereas Jaunty, 
 clerk to old Mr. Lawrence, must often have sat in both. 
 
 So John Lawrence chose Jaunty. 
 
 The partner of the late Mr. Lawrence pressed a picture 
 upon young John, and young John chose, under compul- 
 sion, the portrait of an old man wearing a wig. There was 
 nothing interesting about the picture, except that the wig 
 was so exactly like a wig, but the partner seemed so ready 
 to part with it that John took it. And as he had not where 
 to hang a picture he gave it to a friend about to marry, and 
 straightway the picture ceased to be the portrait of an old 
 man in a wig and became the distinguished ancestor of 
 John's friend. 
 
 The partner did not press Jaunty upon John because 
 Jaunty was uncommonly useful. On the other hand, John 
 Lawrence had shown so great a delicacy and niceness in 
 naming what he thought should be his fair share of the busi- 
 
 1 
 
 1711726
 
 8 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 ness, that the partner felt bound, as a gentleman, to throw 
 Jaunty in. 
 
 There remained just one chance. He took it, and draw- 
 ing John aside whispered that long ago Johnson, com- 
 monly called Jaunty, had taken under strong temptation 
 a sum of money, meaning, of course, to pay it back. 
 
 John asked if it were necessary he should hear this, and 
 the partner said he thought so. "I kept him," he added. 
 
 "Of course," said John. "What else could you have 
 done?" 
 
 The partner hummed and hawed. He had looked for 
 praise. In the young man's voice he found censure. 
 
 "Did you raise his salary?" asked John. 
 
 "Well, hardly," said the partner, smiling. 
 
 "But if he hadn't been able to do with what he had be- 
 fore, was he likely to do . . ." 
 
 The partner laid his hand on young John's arm. "It's 
 not the usual method, my dear boy." 
 
 "No? . . . Well, it's mine." 
 
 John called Jaunty. He came. 
 
 "Well, Jaunty, I have my choice of a piece of furniture 
 in the office ... I have chosen you. Will you come?" 
 And Jaunty said, "Yes, sir, if you still wish it after you 
 have heard . . ." 
 
 "I have heard, and I still wish it. There is only one 
 thing to be said . . . there is no sum of money in the 
 world with which I would not trust you." 
 
 Even that declaration of faith wasn't enough for John. 
 The whole world had got to trust Jaunty, and he would see 
 that it did. He would take a house in the country, and 
 Jaunty should be churchwarden. Jaunty should hand the 
 plate on Sundays. He should be treasurer of everything 
 that wanted treasuring. "Come, Jaunty, we must talk 
 things over," and they went. 
 
 The partner watched their going, and he shook his head. 
 There was nothing of the business man in young John, and 
 he was dangerously impulsive. As a matter of fact in this
 
 I 
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 3 
 
 he was justified; the whole world had every right to trust 
 Jaunty. Of course he had not taken the money. He had 
 not denied taking it; but that had been in order to shield 
 another, dear to one, dear to him. So ... but there! it 
 was Jaunty all over, and he made no fuss about it, never 
 thought of himself as a hero, nor made any changes in the 
 Litany to suit his own particular needs. The only thing 
 that hurt him was that Mr. Lawrence should have been led 
 to believe him guilty. But then in forgiving him and 
 trusting him, Mr. Lawrence had shown him a side of hu- 
 man nature he adored, and as the years went by he came 
 to think of himself as much forgiven and much blessed. 
 After all, it is something to awake every morning forgiven. 
 
 When Mr. Lawrence and Jaunty left the office, Jaunty 
 asked what he was to be? in what capacity he was to 
 serve Mr. Lawrence? 
 
 "Not such long words, Jaunty, please; you'll frighten 
 the children." 
 
 Jaunty asked if there were children, and John said the 
 world was full of them. Jaunty knew that. "Yes, but in 
 particular, sir. You have none?" 
 
 "No, of course not; but long words become a habit, and 
 by the time I have children you won't be able to break 
 yourself of it, and my children must be happy. I insist 
 upon that. You mustn't frighten them. I believe man is 
 born into the world to make children happy. If he fails in 
 that he fails altogether . . ." 
 
 "In the meantime, sir?" said Jaunty meekly, believing 
 himself born for better things. 
 
 "Pray for their mother, Jaunty." 
 
 "Is she ill?" 
 
 "I hope not, I hope not. She may have fallen down and 
 cut her poor little knees, for all I know. On the other 
 hand, it is possible she is too old for that ... I don't 
 know; but pray for her." 
 
 "I gather, sir," said Jaunty, "that at present she is un- 
 known to you and as pleasant a dream as her children?"
 
 4 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "You have gathered rightly, but for all that she needs 
 your prayers." 
 
 At that time Jaunty thought there was no woman in the 
 world who wouldn't be the better for the prayers of an 
 honest man, but he didn't say so. 
 
 "Then begging your pardon, sir, I repeat ... in the 
 meantime ?" 
 
 "What shall you be? Suppose we say librarian?" 
 
 Jaunty was willing enough. So it was arranged, and 
 within the course of a few days he entered the service of 
 Mr. John Lawrence as librarian. 
 
 But the books where were they? 
 
 He looked round the room in which lodged Mr. Law- 
 rence. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence said for all he knew they might still be 
 lying unborn in the brains of their authors; in the pub- 
 lishers' offices, or in the bookshops. Jaunty, knowing bet- 
 ter, looked for them on barrows, in side streets. 
 
 "Write them yourself," suggested John; but Jaunty 
 shook his head, and he started to make a library after his 
 own heart and entirely to his own taste. He bought books 
 on kites; therefore the sum of money spent was not larger 
 than Mr. Lawrence could well afford, and the subject was 
 one that had interested Jaunty from his earliest boyhood. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence had no objection. What kind of a kite, 
 though? The bird, or the thing with a long string tail 
 that wouldn't go up ? 
 
 "Yes, sir, that kind," said Jaunty (not that he would so 
 have described it). 
 
 Then suddenly to Jaunty everything Mr. Lawrence did 
 was done suddenly and without premeditation John Law- 
 rence married the loveliest girl he had ever seen. Whether 
 he loved her because she was lovely, or whether she was 
 lovely because he loved her, Jaunty could never determine, 
 but lovely she was. 
 
 It was said not by those in authority that she had 
 only just left the schoolroom when John Lawrence fell in
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 5 
 
 love with her. They were wrong. Jaunty knew exactly 
 how it had happened. 
 
 She was still in the schoolroom when Mr. Lawrence fell 
 in love with her. She was about to leave it that was true 
 and hurriedly, so hurriedly that she ran out of the door 
 straight into the arms of Mr. Lawrence who was coming 
 in at the door. Jaunty's point was that she had not left 
 the schoolroom, and for the sake of argument he stuck to 
 his point. 
 
 It was said by those who were not in a position to 
 judge that John Lawrence had held her in his arms a 
 second longer than he need have done. But Jaunty denied 
 that. Mr. Lawrence wasn't the man to do such a thing. It 
 was purely accidental. If the accident hadn't happened 
 "it" might never have happened. By "it" Jaunty meant 
 the marriage; but he had to admit that "it" was a happy 
 accident of fortune and different from other marriages, in 
 which he had little faith. 
 
 The John Lawrences took a house in the country. They 
 took it for the strangest of reasons at least Jaunty 
 thought them strange. When he asked if the rooms were 
 good rooms, Mrs. Lawrence said she really didn't know a 
 wren had built in the creeper on the wall of the house, 
 that's why she had taken it. She loved wrens. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence took the house because Mrs. Lawrence 
 loved the wren that had built in the creeper that grew on 
 the wall, and he loved her. He didn't tell Jaunty that 
 was why, but Jaunty knew. 
 
 "Was there a view from the windows?" he asked, and 
 Mr. Lawrence said he hadn't looked out. 
 
 "You must go alone next time, sir," he said. 
 
 "Go alone where?" asked Mr. Lawrence. The very 
 thought was alarming. 
 
 "To look at a house," replied Jaunty. 
 
 "But we shall never look at another." 
 
 "It is taken, absolutely, then?" 
 
 It was taken absolutely, and Jaunty owned himself and
 
 6 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence lucky when he saw the house. 
 The wren had builded wisely, and there was a view from 
 the windows, and the rooms were large. 
 
 Although to Jaunty the house seemed large, there 
 wasn't room for both wife and librarian, so Jaunty to 
 whom, in his office days, it had become second nature to 
 say people were not at home when they most certainly 
 were became by mutual consent butler to Mr. and Mrs. 
 John Lawrence. "Not a butler, exactly, Jaunty," said 
 John. "Confidential butler." 
 
 "Most confidential," added Mrs. Lawrence, and she 
 looked at Jaunty with so great a kindliness that he became 
 just Jaunty, pure and simple, and remained it ever after. 
 
 There were no three happier people in the world than 
 those three until by a perfectly natural sequence of events 
 they became four. Although by many it was expected, to 
 Jaunty it ever remained a miracle, and the name of the 
 miracle was Pamela. When she was just tall enough to 
 sniff with zest at the rose nearest the ground, on a bush 
 that grew in the garden Jaunty holding on to the bow of 
 her sash behind the happy party of four became a radiant 
 community of five. And the name of the fifth was Sally. 
 
 Thenceforth Jaunty grew in dignity and decorum. Not 
 only had he one example to set now, but two. Two chris- 
 tening mugs to clean, two porridge spoons to clean; and 
 two babies to imprison, at meal-times, behind the bars of 
 two high chairs. 
 
 And so passed happy and uneventful years until Sally 
 began to pray straight to God and not to "peoples." Then 
 Jaunty, being of the "peoples," felt out of it. There was 
 nothing to prevent "peoples" listening, of course, so Jaunty 
 lingered and listened. 
 
 On her eighth birthday she prayed, "O God, make bad 
 people good and good people nice," and he wondered at the 
 wisdom of the child who had never been in business. 
 
 Ten years later, on her eighteenth birthday, she prayed, 
 "O God, give me romance, and don't let me marry the
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 7 
 
 curate, with ebony hair-brushes, and without opposition/' 
 and the curate in question wondered why Mr. Lawrence, 
 who was known to love his neighbour better than himself, 
 should never be at home to him. Jaunty knew; but not 
 having overheard Sally's prayer, attributed the rout of the 
 curate to no higher power than his own. For by the time 
 Sally was eighteen Jaunty was in charge and had been for 
 eight years ever since the death of Mrs. Lawrence. 
 
 After she died it was said by many in the village that 
 Jaunty took too much upon himself; that it was ridiculous 
 to suppose Mrs. Lawrence would have left her children 
 to the care of a butler, however good and devoted a servant 
 he might be, and however indifferent a butler. But Jaunty 
 affirmed calmly and with determination that as his lady 
 had died she had looked from him to her children, and from 
 her children back to him. So there was nothing more to 
 be said. Unless, of course, Mr. Lawrence chose to say it, 
 and as he was the last person in the world to wound a 
 faithful soul, it was never said and Jaunty remained in 
 charge. 
 
 And why not? He had the face of an Archbishop a 
 perplexed Archbishop, certainly, but surely all Archbishops 
 have the divine right at times to be perplexed and he had 
 a soul of pure gold and a mind above suspicion; unless he 
 had good reason to suspect; then had he not suspected he 
 had lacked perspicacity. He was as quick as any Arch- 
 bishop would have been, or as any one in the village was, 
 to see that Mr. Lawrence alone couldn't bring up two girls, 
 and there was no one else entitled to do it, except Mrs. 
 Lombard, an aunt, who made little effort to exert the au- 
 thority that Jaunty denied she possessed. 
 
 He made mistakes, of course, in ordering the children's 
 clothes. What man deserving of the name would not? 
 
 In answer to a letter of his, ordering six yards of Va- 
 nilla, striped blue and white, a very well-known and re- 
 spectable firm wrote:
 
 8 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "MADAM, With reference to your esteemed order for six 
 yards of Vanilla, striped blue and white, we are unable to pro- 
 cure the exact material, but beg to enclose patterns of Viyella, 
 which we trust may suit your purpose. 
 
 "Trusting to be favoured with your valued order, and as- 
 suring you at all times of our best services to all commands," 
 etc., etc. 
 
 And Jaunty blushed. He had done his best. 
 
 He did his best too when he ordered shoes for Pamela. 
 He sent an outline of her foot; but in drawing it he slanted 
 the pencil outwards, and the bootmaker wrote that he had 
 no such size in stock, but could procure the same; and 
 suggested a gentleman's shoe, a light walking shoe. Now 
 Pamela at that time was fifteen, tall and slender, with feet 
 small for her size and exceedingly straight and narrow. 
 
 Between her eighth and her eighteenth birthday much 
 happened to Sally. Much that was happy, much that was 
 sad. But all that was sad became as a gentle breeze ruf- 
 fling still waters compared to the devastating storm that 
 overwhelmed her at her mother's death. The waters closed 
 over her, and the darkness remained throughout all the 
 long days of her eleventh year. She knew she could never 
 be happy again, and no one in the village dared offer her 
 any comfort. Even Jaunty, who did all he could to coax 
 back her smiles, couldn't reassure her, because the desola- 
 tion was his too. But when the spring came, and every- 
 thing young began to stir, Sally too, as it were, awakened, 
 and groping in the darkness, she grasped hands with the 
 Infinite. She didn't know it, of course; all she knew was 
 that the world was a happy place after all, and she ran to 
 tell Jaunty so. She bribed him to listen. She would never 
 bother him again, but she was beginning to feel happy. 
 Things were bubbling up inside her. Was it wrong? And 
 Jaunty, rejoicing, said it was right. It was what She 
 would wish. 
 
 Jaunty always spoke of Mrs. Lawrence as She and Her, 
 and Sally, recognising that the words were whispered and
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 9 
 
 spelt in capital letters, didn't mind. But it troubled Pa- 
 mela. Jaunty troubled her altogether. She saw herself 
 chaperoned by him in the future, and it didn't do. Sally 
 had no such fears. Jaunty was Jaunty, which was expla- 
 nation enough. 
 
 "You understand things so," she said. "Nobody does, 
 like you," and Jaunty's soul sang a psalm of thanksgiving. 
 It was for this moment and other moments he had lived. 
 But the grammar, he couldn't let that pass unchallenged. 
 
 Sally was glad she had spoken even ungrammatically 
 to Jaunty and that he had understood. It explained so 
 much, that understanding of his. For one thing, his gentle- 
 ness; for another, his management of her father; his won- 
 derfulness altogether. 
 
 "She seems so near, miss," said Jaunty. 
 
 "She is, Jaunty, everywhere!" and Sally held out her 
 arms as if they would embrace the whole world. 
 
 "Sixteen, you are, miss," he said, measuring her as it 
 were across the wings. 
 
 Sally nodded. 
 
 "What about your hair?" 
 
 "Hair? What about it?" 
 
 "Should it be . . .?" Jaunty made a rolling up move- 
 ment with his hands. 
 
 Sally shook her head vehemently. 
 
 "If you do I shall cut it off. Yes, yes, yes !" 
 
 "No, miss, never!" Here Jaunty was determined. He 
 had Biblical authority to back him up. He wrote out the 
 passage from St. Paul, in which hair is commended as a 
 woman's glory, and had it pinned that evening on to Sally's 
 pillow. 
 
 Where the Scriptures were concerned, Sally was pre- 
 pared to be led by Jaunty. He had been her instructor 
 since she was so high. "So high" is a standard measure, 
 and every one who has loved a child knows just how high 
 it is. 
 
 It was when as an instructor Jaunty had failed most
 
 10 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 disastrously that as a butler he had shone most brilliantly. 
 When Sally was six years old he told her one day that she 
 mustn't be afraid of dogs, because dogs were sent by God 
 to take care of little children. 
 
 She listened to this with grave interest, then said, "I'm 
 very glad to hear that, because it will give Jesus a rest," 
 and Jaunty became all of a sudden a very busy butler and 
 gave up for the moment the religious instruction of Sally. 
 He had to recover. By her bedtime he imagined himself 
 recovered. He found his mistake when she said very sol- 
 emnly, "It's no use, Jaunty, praying to Jesus to-night, 
 because Jesus is having a rest, so I must pray to the 
 darlin', kind dogs," and she did. 
 
 Sally lived in a village and knew the dangers that beset 
 those who so live. Once when she had been naughty she 
 was told that, when she said her prayers that night, she 
 must tell God she had been naughty. 
 
 When asked if she had done it, she said, "No, I haven't, 
 and I don't mean to either." 
 
 She was asked, Why not? 
 
 "Because," she said, "God will tell Mrs. God, and it will 
 be all over the place." 
 
 But now she was sixteen and Jaunty was worrying about 
 her hair. He wasn't sure whether it should be up or down, 
 so he went to find Miss Pamela, who was learned in these 
 matters; and he found her in the hall standing before the 
 fire, and as she stood she thought, and as she thought she 
 pressed a log gently with the toe of her shoe. Then she 
 gave it a sudden kick and the sparks flew upwards. She 
 turned and saw Jaunty. 
 
 "Take them, please, Jaunty," she said, pointing with her 
 toe to the cups on the hearthrug, and as he stooped to pick 
 them up she swooped down and picked them up for him. 
 "So sorry, I always forget the creaky hinge in your back." 
 
 "It's the day to-morrow, miss," he said, straightening 
 himself. "You'll humour your father?"
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 11 
 
 "Yes, Jaunty dear, it's the day to-morrow; but all days 
 are the days, and all days we humour father." 
 
 "Yes, miss, She would expect it. She always did. She 
 seems so near." 
 
 "She is everywhere, Jaunty," and Pamela held out her 
 arms, and he said her sleeves pulled in the armholes, didn't 
 they ? And what was she going to do about clothes ? 
 
 "Clothes, Jaunty! It is possible to get clothes, given a 
 little money more or less ! a little taste a profoundly 
 optimistic spirit and a Frenchwoman, by the day but 
 what about a hundred other things? Do I know how to 
 come into a room harder still, how to leave it? Can I 
 attain to that social graciousness that exacts everything 
 and gives nothing? Have I the power to make slaves of 
 men, without which no woman's life is worth living? Now, 
 Jaunty, you shall be the French Ambassador no, the 
 Chinese, he is more ungetatable more inscrutable. You 
 must smile the part no, Jaunty, that is no smile there is 
 nothing behind that I can't read. It says quite plainly that 
 you want to get rid of me you must look as if you wanted 
 me to stay, and you must get rid of me at once that's 
 diplomacy." 
 
 "Your father wouldn't like you to meet a Chinaman un- 
 less he was present," objected Jaunty. 
 
 "Well, if you are so particular . . ." 
 
 "It's not me, miss, it's your father . . ." 
 
 "Very well, Jaunty, you shall be the Brazilian . . ." 
 
 "Black or white?" demanded Jaunty sternly. 
 
 "Now, Jaunty, no matter his colour. I will come into the 
 room wait !" 
 
 She went out of the room, waited a second, and opening 
 the door, came in. "That's right, Jaunty you are sur- 
 prised at my beauty the mouth less wide open, I think. 
 That's better." 
 
 "One moment, miss," said Jaunty. "You fail in the very 
 first essential. It is the duty of a distinguished lady to 
 make one feel at ease. You make me extremely uncom-
 
 12 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 fortable and I won't have it, miss, and neither would your 
 father. You have quite nice ways if you will use them as a 
 lady should, and not go about copying a second-rate ac- 
 tress. I wanted to talk to you about clothes." 
 
 "Talk, Jaunty, talk; but please remember, yokes and 
 tucks and sashes and bibs are things of the past; neither 
 is book muslin worn now nor dimity nor bombazine. 
 Tippets, too, must be relegated to the storehouse of your 
 memories. Neither can you mention pelisses nor must 
 you tell me to put on my bonnet, because I shall not do it 
 not for sixty years, at all events." 
 
 "You are eighteen, miss," said Jaunty plaintively. The 
 difference between eighteen and seventy-eight seemed im- 
 mense. Miss Pamela an old lady in a bonnet! 
 
 Pamela nodded. She knew it; who better? "Yes, 
 eighteen, and unkissed, unclothed, uncared for," she said, 
 raising her arms in mock despair. 
 
 He begged her to say no such thing. She was neither 
 the one nor the other nor the other and she laughed and 
 told him he was a ridiculous creature, as indeed he was, 
 and every one knew it; but it was only Pamela who dared 
 say it. Pamela dared much, and she dared it delightfully; 
 but it was Sally the village was anxious about. From the 
 Vicar downwards every one felt it to be his or her pleasant 
 duty to look after her, whereas she was perfectly prepared 
 to look after herself and every one else. 
 
 Jaunty dreaded the moment when his young ladies 
 should fall in love. He was prepared for almost any other 
 emergency. He comforted himself by thinking they were 
 much too young to think about such things as love. Poor 
 Jaunty, how little he knew ! Sally, it is true, didn't think 
 much about such things, but she was old enough to know 
 that Jimmy Beech was in love with Pamela, and Pamela 
 was too old not to guess it. But they were both wrong. 
 It was Sally Jimmy loved. He was quartered within rid- 
 ing distance of Panslea not easy riding distance, but 
 riding distance (love is no exact measurer of miles) ; and
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 13 
 
 when he had the time, he rode over and spent what was 
 left of the time in waiting for Sally. And while he waited 
 for Sally he looked at Pamela. 
 
 Every one looked at Pamela, who had the chance, and 
 having looked once they looked again, and every one looked 
 at her kindly; not so much because they wanted to, as that 
 she wanted them to, and it came to very much the same 
 thing, and that's how the muddle arose. Jimmy looked at 
 Pamela as she wanted him to look at her; but his thoughts 
 were with Sally. How should Pamela know that or Sally 
 either ? 
 
 So Sally was perfectly justified in telling her black 
 spaniel that some one was in love with "Aunt" Pamela 
 and it was a perfectly safe secret. So far as confidences 
 of women went the spaniel was a dark tomb. Where rab- 
 bits were concerned he had little reticence and no self- 
 control. But then Sally didn't pretend he was anything 
 but the comfort of her life. He wasn't a well-trained dog, 
 of course; but then her father wasn't a well-trained father; 
 nor was Jaunty a well-trained butler. But of their kinds 
 they were the best in the world. 
 
 One day after Jimmy had waited for Sally and had 
 looked at Pamela he went back to Barracks determined to 
 do something Sally had no business to be wandering 
 about for hours by herself, or Pamela to exist merely to be 
 looked at and he found a brother officer learning to write 
 Turkish with a wooden pen. It was the very incentive 
 Jimmy wanted. He hated writing a letter; but a pen like 
 this made it something of an adventure. So he took it up 
 and wrote to one Anne Beech. She was his sister, and he 
 loved her beyond everything in the world, with one excep- 
 tion, and the fact that she would accept that qualification 
 without a murmur made him love her all the more, for 
 she understood. A sister who understands knows much. 
 
 Anne Beech lived in London, and her dreams were of a 
 cottage in the country where she and Jimmy might some 
 day live supposing he did not marry (a vain supposition
 
 14 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 where brothers are concerned). She talked of her dreams 
 to no one except to a man called Michael Mason, and then 
 only from a sense of duty, because it seemed the kindest 
 way in which to tell him that his dreams could end in noth- 
 ing but a sad awakening. His dreams too were of a cot- 
 tage in the country, and the woman who should wait for 
 him at the gate was Anne. But Anne was determined to 
 wait at the gate for Jimmy. It had been a long made 
 promise. Jimmy's cottage must have a trout stream run- 
 ning through the garden. No right-minded man dreams of 
 a cottage without its stream, otherwise his dream would be 
 left high and dry. It was a delightful dream for Anne, 
 but Jimmy took up his wooden pen to write of another 
 dream altogether. 
 
 "Anne, darling," he wrote, in brave, black characters, 
 "you always understand I expect you know already what 
 I am going to say you have known all along, I am sure 
 I am in love. It's Sally Lawrence, of course. I can't 
 imagine it being any one else. I can't conceive any one in 
 his right mind thinking of any one else if he had once seen 
 her that's the worst part of it all ! She can't care for me, 
 why should she ? But you can come and j ust talk about me 
 very diplomatically, of course say how kind I am to 
 dogs and animals, etc. ! Jaunty does all he can, but think 
 of her brought up by Jaunty. She wants some one to look 
 after her frightfully. Pamela is far too pretty to bother 
 about it. She laughs all day . . . and you can't be angry 
 with her. Come and live near Sally! You might just as 
 well as in London then I should feel sure you would 
 make it all right. There's a cottage leaning up against the 
 village pump. Sally and I have been to see it. She says 
 if the rain-water butt was painted green the whole thing 
 would look quite different. Nobody uses the pump. The 
 roof would come off the cottage if they did. The rent is 
 thirty pounds. Buck up ! 
 
 "Dear Anne, I've got to serve my time. She's a child. 
 Do come and take care of her for me. Her mother was the
 
 15 
 
 most beautiful thing in the world. She was Sally, lit up. 
 I wonder if you will know what I mean. Sally will be just 
 like her. I want to be the lamplighter." 
 
 And Anne bucked up, and she came, and she took the 
 cottage, and the rain-water butt was painted green, and 
 the cottage did look different, and nobody used the pump. 
 But that wasn't the point. Was she looking after Sally? 
 She loved her, of course, and she talked Jimmy by the 
 hour, and nearly always at the end of it all Sally would 
 say, "I will tell Pamela," which wasn't in the least what) 
 Anne wanted. 
 
 Anne loved the cottage, and when she had loved it more 
 and more every day for six months Jimmy was ordered to 
 India. He went. Anne stayed behind to take care of Sally 
 for him. It was Pamela who cried at his going, but it was 
 Sally who looked to his coming back, and Jimmy felt the 
 pressure for hours of her hand on his. 
 
 That's how Anne came to the village, and Sally said 
 rather plaintively, "There do seem to be an enormous num- 
 ber of women in the world !" and she was right. 
 
 In the village alone they abounded, and that, after all, 
 was her world. 
 
 "Pamela says," she added, "that men can be so amusing." 
 
 There was no denying it, and a few more in the village 
 would have been a help in more ways than one; but there 
 was another woman still to come. Anne Beech didn't know 
 it; but the other woman was coming to look after her. 
 Anne was there to look after Sally. Janet Mason was com- 
 ing to look after Anne Beech for Michael Mason, and Anne 
 was worth looking after. She had a way with her, a frank 
 smile, and a warm handshake. In addition to these things 
 she had a graceful length of limb and a swinging walk. It 
 was worth going to the window to watch her pass. Those 
 whose windows opened outwards could see her without 
 difficulty. Those whose windows had to be raised and 
 their bodies projected through them in order or disorder 
 to see her, felt it worth the trouble.
 
 II 
 
 JUDGED by modest standards, the Lawrences' house was 
 large, and their income, judged by almost any, was small. 
 But that the income could not be so small as Mr. Lawrence 
 would make it out to be was evident to those of the smallest 
 intelligence, because after all things must be paid for, and 
 if they had not been paid for, the village would have heard 
 of it, and Jaunty would have paid, not in money, perhaps. 
 
 After the death of Mrs. Lawrence the house seemed to 
 grow larger and the income smaller. When it was sug- 
 gested to Mr. Lawrence, by various relatives, that he 
 should move into a smaller house, he refused even to think 
 of it. And his children knew why. Their mother had 
 lived in the rooms. The furniture, the books, were as she 
 had left them. If the carpets were old, her feet had trod- 
 den them, and in the eyes of her husband and children the 
 ground was sacred ground. 
 
 There were more than the husband and children who felt 
 that. There were those of the village, who talked softly 
 in those rooms, and who looked up quickly when a door 
 opened, only to look away again, remembering. 
 
 When Sally dyed the worst worn bits of red carpet with 
 beetroot juice, she felt, for the moment, disloyal, until 
 Jaunty, who looked on, holding the beetroot in reserve, re- 
 minded her that he had seen her mother do exactly the 
 same thing when it had been less needed. 
 
 That comforted Sally, and she dyed away with renewed 
 vigour and greater success. Invention was a necessity to 
 her. She loved contriving. 
 
 It showed so plainly in her dress that Lord Bridlingtoti, 
 who had nothing whatever to do with the matter except 
 that he lived on the outskirts of the village, asked Lady
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 17 
 
 Bridlington if she couldn't do something. Sally's skirts 
 were too short. Lady Bridlington, in her heart of hearts, 
 was probably glad he thought so, but she asked what she 
 could do. She knew, and he knew, or he ought to know, 
 that the Lawrences weren't the kind of people to whom you 
 could offer money, and she supposed it was shortness of 
 money that made the skirts short. 
 
 This was as near to a joke as she had ever been, cer- 
 tainly since she had become Lady Bridlington and stately, 
 so she repeated it several times, that nothing might be lost, 
 until Lord Bridlington exclaimed impatiently, "Offer 
 money? Heavens, no!" and he bounced out of the room, 
 shutting the door, not very violently certainly, but on what 
 Sally would have called "the slammy side." 
 
 Lady Bridlington waited a moment to give her husband 
 time to recover himself and to remember his position (it 
 was so new that he was not as yet accustomed to it) be- 
 fore she followed him and suggested that a meeting, of a 
 sort, should be called, at the Vicarage, for instance, and 
 that the question of Sally should be kindly discussed 
 her skirts, her education, her prospects generally. The 
 meeting should consist of those only who were truly de- 
 voted to Sally. 
 
 Here Lord Bridlington said that the drawing-room at 
 the Vicarage wouldn't hold the people. Why not take the 
 village hall? 
 
 Lady Bridlington said it was impossible to obtain secrecy 
 within the walls of a village hall. 
 
 The outcome of all this was that Anne Beech accepted a 
 mysteriously worded invitation, and found herself one 
 afternoon in the Vicarage drawing-room, with an album of 
 picture postcards poised on her knee. St. Mark's and the 
 pigeons seemed inevitable nothing could save her. 
 
 Lord and Lady Bridlington were there too, and a few 
 other people of lesser importance, all seated each with an 
 album on his or her knee. 
 
 Mr. Masters, the Vicar, came in, and Mrs. Masters col-
 
 18 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 lected the albums and laid them in their accustomed order 
 round the mahogany table in the bay window. Then came 
 a pause. What was going to happen? For what purpose 
 had Panslea been gathered together? 
 
 The Vicar took up his position on, the hearthrug. In a 
 few words he introduced to those who knew him so inti- 
 mately, Lord Bridlington. In a few well-chosen words he 
 proceeded to sum up Lord Bridlington's character. With 
 tears in his throat he reminded them of Lord Bridlington's 
 kindness (they had all experienced it). He reminded them 
 further of Lord Bridlington's charity to all men where- 
 upon Lord Bridlington rose and said, after all it wasn't 
 so long ago that he had been just plain Thomas Brown, 
 and no better than the rest of them. 
 
 Here Lady Bridlington pulled at his coat tails. He was 
 off the lines. It was as Lord Bridlington he was to speak 
 this afternoon. It was as Lord Bridlington he carried 
 weight, and so on. At this critical moment, through the 
 open French window stepped Sally. It seemed natural 
 enough. No party in Panslea was complete without her. 
 There she stood beside the Vicar, beaming upon every one. 
 Her skirts were short, of course; but then her legs were 
 so pretty, her ankles so fine. 
 
 Well, why didn't Lord Bridlington begin? There was 
 whispering; more whispering; and finally Sally was invited 
 by Mrs. Masters to go and see the new chickens. Of course 
 she took the hint and went, followed by the Vicar's wife. 
 
 Anne Beech then guessed, as Sally had done, that it 
 was of Sally Lord Bridlington wished to speak. At once 
 she was up in arms. For all the Vicar had said of Lord 
 Bridlington's kindness and his charity to all men, she 
 challenged his right to criticise Sally. 
 
 "The subject of our discussion having so delightfully 
 intruded," said Lord Bridlington, "makes it very much 
 easier. How she runs !" he exclaimed softly, looking out 
 of the window. "We want to talk about Sally. Ah, she 
 has cleared the pampas grass!"
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 19 
 
 It is possible he was here reminded of the shortness of 
 her skirts, because all of a sudden he became very grave. 
 
 "It has been said of me perhaps by some here present 
 that I have a weakness well, for a pretty face. It's 
 not true. Well, it is, of course but I like women all 
 women in a perfectly nice way, of course pretty, or I 
 like them no more nor no less than any other sensible man 
 honest enough to admit it. To do otherwise is to go 
 against nature. To repeat then I like all young people 
 pretty or not very pretty." 
 
 Here those who could, stole side glances at their reflec- 
 tions in the mirror above the chiffonier, and came to the 
 conclusion, each one of them, that at moments Lord Brid- 
 lington might regard them with some small degree of af- 
 fection "not very pretty" so exactly described what they 
 saw. No mother could truthfully have said more, no 
 mother would willingly have said less. 
 
 Lord Bridlington went on. "Somehow or other I feel it 
 my duty to look after those children their mother it's 
 all I can do for her." 
 
 There was a decided rustling and shuffling among the 
 audience. It was not only Lord Bridlington who felt he 
 must look after Sally. 
 
 "We all feel it," he added, corrected. "We all feel it. 
 Now Sally's education what does it amount to?" 
 
 "May I speak?" asked Anne. 
 
 "Do do," said Lord Bridlington, and he sat down. 
 Lady Bridlington let her hand rest for one moment on his. 
 She approved of him. 
 
 Anne rose: the room approved of her; of her appear- 
 ance. She did the village credit. She was charming to 
 look upon and spoke so much better than Lord Bridlington 
 spoke at least they were sure she would, because it was 
 as well known in Panslea as elsewhere "that women do 
 when they do." 
 
 "Somehow or other," said Anne quietly, with admirable 
 restraint, "I always think of Sally as born educated. Of
 
 20 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 course I have known her a comparatively short time; but 
 it does not take long to know what she is. Upon that I 
 think we are all agreed. To me it seems wonderful what 
 she knows. She can nurse a sick child can quiet a 
 drunken man can advise young men and women wisely, 
 too. She knows a lot about farming. She can ride and 
 drive and play games and the whistle pipe. Less well, 
 I admit, the piano. She knows an extraordinary amount of 
 very curious history. She has learnt from her father 
 things not usually considered necessary for girls to know, 
 in Panslea at all events Latin and Greek elementary 
 perhaps. More thoroughly she has learnt to play the game. 
 She can amuse a roomful of children on a wet school-treat 
 day. She has addressed a political meeting; made the 
 people listen to a speaker they had come to boo at . . ." 
 
 "Poor Donkins," whispered Lord Bridlington; "quite 
 true, she did!" 
 
 "She can do a great many things," went on Anne, "and 
 she is the kindest thing on God's earth, and I think one 
 of the prettiest." She might have added, "And Jimmy 
 thinks so too." But she didn't. 
 
 "Miss Anne," said Lord Bridlington, rising and blowing 
 his nose, "you have moved us deeply by your words. May 
 I say one thing? Only one. Sally's influence is too great, 
 if I may venture to say so, in the village. 
 
 "What she tells my tenants to do, they do. What I tell 
 them to do, they do after they have asked her if they 
 should. The rents, for instance ! She pays the rents, or 
 gets some one to do it, for tenants I should be glad to get 
 rid of. Makes respectable people of utter scoundrels. 
 Then her petti . . ." 
 
 "Bridlington!" said his wife. 
 
 "One thing more, only one, my dear. She's no linguist." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Anne, "a year abroad would help that. 
 She has an ear for music and an immense friendliness." 
 
 "The very point, Miss Anne, I was making for," said 
 Lord Bridlington. "Can anything be done that way?
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 21 
 
 Just give my agent one year in the village without her and 
 he says he can do wonders." 
 
 "Of course," said Anne, "when she is older she will learn 
 discrimination. It is only her love for everything, at pres- 
 ent, that overflows. She is at that wonderful age which 
 knows that sinners are only those who have not been loved 
 enough . . ." 
 
 "It's enough to make sinners of us all," said Lord Brid- 
 lington, looking foolishly affectionate. "I often think,'' 
 he went on, "what a widow she would make . . . left with 
 a young family to bring up! There's no limit to her in- 
 telligence. She could manage a large property with 
 Blank's help, of course." 
 
 There was a pause. Blank was Lord Bridlington's 
 agent. Whose widow did he propose Sally should be? 
 His son's, his delicate eldest son's ? Anne got very pink. 
 
 "Enough, my dear," whispered Lady Bridlington. 
 
 "Yes, dear. . . . Well, my dear friends, the fact is that 
 Sally knows French indifferently well. The question is, 
 Who shall approach Mr. Lawrence on the subject?" 
 
 "Anne Beech, of course," said all with one voice. 
 
 Anne promised to approach Mr. Lawrence. Failing Mr. 
 Lawrence, Jaunty must do, and in most cases he did ex- 
 cellently well. 
 
 The meeting was considered at an end when a voice 
 said, "Does Pamela know French?" 
 
 The question was tremulously asked by a little woman 
 who hitherto had not spoken a word. It was a pertinent 
 question and one deserving of consideration. 
 
 "She looks French," said another little woman who had 
 also remained silent throughout the meeting. 
 
 Here the Vicar rose looking stern and pained he 
 cleared his throat. 
 
 "I feel it my duty," he said, "to remind you that there 
 is nothing so delicate, so easily shattered as the reputation 
 of a young, beautiful and motherless girl. . . . Shall we 
 disperse?"
 
 22 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 And the two little women who had been silent up to the 
 making of their singularly unfortunate remarks, slunk 
 home without tea. 
 
 And Anne turned to the window and looked out. She 
 imagined she succeeded in hiding her amusement, but of 
 course she did not, for a dark laurustinus bush just outside 
 the window made of it an indifferent mirror, which may 
 have made Anne's smile appear larger than it really was. 
 For Anne was ever careful not to smile to the hurt of 
 any one. 
 
 "I thought it a compliment to say a woman looked 
 French," said the one silent woman to the other as they 
 walked home. 
 
 "In France, dear, it may be," said the other. 
 
 When every one was gone, Mrs. Masters, who had found 
 the chickens dull and Sally less welcome than usual, said 
 to her husband, "I was sorry, dear, to miss the meeting. I 
 never think it a good plan to come through the window 
 but you encouraged Sally to do it you remember? What 
 was decided at the meeting?" 
 
 The Vicar was unable to say. The discussion had been 
 very desultory and somewhat beside the mark. Lord Brid- 
 lington had gone too far. He had discussed Sally's peculiar 
 qualifications for widowhood. 
 
 "Sally a widow?" exclaimed Mrs. Masters. "I cannot 
 imagine it. The village would be furious." 
 
 The Vicar said the village must learn submission, and he 
 smiled kindly. "Then Anne Beech spoke not altogether 
 relevantly, I thought. We all know what an excellent 
 child Sally is." 
 
 "And we've known it longer than Anne Beech." 
 
 "Longer, yes," he admitted. 
 
 "Who else spoke?" 
 
 "Unfortunately, Miss Doe and her sister." 
 
 "They spoke? But they are so quiet as a rule." 
 
 "They were not noisy to-day." 
 
 "What did they say?"
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 23 
 
 "Well, it appears that they thought Pamela was in need 
 of instruction as well as Sally. It has occurred to me, I 
 must say and when it was suggested that Sally should be 
 instructed in the French tongue Miss Doe said, 'Does Pa- 
 mela know French?' There was no harm in the question 
 had not Miss Eleanor Doe put in her word. She said, 
 'Pamela looks French.' There was a pause; of course, 
 the position with regard to those children is peculiar. 
 Panslea, as it were, has undertaken to protect them, to 
 care for them, to shield them from the slightest breath of 
 scandal. I felt the moment had come when I must speak 
 firmly, so I said, 'There is nothing so delicate, so easily 
 shattered, as the reputation of a young, beautiful and 
 motherless girl.' " 
 
 "Dear Bryan, how wonderful of you to be able to speak 
 like that, so to the point. What happened?" 
 
 "Miss Eleanor, I think, saw what she had done. She 
 and her sister went home. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, that was it ! I knew I hadn't overestimated the 
 number of buns. I can tell to a bun now !" 
 
 It is possible the Vicar was thinking of other things, 
 because he said, 'Yes, my dear; I often wonder if the 
 parish knows wha it owes you," and his wife blushed with 
 pleasure, then generously remembering a woman less for- 
 tunate than herself, said: 
 
 "I think I shall just walk down and see Miss Eleanor. 
 She mustn't fret. What should I do if you spoke to me 
 like that? Bryan, does Pamela look French?" 
 
 The Vicar would not commit himself, yet he had twice 
 passed through Paris, so was qualified to express an opin- 
 ion. Why, wondered Mrs. Masters, should Miss Doe, with 
 her limited knowledge, have ventured to say so? 
 
 The Misses Doe lived across the Green, in a small house 
 which was large enough for all their needs. So was their 
 income; at least Miss Eleanor had been heard to say so. 
 Miss Doe never mentioned money, not even taxes. There 
 were those in Panslea who would have liked to know what
 
 24 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 income it was precisely that was large enough for Miss 
 Doe and her sister to live upon not from curiosity, of 
 course, but just from an interest in how the other part of 
 a village lives. 
 
 Miss Eleanor would never have gone to the length of 
 mentioning her income if it had not been to explain, as it 
 were, her occupation in life. She said she had enough 
 money to enable her to put to such good use as she was 
 able the small talent God had given her. Whether it was 
 God who gave her the power to paint what she called minia- 
 tures was not for Panslea to say. It had enough to do in 
 finding the likeness without trying to trace the finger of 
 God in the painting. 
 
 Miss Eleanor painted miniatures of those only who had 
 as she tenderly expressed it "passed over." She was 
 prepared to paint, free of charge, miniatures of those sol- 
 dier sons who had met their heroic deaths on active service. 
 She made a gentle concession so far as to include soldier 
 sons who had died of certain kinds of fevers, contracted 
 abroad, in bad climates. But those who had met their 
 deaths at polo she could not include. There she drew the 
 line; with tears perhaps, but she drew it. 
 
 Babies who had passed away she loved to paint. That 
 all babies had blue eyes, and pink cheeks, and curly hair 
 was a point conceded by most mothers, because how could 
 any one find fault with a gift so gracious? And if the 
 baby had not had curly hair at the time of its premature 
 passing away it must have had had it lived, and the nurse 
 persevered with the upward turn of the brush so Miss 
 Eleanor said. She painted too the miniatures of husbands 
 of truly sorrowing widows. With widows she set a time 
 limit; she did not begin to paint for some years, for the 
 widows might marry again and her labour be lost. 
 
 More black-edged envelopes were carried by the post- 
 man to Miss Eleanor's door than to any other door in 
 Panslea. It gave her a certain distinction in the eyes of 
 the postman, who had been three times a widower. As to
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 25 
 
 herself, she had found a way of expressing sorrow for 
 those in trouble that she could not so delicately have ex- 
 pressed in words. 
 
 When Mrs. Masters arrived at the house she found Miss 
 Eleanor at home, washing her paint brushes. Miss Eleanor 
 showed some confusion on seeing Mrs. Masters and has- 
 tened to say she hardly dared to think what the Vicar must 
 have thought of her. Mrs. Masters was quick to explain 
 that it was only because of the very peculiar position 
 Pamela and her sister occupied in Panslea that the Vicar 
 had felt it necessary to speak so strongly. "Now if it had 
 been any other girl or even Lady Bridlington . , ." 
 
 "I am so careful in what I say, as a rule," said Miss 
 Eleanor, "but it will be a lesson for me". I am grateful 
 for that. And a lesson so kindly given . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Masters said her husband had felt it very much. 
 "Having to do it, I mean, and you had no tea." 
 
 Miss Eleanor blushed and said she had lunched well 
 and it was early for tea. 
 
 "Yes, but tea is tea, when all's said and done. It was 
 a pity." 
 
 Then they talked of other things of the Lawrences 
 principally and Mrs. Masters left feeling she had been 
 of some comfort to Miss Eleanor. But halfway home she 
 remembered she had forgotten to implore to be allowed to 
 see the miniatures. Another day must do! And probably 
 it did. But those living in a village must remember the 
 painter who paints in their midst and no other day does 
 quite so well as to-day; because the light will never again 
 be quite so good.
 
 Ill 
 
 As it happened Jaunty came first to Anne's hand, not Mr. 
 Lawrence. 
 
 Anne met him in the village and found him willing 
 enough to talk. He was worried about the young ladies. 
 Miss Pamela was coming out and he didn't know where 
 the clothes were to come from. Anne wondered if it were 
 the moment to suggest Sally going abroad. She ventured 
 it, however as she had promised and Jaunty's face broke 
 into a hundred puckers of perplexity. Of course he didn't 
 know so much about Mr. Lawrence's affairs now that Mr. 
 Lawrence 'had got that roll-top desk American, they 
 called it! Anne laughed and Jaunty proceeded to explain 
 that when you shut the top the whole thing every drawer 
 locked ! 
 
 Anne said she knew that. Jaunty thought it no laughing 
 matter. He hadn't the same hold over his master that he 
 had had before. It was not Mr. Lawrence's fault. The 
 thing was given by relations and was automatic. Anne 
 said, Why not, when relations themselves were automatic? 
 
 Jaunty smiled; the explanation he felt was due to Mr. 
 Lawrence, for he knew well enough that Mr. Lawrence 
 thought that to look after anything implied a want of con- 
 fidence in those who were already engaged in looking. 
 
 It was relations who were worrying Jaunty. They were 
 writing now about Miss Pamela's clothes. If they would 
 do more than complain he wouldn't mind. Why not help 
 practically? He drew from his coat pocket an illustrated 
 catalogue and asked Miss Beech if it were possible Miss 
 Pamela could wear anything in the least like these horrible 
 pictures. 
 
 Miss Beech said she thought there were fashions that, 
 adapted, might suit her very well.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 27 
 
 "They are not what She wore/' said Jaunty. Then in a 
 whisper he told Miss Beech that he had, locked away in a 
 drawer, full instructions; but they would come too late. 
 Anne, not understanding, did not ask from whom the in- 
 structions were to come, and Jaunty did not say. 
 
 He saw no reason why Miss Beech shouldn't see Mr. 
 Lawrence, but he suggested it should come about quite 
 naturally. An arranged interview Mr. Lawrence hated. 
 The plumber knew that and had caught Mr. Lawrence only 
 that morning in the village outside the post office. The 
 result had been everything the plumber's wife could de- 
 sire. This was an immense encouragement to Anne. 
 
 It came about, the interview, quite naturally, on the high, 
 hard road, Mr. Lawrence on his pony; Anne on hers. 
 Which happy chance robbed the situation of any stiffness 
 there might have been. Because any pauses that might 
 have seemed awkward in the house were filled in the road 
 by the backing into its respective ditch of one or other of 
 the ponies. 
 
 A passing car buzzed right through the middle of the 
 money part of the discussion, and when the ponies were 
 restored to order Anne said, "As we were saying, the money 
 in all these things is the difficulty education is so expen- 
 sive !" and Anne ran her hunting-crop up and down the 
 pony's mane and the pony shivered with joy, at least it 
 was counted for joy in Panslea. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence thought the money was not worth consid- 
 ering, because he had an idea. Now Anne knew that Mr. 
 Lawrence's idea on any subject was not likely to be Lord 
 Bridlington's ; but for all that it might be worth hearing. 
 But this idea she was not to hear, for Mr. Lawrence turned 
 his pony round and made off in the direction from which 
 he had come. Anne, knowing both the pony and the rider, 
 could not be sure in which direction the rider had meant 
 to go. But if he had meant to go in that direction, where 
 was he going? And what was he going to do? She deter- 
 mined to wait a moment. If the pony had gone that way
 
 28 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 to suit himself, Mr. Lawrence would probably persuade 
 him to turn before they reached the hill. But Mr. Law- 
 rence and the pony dropped over the crest of the hill and 
 disappeared from sight. 
 
 Anne turned her pony and went home, wondering as she 
 rode what Mr. Lawrence was going to do. 
 
 What Mr. Lawrence was going to do was simple enough 
 and, to himself at all events, most obvious. 
 
 If it were necessary that Sally should know French 
 better than he knew it, he was going to get some one who 
 could teach her. If only people would be frank with him 
 and tell him what they thought his children needed he 
 would do his best to give it them. Jaunty was wonderful, 
 but even he failed at times. He lacked imagination and 
 invention; he was in so many ways a woman. 
 
 The first thing Mr. Lawrence had to do was to get to the 
 station. He got there. The second thing was to put the 
 pony up. He put it up. The third thing, the easiest of 
 all, if the dullest, was to wait for the train. He found one 
 was due in half an hour. It was in these things he thought 
 himself lucky. He waited. The half-hour passed quickly 
 enough. A commercial traveller willing to talk was found 
 and exclusively engaged for the time being. Now the 
 commercial traveller had never before found a listener pos- 
 sessed of so amazing a curiosity. Rubber heels left most 
 people cold. Not so this man with the twinkling eyes and 
 the ready smile. It was most extraordinary his power of 
 assimilating knowledge. In a few moments he had grasped 
 just what kind of a woman she was who favoured the re- 
 volving heel, and why! What kind of man he was who 
 wore the tip only, and why! The half -hour having flown, 
 Mr. Lawrence got into the train close at the rubber heels 
 of his commercial friend and in time London was reached. 
 Mr. Lawrence made straight for a post office and there 
 begged for one moment the use of the Post Office Di- 
 rectory. 
 
 The girl behind the grille was only too anxious he should
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 29 
 
 have it for as long as he liked, and was about to offer him 
 what assistance lay within her power to give when he said 
 he had found what he wanted. 
 
 Who says manners in post offices are not what they might 
 be? Let any one who says so ask for the Postal Directory 
 as Mr. Lawrence asked for it, and see what happens ! 
 
 Had he found it? The girl seemed almost sorry. 
 
 "Not quite," he said. "Ah! 'Home!' he had found it 
 Yes, 'Home for Aged Foreign Governesses.' " That 
 was exactly what he had been looking for, and it was to be 
 found at Highbury. He supposed 'buses went that way? 
 
 It was as well to make sure. He went out into the 
 street and there he met a small boy carrying a large bas- 
 ket. So he asked him he stooped to do it if 'buses went 
 Highbury way? 
 
 " 'Ighbry wy?" said the small boy, he should just think 
 they did. Why his aunt lived there! But the gentleman 
 must first go to Victoria. It was only a step. He was 
 going there himself. He could show the gentleman the 
 way if he liked. There was nothing the gentleman would 
 like better. The small boy gave his basket a hitch up and 
 Mr. Lawrence taking in the situation at a glance big 
 basket, small arm took the basket and carried it, finding 
 it surprisingly weighty. He remarked upon it and the 
 small boy looked knowing at first, then evidently trusting 
 this long-legged gentleman with a kind, far-away face, con- 
 fided to him the exact nature of the contents of the basket. 
 The gentleman seemed impressed without showing any par- 
 ticular excitement, and said it was quite a valuable basket. 
 The boy remembered that later to his cost. 
 
 By the time Victoria was reached the small boy had 
 found a very soft corner in Mr. Lawrence's heart. It 
 wasn't difficult to find. The youngest child seemed to 
 know the way, and if, in addition to youth, the child had 
 trouble, it had only to follow a track that other little feet 
 had worn. This small boy, it appeared, was troubled. His 
 mother delicate in some ways had lately presented him
 
 30 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 with twin sisters, an attention he could well have dispensed 
 with. By way of consolation Mr. Lawrence said they 
 would make excellent housemaids later on, and the small 
 boy was ready to agree, so far as the plainer of the two 
 went. For the prettier one and he admitted it wasn't 
 saying much he thought shop or office. What did the 
 gentleman think? Mr. Lawrence promised to speak to 
 Jaunty about it. 
 
 The small boy seemed to know so much that Mr. Law- 
 rence asked him if, by chance, he knew of a French gov- 
 erness old and past her work? The boy knew they ex- 
 isted; but they didn't come much his way. He would make 
 inquiries if the gentleman liked? It was surprising how 
 many people met, in the poultry line, so to speak espe- 
 cially delicate ladies but they were mostly well-to-do. 
 He thought eggs more likely where elderly French gov- 
 ernesses were concerned not fresh eggs, of course. 
 
 Here Mr. Lawrence made a mental note. Sally must 
 send fresh eggs to London for elderly French governesses. 
 Jaunty must see to it. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence thanked the small boy for promising to 
 make inquiries; in the meantime would he accept a small 
 offering, a token of ... Mr. Lawrence got no further. 
 The boy's face from pink deepened to a rare rich purple. 
 The sight of such gratitude for a benefit so small hurt Mr. 
 Lawrence so much that, to escape further painful demon- 
 stration, he hailed a passing taxi and jumped into it, little 
 knowing that on the edge of the curb he had left an em- 
 bryo poulterer and fishmonger, whose world had become all 
 of a moment a bottomless pit of blackest despair. The 
 small trusting poulterer had been robbed of his basket, 
 and so cleverly too. The twins had been nothing to this. 
 There was no actual disgrace attached to their appearance 
 in fact the doctor had gone so far as to congratulate the 
 mother; but the disappearance of twin fowls! The ruin 
 of his whole life stared him in the face. Position career 
 character honour one pound of butter and a cream
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE SI 
 
 cheese all gone at one fell swoop and he so knowing as 
 to have been worth a rise at the first six months. He could 
 hear his poor mother saying it "acrost the twins" to a 
 sympathetic neighbour. The poor little twins would be 
 carried away on the flood of their mother's tears after this. 
 
 The taxi bore Mr. Lawrence and the basket away, and 
 when the taxi stopped Mr. Lawrence jumped out, over- 
 paid the driver, and began to read with eagerness the 
 legend engraven upon the brass plate on the door of the 
 unhomey-looking house. It ran, "Home for Aged Foreign 
 Governesses. Supported by voluntary contributions." 
 
 He knocked at the door and waited. Some time. Then 
 the door was opened slowly and round it peeped a small 
 girl wearing a cap the size of a walnut shell and only 
 half of that. Pertly she asked Mr. Lawrence's business; 
 politely he said he wanted to see a very old lady if such 
 a thing existed? If she was in bed it didn't matter. He 
 meant that if she were in bed it would show she was in 
 that state of health in which he hoped to find her. He was 
 involved but did the small girl understand? 
 
 The small girl had never before been credited with the 
 gift of understanding not even with the power to under- 
 stand so she put her tongue in her cheek, blushed, told 
 Mr. Lawrence to "Garn !" and kicked open a door on the 
 left of the passage. Then she asked the gentleman to wait 
 while she called Madame. She had never before been so 
 polite, nor had she ever felt such a fool. She had sur- 
 prised herself and it is always upsetting to do that. We 
 should at least be able to depend upon ourselves not to be 
 politer than we want to be. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence walked into the room and found himself 
 in the very heart of the home for aged governesses. But 
 where was the home? He couldn't find it in the horsehair- 
 covered sofas and chairs, nor in the linoleum-covered floor, 
 nor in the dusty leaves of an indiarubber plant which stood 
 in a cardboard waste-paper basket. The leaves of the 
 plant were dusted just so far up as the tallest of the most
 
 32 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 conscientious of the aged governesses could reach. Per- 
 haps the chairs were too slippery to stand upon. He would 
 try! He was trying, perilously balanced, when the door 
 opened and into the room came a fierce-looking woman. 
 Perhaps she had every right to look fierce. It depended 
 largely on what message the small girl had given and how 
 she had given it. Anyhow the fierce woman cannot have 
 been used to finding a tall Daddy Long Legs standing on 
 her chair, trying to measure his height by a comparatively 
 small indiarubber plant. Mr. Lawrence got down and, 
 apologising to Madame, tried to explain his position, and 
 failing for the want of a sympathetic listener said quite 
 simply that he had come to ask if Madame could find him 
 such a thing as an elderly lady a governess for instance 
 past work? 
 
 If Panslea could have heard him ! 
 
 Madame folded her arms and, smiling grimly, owned to 
 the guardianship of ten old ladies elderly ladies answer- 
 ing to the description. "But none, Monsieur, are luna- 
 tics." 
 
 She rose to her extreme height as she made this im- 
 mense pronouncement and Mr. Lawrence said they need 
 not be that. He wanted a great talker, that was all. Had 
 Madame such a thing? 
 
 Most assuredly she had, and the greatest talker was the 
 most bedridden; quite healthy, she was, but partially 
 paralysed all her strength having gone into her tongue. 
 
 Was it by chance a French tongue? asked Mr. Lawrence 
 eagerly that was the point. 
 
 It was Parisian! Immensely cheered, Mr. Lawrence 
 asked if it were possible to see the lady? She seemed so 
 exactly what he wanted. 
 
 Madame, narrowing her eyes, said, Did Monsieur not 
 generally get what he wanted? Then she hurriedly added 
 that if it should chance to be the partially-paralysed, 
 partially-bedridden lady's sofa day, there could be no moral 
 objection.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 38 
 
 A sofa day it proved to be and Mr. Lawrence was asked 
 to go up. 
 
 He went up and was shown into a very small room, 
 where on a very small sofa lay a very small woman, with 
 a whole world of things in her wonderful eyes. 
 
 "Queek, Monsieur/' she cried, "ah, is it that my sister is 
 found?" 
 
 Mr. Lawrence drew a chair to her sofa-side and sitting 
 down broke to her gently that, so far as he knew, her sister 
 was not found. She might be, of course probably was; 
 but it had not been his great good fortune to have found 
 her. And the poor little Mademoiselle, who could not think 
 for what reason a man should come if he had not found her 
 sister, disappointed and brokenhearted, closed her eyes. It 
 was only then Mr. Lawrence realised how poor a place the 
 room was. It seemed when he came into it full of sunshine. 
 
 He looked at Mademoiselle wondering what he could 
 say to comfort this stricken mortal, when the door opened 
 and Madame entered bringing the basket of Monsieur that 
 he had left in the taxi. "It is Monsieur's?" she asked. 
 
 "Oui, non, ya, yes, wait! What shall I do?" 
 
 "The man waits," said Madame, "while he waits tick 
 goes the money." 
 
 Mr. Lawrence gave Madame two shillings to give the 
 taxi-man as a reward for bringing back a basket which 
 didn't belong to him, and certainly didn't belong to the 
 fare and yet the fare remembered vaguely the feeling of 
 a basket on his arm; just as at a Christmas party the 
 happy grown-up feels the paper cap on his head long 
 after it is torn and trampled under foot. So the fare 
 placed the basket beside him and turned to Mademoiselle. 
 
 "To go back to what I was saying I am sorry I have 
 not found your dear sister; but what would you say if I 
 told you I had found you a home in which you can stay, 
 cared for, until your sister is found? Could you leave 
 this?" 
 
 He looked round the room. It seemed pathetically pos-
 
 34 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 sible that she might be glad to leave it, if an ambulance 
 were procured. Yes, she could leave. There was no diffi- 
 culty, no real difficulty. Her little bird only could she not 
 leave. The little bird should come? Yes Mr. Lawrence 
 promised that. 
 
 Then he told Mademoiselle of his wife's death, of his 
 children. Of Sally who didn't know French as Panslea 
 thought she should know it. 
 
 "Pans lee?" asked Mademoiselle. "It is perhaps a 
 person?" 
 
 "No, it's a village. It consists of many persons, all bent 
 on the same thing looking after me and my children 
 whereas Jaunty . . ." 
 
 "Jauntee that too, it is a place?" 
 
 "No, that's a person. . . ." 
 
 "Panslee Jauntee . . ." murmured Mademoiselle. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence said that was right; if she could master 
 those two it was all that was necessary. But would she 
 come and teach Sally? What after all was there to pre- 
 vent French being taught equally well from a bed or sofa 
 as from a chair? But there was a difficulty. He ad- 
 mitted it! 
 
 The light died out of the eyes of the little Mademoiselle. 
 What if this like all her dreams should end in waking? 
 
 "Monsieur?" she whispered. 
 
 "Money, Mademoiselle. ... I am not in a position to 
 offer you what you with your experience have every right 
 to ask. But if you think there are things in life that money 
 cannot buy then you may find them in a home 
 where . . ." 
 
 "Money?" exclaimed Mademoiselle, clasping her thin 
 hands; "what is that to a home, to affection, to a Monsieur 
 with eyes so kind to a young and beautiful child who will 
 perhaps one day love me and, perhaps, another day, will 
 kiss me." 
 
 Here was Mr. Lawrence on safe ground. He assured 
 her that would come at the very beginning of things. It
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 85 
 
 was a habit of Sally. It was as natural to Sally as sleep- 
 ing and eating as natural to Sally as singing was to 
 birds. So in whispers the money difficulty was discussed, 
 until in whispers it died away. It was arranged that so 
 soon as it could be managed Mademoiselle and her little 
 bird should set forth, and Mademoiselle was to promise 
 to talk talk talk! 
 
 Now it was as natural to Mademoiselle to talk as it was 
 for Sally to kiss, and birds to sing; but now she could say 
 nothing not even promise to talk in the future. For once 
 in her life she was tongue-tied. The bands of happiness 
 were wound so tightly round her heart that no words could 
 come, and it was from the heart that the words should 
 have come. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence went and as he went he shook his shoul- 
 ders as though he were relieved of a burden, as indeed he 
 was. How easily things could be done if only people 
 would be perfectly natural and say exactly what they 
 wanted. People didn't go the right way to work. Youth 
 was necessarily expensive, but the old could be had for the 
 asking. The pity of it ! It was profoundly sad. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence was in the hall. "Monsieur, your basket," 
 sang a voice from above, and there on the stairs stood 
 Madame, on her arm the basket. At that same moment 
 there was a violent ring at the doorbell. Mr. Lawrence 
 being nearest the door opened it, felt a sharp pinch, and 
 found his arm in the grasp of a tiny grip. He was looking 
 down into the crimson face of a small boy on the verge of 
 an apoplectic fit. The small boy was accompanied by a 
 young woman flushed with the excitement of defending 
 in j ured innocence. 
 
 There is nothing that so thoroughly enthuses the truly 
 feminine mind as an imaginary injustice perpetrated upon 
 a person quite unknown to her under circumstances of 
 which she knows nothing. Mr. Lawrence recognised femi- 
 nine enthusiasm running riot even quicker than he recog- 
 nised the embryo poulterer.
 
 36 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 The small boy demanded the immediate return of his 
 basket, and his champion was about to tell Mr. Lawrence 
 what she thought of him when the fire of enthusiasm flick- 
 ered out. She had met the kindly eyes of Sally's father. 
 Now there are women who know at a glance what kind of 
 a man a man is, and Janet Mason was one of them. It 
 had to do, she said, with a look in the eyes. She found in 
 this man's eyes the look that of all looks was the one she 
 liked best and trusted most, and she knew she had mis- 
 judged him. 
 
 "You've made a mistake," she said, pulling at the small 
 boy's coat. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence said, No, he had made the mistake, not 
 the boy. 
 
 "She heard you give the address, she did," cried the 
 small boy triumphantly, choking with emotion. "We went 
 wrong, but still she heard it all right." 
 
 "I cannot thank her enough," said Mr. Lawrence. "You 
 cannot imagine my feelings when the taxi-man returned 
 with a basket that didn't belong to me, that he swore I 
 had left in the cab, a basket I didn't know existed." 
 
 The small boy whistled. That was a bit thick. "And 
 you left it in the cab?" he exclaimed. "My word, those 
 chickens will know their wye abaht town won't they 
 just?" 
 
 Meanwhile the taxi was ticking twopences. Mr. Law- 
 rence suggested they should be paid. The small boy pro- 
 duced the coin Mr. Lawrence had so lately given him, and 
 Mr. Lawrence promptly produced another exactly like it, 
 its very double. Then he said, Why didn't the small boy 
 and his champion take the cab back? The chickens would 
 be late for dinner. 
 
 Then it was that the small boy, in a whisper, suggested 
 to his champion looking into the basket. 
 
 The champion said it was impossible. She turned her 
 pink face to Mr. Lawrence and implored his forgiveness. 
 He begged her not to do that. Of course the poulterer was
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 37 
 
 right. It was only business after all. The boy was justi- 
 fied in thinking anything. . . . But when pressed to look 
 the boy drew back. He wouldn't. It was all right ! His 
 mistake ! No harm meant ! Here Madame shut the door. 
 Inside the hall she stood for a moment biting her lip; then 
 she blew her nose and said, "Mon Dieu !" 
 
 As he walked away Mr. Lawrence remembered the 
 champion's nice face. Not a pretty face, but fresh and 
 charming! He wondered if there was anything she could 
 have taught Sally; but she was too young. He wished he 
 had asked her name. (He little thought she was coming to 
 Panslea.) 
 
 Janet Mason on her part wished she knew his name. It 
 was extraordinary that any man could take a basket with- 
 out knowing it, and lose it without knowing it. (If she 
 had been to Panslea she wouldn't have been surprised at a 
 little thing like that.) Even her brother, who knew most 
 things and a vast number of men, didn't recognise this one 
 from Janet's description. He agreed that he didn't sound 
 like a man who would steal anything from a child; but 
 women were poor judges of men. . . . 
 
 "But if you had seen his eyes," pleaded Janet. 
 
 "My dear child, the only man I know answering to the 
 description is John Lawrence. But it couldn't be . . ." 
 
 "Why not?" asked Janet, grasping at straws. 
 
 "Because if it were, you have left out the most important 
 thing of all. You don't say he adopted the small poulterer, 
 which he most certainly would have done, and you don't 
 say he gave the basket to the first beggar he met, which he 
 more certainly would have done." 
 
 Mr. Lawrence may not have done all the things he might 
 have done; but he did what he went to London to do, and 
 that was to get a French governess for Sally. 
 
 That's how Mademoiselle came to Panslea, and it was 
 as good a way as any other. She came to look after Sally, 
 and Sally needed it. There was only, besides every one 
 in the village, Jaunty to do it, and Anne Beech. But Anne
 
 38 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 was doing it for Jimmy, and all he asked was that Sally 
 should remain unchanged, whereas the whole village was 
 trying to improve her, although every single soul in it, if 
 pressed, would have admitted there was little room for it. 
 
 When Mademoiselle arrived at the Lawrences she was 
 put into a bedroom whose windows looked out over the 
 garden and far away to the low blue hills. There were 
 flowers peeping in at the windows inquisitive red japoni- 
 cas to see what sort of a governess she was who had come 
 to teach their sister a strange language. She looked tired, 
 poor thing, and pale, not one of their family, and they 
 called to the white lilies below to come up and look. But 
 the lilies were shy; they couldn't speak any but their own 
 language, and that best at night; so they wouldn't come. 
 They would waft a message by moonlight to their tired 
 sister. 
 
 There were flowers on the table at Mademoiselle's bed- 
 side, and in her heart a wonderful peace. She closed her 
 eyes because they ached from looking at things so beauti- 
 ful. She must grow accustomed to them by degrees. When 
 she opened them again they looked upon an old man who 
 stood at the end of the bed. To this she could never grow 
 accustomed. 
 
 "Monsieur?" she murmured, frightened. He was strug- 
 gling with some suppressed emotion, the force of which 
 shook him. 
 
 "You . . . vous . . ." she hesitated. The old man took 
 one step forward and said hurriedly, passion urging him 
 on, "You no telly naughty Frenchy things my Miss Sally 
 . . . she know nothing . . . more than the lilies of the 
 field . . . she an angel baby. . . ." 
 
 "Mon cher !" ej aculated the amazed Mademoiselle, "what 
 would you? She is an angel child . . . that can I see . . . 
 a beautiful . . . child." 
 
 And Jaunty because of the tears in Mademoiselle's eyes 
 was humbled and begged forgiveness. He explained it 
 was only because he was so anxious Aldershot on one
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 39 
 
 side London on the other and Mr. Lawrence not realis- 
 ing the danger of either. 
 
 Mademoiselle realised the old man's distress. It was 
 enough. 
 
 "We are friends?" she asked, holding out her hand, and 
 Jaunty in the circumstances felt he must decline the hand; 
 but promised to think about the friendship. He had never 
 yet met a foreigner up and about he could trust; it wasn't 
 likely he would make advances to one in bed, especially as 
 the paralysis was probably assumed for purposes of her 
 own. piN. 1 * 
 
 It was not only French stories Jaunty feared his young 
 ladies should hear. English stories were dangerous 
 enough. And the man who told the worst of them was a 
 certain friend of Mr. Lawrence, one Jameson by name, 
 who once a year paid a visit to Panslea, and during the 
 visit Jaunty was troubled, although he liked Mr. Jameson 
 well enough. But it was best to be on the safe side and 
 he never left the dining-room when Mr. Jameson was 
 there, and Mr. Jameson knew why. When he arrived to 
 stay, Jaunty would take him to his room, would unpack 
 for him, and would invariably say, "You will be careful, 
 sir?" 
 
 "Of course, of course, Jaunty. If you think I'm verg- 
 ing . . . you know, just hand me the bread or something." 
 
 And Jaunty would agree. 
 
 Then at dinner this would happen. Mr. Jameson would 
 say, "John, did I ever tell you the story of the two men 
 who went duck-shooting?" Pamela would look at Sally^ 
 Sally at Pamela; both at Jaunty. Jaunty would hand the 
 bread to Mr. Jameson who would take a slice. The girls 
 would say, "Go on," and Mr. Jameson would exclaim, "Oh, 
 it's nothing; of course you know it," and all would be well 
 until he would say with his eyes all alight "Did I ever 
 tell you the story of the children's party?" 
 
 "Bread, sir?" Jaunty would say in his ear, and Mr.
 
 40 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Jameson would add another slice to the pile in front of 
 him, saying apologetically 
 
 "Dear, dear, I always forget . . . that is the danger of 
 story-telling . . . one forgets " 
 
 Mr. Lawrence would be quite sure he had never heard 
 the stories; if he had he would like to hear them again. 
 
 "My dear John," Mr. Jameson would say, "you told 
 them to me yourself. But there is a really good one. . . ." 
 
 "The baker doesn't call again till the day after to-mor- 
 row," Jaunty would whisper. 
 
 That was bad enough, but French stories told from a 
 bed, when Jaunty could not be present, would be much 
 worse. 
 
 That the coming of Mademoiselle was an event in the 
 lives of all in Panslea goes without saying. To many it 
 was an excitement, and was talked of by all for days, by 
 some for days and nights. Lord Bridlington went early to 
 Anne's cottage. This, then, he said, was the result of the 
 meeting. Anne thought the result justified the meeting. 
 She had seen Mademoiselle and approved her dark eyes, 
 her tender, timid smile. Anne had shown her Jimmy's 
 photograph, and Mademoiselle had looked at it long and 
 earnestly, and had said it was such a good face and what 
 a good husband he would some day make, eh? And Anne 
 found Mademoiselle very sympathetic and gifted with a 
 rare perception. 
 
 "Of course," said Anne to Lord Bridlington, "French is 
 as easily taught from a bed as from a chair." 
 
 "Teh, tch," said he, "you've got that from Lawrence. 
 It's the kind of thing he says, and of course there's truth 
 in it; but the accent? Is it as good lying down? I doubt 
 it. ... In any case it's not the ordinary way of giving 
 French instruction and we wanted our object was to 
 make Sally more conventional than she is. I don't for one 
 moment say that she hasn't a thousand charms other girls 
 don't possess; but she ought to be more like other people 
 than . . . her father is that's all ! Now to let you into a
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 41 
 
 secret perhaps it's no secret to you I should like my boy 
 to marry Sally. My wife is all for the boy marrying what 
 she calls 'well.' My dear, kind wife is no good at know- 
 ing the real thing when she sees it. She thinks she has her 
 house full of it every week-end. She never has. She 
 imagines because the Lawrences are poor, that they are 
 nobodies, as we were. Nothing of the sort! I tell her 
 none of her friends will ever walk into church as Mrs. 
 Lawrence walked, or as you do. Yes, I assure you. It's 
 not quite the same thing, of course, but with you it will 
 come! There! I've opened my heart to you. You under- 
 stand now why I worry about Sally." 
 
 When Lord Bridlington was gone down the garden path 
 and had passed through the gate, turning to wave as he 
 went, Anne walked to the mantelpiece on which stood 
 Jimmy's photograph. She moved it and set it down again 
 with care, smiling as she did it. 
 
 "Dear old thing!" she said, "they shan't," and Jimmy 
 smiled at her in his happy, confident way, as much as to 
 say that he trusted the jolly old world to go on treating 
 him as it had always treated him.
 
 IV 
 
 WHEN it was suggested by those least concerned in the 
 matter that Janet should live with her brother Michael and 
 keep house for him or rooms, rather brother Michael, 
 most concerned in the matter, demurred. Janet very nat- 
 urally asked him why he didn't want his own sister to live 
 with him? Now it was some one else's sister he would 
 have chosen, not his own, and in that was he singular ? 
 
 "Well, my own sister, it's like this." He lit his pipe and 
 stretching out his long legs over almost the entire floor 
 space of his ridiculously small sitting-room, repeated, "It's 
 like this . . ." 
 
 "Like what?" insisted Janet. 
 
 Michael pulled at his pipe and thought, choosing his 
 words carefully in consideration of those feelings whose 
 very existence Janet would have denied. She was far too 
 sensible to have feelings. 
 
 "It's like this," he ventured at last, "you would always 
 be trying to make me do noble things. You would try to 
 make a man of me your sort of man. You would love 
 to see me doing strenuous, splendidly uncomfortable, mar- 
 tyrable things. You would like to see me walking home 
 on a wet night to save the shilling I haven't got (so why 
 shouldn't the wretched taxi-driver have it?) but that's a 
 detail ! You would make me marry in order that you might 
 look after my children. They would have adenoids so 
 that you might make paper toys for them during their 
 fretful convalescence. You would choose me a weak, back- 
 boneless wife so that in caring for her I might become un- 
 selfish I know you! You would mend my socks. Now I 
 would rather you left them to Mrs. Platt, who has mended 
 them indifferently well for a greater number of years than 
 
 42
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 43 
 
 I can think of without emotion. I could not deprive her 
 of the honour, besides I have given her a glass egg and a 
 pair of spectacles for the express purpose of sock-darning. 
 She has mislaid the egg, I admit, so it's capital lying idle, 
 as it were. She says in any case it was waste buying 
 them things, because she only darns on Tuesdays. If I 
 hole out on a Wednesday I must wait till the following 
 Tuesday." 
 
 Janet meekly said she would darn on any day, and all 
 day if Michael liked, and Michael said she had no sense of 
 humour. 
 
 Janet said in that respect it seemed she was unique. 
 Every one she knew had an exquisite sense of humour, at 
 least they said so; it was strange she should be the only 
 person without it. She then asked Michael what she should 
 do? Her life seemed wasted if she couldn't look after him. 
 Michael suggested she might be a real friend to people in 
 distress. She asked what a real friend was. "Think!" he 
 said. And Janet thought and while she thought he dozed, 
 and while he dozed her thoughts concluded on these lines. 
 As there are pears and pears, so are there friends and 
 friends. There is the friend who asks for stamps and in 
 poor exchange leaves on one's writing table a pile of pen- 
 nies. There is on the other hand the friend who takes 
 stamps and gives nothing in exchange. That is the real 
 friend who never changes. There is the friend who in 
 exchange gives . . . stamps. Friends of that kind die 
 young or their sisters marry Cabinet Ministers. 
 
 "Michael," said Janet, "I believe I've got a sense of 
 humour after all. I've thought of some funny things about 
 friends." 
 
 "They are funny things, Jane couldn't help yourself. 
 Try again." 
 
 "Shall we review our financial position, then?" she sug- 
 gested, not without humour if she had but had the sense to 
 see it. It woke him up as nothing else could have done. 
 He emptied his pockets and piled their contents on the
 
 44 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 top of his bank book, which happened to be lying on the 
 table. 
 
 Carefully Janet drew the book towards her, the green- 
 and-black felt tablecloth with it. That she tidied. A 
 glance inside the book revealed all it knew of balance. 
 Blushing, she closed it, and felt as if she had been listen- 
 ing at a door. She wondered why Michael spent so much 
 and had so little to show for it. Janet's idea of much was 
 little. The woman who lives, from choice, on buns and 
 cocoa, partaken of at odd moments, is always of a saving 
 nature, although she may, in some respects, be of a gener- 
 ous one. 
 
 Then Janet hummed and hawed and suggested if her 
 income were put to his it would make enough for two to 
 live comfortably in a flat with two servants. . . . 
 
 "Janet !" said Michael, putting his hands to his ears. 
 
 "Michael," gasped Janet, "what is it?" 
 
 "The two servants, I think, but I'm not sure. I thought 
 you were going to say ten why two?" 
 
 "Michael!" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "You have no ulterior motive in wishing to get rid of 
 me?" 
 
 Michael said if by ulterior motive she meant a possible 
 wife none existed, not even the skeleton of one in the 
 cupboard, but he wanted Janet to enjoy herself. If en- 
 joyment lay in interfering with other people's business, 
 she must go where people had business; there was none on 
 the Stock Exchange at the moment. 
 
 "Poor Michael!" said Janet. 
 
 "Not at all," said he. "I cannot see you spending your 
 patrimony on clothes, nor can I see you secretary to a 
 canine defence committee." 
 
 "Is there such a thing?" she asked, alert. To this Mi- 
 chael paid no attention. 
 
 "I cannot imagine you leading a life of luxurious idle- 
 ness, taking a one-horse brougham by the hour, or a taxi
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 45 
 
 even ! If you lived in the country you couldn't supply your 
 London friends with eggs, because you have no London 
 friends, and if you had, hens wouldn't lay eggs at those 
 times when your London friends most needed them. Lon- 
 don people and country hens have never arrived at an 
 understanding, and they never will. And it isn't the fault 
 of the government. You would never order one of your 
 darling chickens to be killed; nor would you net your fruit 
 trees; and that belief of yours in the worm that lies curled 
 in every bud the bullfinch eats simply won't work in 
 gardens." 
 
 "I'm an awful idiot, Michael," said Janet plaintively, 
 and Michael put out his hand. Janet took it and squeezed 
 it. 
 
 "Not so hard, Jane; it's this clawing emotion I dread. 
 You must practise a quiet reserve and not behave like an 
 affectionate retriever. It's neither sporting nor is it good 
 manners to give your paw at every odd moment, but you're 
 rather a dear. . . .I'd mow your lawn for you every Sun- 
 day morning if you lived in the country," and so ended 
 their talk, as all their talks ended, at least those Janet 
 sought to make serious. 
 
 She walked to the window and looked out over a green 
 tub on to the Westminster Square, which gave Michael his 
 interesting address at a very moderate cost. She was 
 staying with him. There was something rather pathetic 
 in the patient back she presented to Michael a gentle 
 resignation expressed in the long neck, which suggested to 
 him a tall wax candle on the altar of a Roman cathedral, 
 and for some reason or other, besides appealing to his pity, 
 awakened within him the pangs of hunger. 
 
 "Let's dine, Jane," he said, and they dined as he loved 
 to dine, in a small Italian restaurant, Soho way. 
 
 The change which had been restored to his pocket should 
 pay for the dinner and promised to go so far as to pay for 
 the coffee. If not, Janet would pay for that; but Michael 
 said "No."
 
 46 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Now it is here that Panslea comes in, or rather a bit of 
 it, in the shape of the loveliest girl Janet had ever seen. 
 And on that bit of Panslea her attention was riveted during 
 dinner. Now Michael knew by experience the kind of 
 girl Janet was accustomed to call the loveliest she had 
 ever seen. She had been at school with three of them. So 
 he refused to turn round. 
 
 "She hates the man she's with, Michael, or likes him too 
 much." 
 
 "Hors d'ffiuvres, Jane?" 
 
 "No. . . . Michael! I believe he's trying to make love 
 to her; of course I may be wrong." 
 
 "But not so wrong as he is. Soup?" 
 
 "No." Janet was too busy staring to eat. Michael 
 suggested she should stare less and eat more. 
 
 "She's got a face the size of your hand, and eyes as big 
 as teaspoons, and . . ." 
 
 "No nose to speak of, I suppose?" 
 
 "Please don't joke; it's serious, she's so pretty." 
 
 "Oh, only pretty? How quickly she's gone off." 
 
 By the end of dinner Michael, exasperated, turned 
 looked and turned again quickly. He told Janet to come, 
 to hurry up. And she went without her coffee, which she 
 had been prepared to pay for. 
 
 Michael hurried down the stairs before her, and on the 
 landing stepped back to let an old man pass. Then step- 
 ping forward he barred the old man's way. 
 
 "Jaunty, by all that's wonderful!" he exclaimed, and 
 the old man looked at Michael, but was too breathless to 
 speak, so Michael spoke, and in these strange words 
 strange to Janet. 
 
 "Over there against the wall you'll take her back?" 
 
 The old man said he would take her back. 
 
 "You can; you have the authority?" 
 
 "Her mother's authority, sir." 
 
 Janet couldn't understand the look that came over Mi- 
 chael's face. If it was because the waiter was there de-
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 47 
 
 manding payment he needn't have minded, the waiter must 
 know he had only forgotten. 
 
 "You look so queer, Michael, what's the matter?" she 
 asked, and he said there was nothing the matter, and he 
 was cross all the way home. 
 
 As they walked down Shaftesbury Avenue a banana skin 
 thrown from a window above hit his hat, and he didn't 
 know it. Then it struck Janet forcibly the thought, not 
 the banana skin that Michael was right: she could never 
 live with a man who didn't know when he was hit by a 
 banana skin. That kind of sense of humour she could 
 never develop. If anything struck her she noticed it at 
 once, and if it struck any one else she laughed unless it 
 hurt them, of course. 
 
 That night Janet dreamed of the girl, and at breakfast 
 next morning told Michael so, and he said, "Here was a 
 case in point why he couldn't have her to live with him. 
 Breakfast !" 
 
 She was very penitent and promised never to mention 
 the girl, besides she wasn't likely ever to see her again. 
 
 "I'm not so sure about that," said Michael. "I'm going 
 away to-day. Mrs. Platt must look after you." 
 
 But it was Janet who looked after Mrs. Platt, and Mrs. 
 Platt needed both looking after and comforting, because 
 with tears and lamentations she declared her back rooms 
 to be To Let the German Professor having left without 
 paying and he so fond of sausages ! It was wonderful 
 how they ran up. There was nothing for a kind-hearted 
 woman to do but take the rooms, and as Janet was that if 
 nothing else, she took them, and Mrs. Platt said she should 
 never regret it. Would Michael regret it? That was the 
 question. 
 
 However, it was done, and Janet went to the stores and 
 bought a patent teapot, and when Michael came back the 
 next day he had tea out of the teapot, in Janet's own 
 room, and he found the tea excellent; although why the 
 teapot should stand on its head he could not imagine. Un-
 
 48 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 less it were from joy, and as Janet looked so absurdly 
 happy there was no reason a teapot shouldn't look absurdly 
 happy too. There are different ways of expressing joy, 
 and certainly no house that wasn't really happy would 
 have a teapot so demonstrative. Janet said it was because 
 the teapot stood that way that the tea was so good. And 
 he couldn't say it wasn't. She asked him if he was sur- 
 prised about the rooms and he said nothing surprised him 
 and Janet, remembering the banana skin, believed him. 
 
 Next morning Mrs. Platt confided to Janet that she had 
 scraped a whole field of mud sand, she meant off Mr. 
 Mason's boots. (It's here some more of Panslea comes in.) 
 Mrs. Platt brought it wrapped in paper to Janet's bedside 
 to prove the truth of her statement. "And it's happened 
 before, miss. When his trousers are turned down, after 
 a day in the country, there are two little rings of sand on 
 the floor, enough to cover the bottom of the canary's 
 cage." 
 
 Janet said that was a save, and Mrs. Platt taking no no- 
 tice of the interruption, said, "That's where he goes, 
 miss." 
 
 "Where?" asked Janet. 
 
 "Well, not Essex, miss." 
 
 "Where then?" 
 
 "Surrey that's what that soil is sand! He doesn't 
 throw sand in my eyes, that's all. And I hope she's worthy 
 of him, that's all I say." 
 
 Janet broke to Michael very gently that she meant to live 
 with him only so far as he wished, and until he no longer 
 wished it. Of course breakfast was out of the question, 
 she knew that; and even at other meals there was no rea- 
 son she should talk. 
 
 "No reason but one, Jane." 
 
 Janet had to talk to some one, so she asked Mrs. Platt 
 if she was a widow, and Mrs. Platt said in a sense she 
 was. In what particular sense Janet didn't ask. Michael 
 approved her reticence and said he didn't want Mrs. Platt
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 49 
 
 interfered with. She had never asked him if he had a wife, 
 therefore he had no right to ask her if she had a husband. 
 
 "But you haven't," said Janet. 
 
 "In a sense, no," and Janet puzzled over that lucid re- 
 mark for two days, then went out and bought an encyclo- 
 paedia for a shilling, which didn't help her in the least and 
 only upset her accounts. 
 
 Michael became more silent every day. When Janet 
 spoke to him he didn't answer. That was not unusual; but 
 he objected to her turning her newspaper, which was a 
 little unreasonable, because no woman can live on births, 
 deaths and marriages alone there are always the engage- 
 ments on the inside. 
 
 At last Michael spoke, and he said, "Janet, I'm a beast, 
 but I'm in trouble," which winged words flew straight into 
 her heart, and out shot her hand. 
 
 "If I let you into a great secret, Janet, will you keep 
 it?" 
 
 "Of course." It was a thing she longed to possess. 
 
 "You're a nice dog, Jane, but a badly broken one," and 
 she withdrew her hand. 
 
 "Now, Jane in the country ..." 
 
 "Sandy soil?" she asked, anxious to understand what he 
 was going to say before he said it a true test, although 
 perhaps not the truest. 
 
 "Yes, but why ? . . . Anyway, it is ! Well, I want some 
 one to look after a girl I care for well, love, if you in- 
 sist!" 
 
 If anything had insisted, it was Janet's eyes. 
 
 "She lives in a village alone." (Save the mark! Im- 
 agine any one in Panslea being alone for two minutes to- 
 gether!) "I want you to go and live there to lodge in 
 the village and just tell me how she is ... what she does. 
 If she is happy why? If she is unhappy why? D'you 
 see?" 
 
 Janet didn't see, and when she tried to see by asking a 
 few intelligent questions directly bearing on the subject,
 
 50 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Michael went to sleep. But Janet had great patience. She 
 would knit till he awoke. 
 
 Michael in love! She looked at him with awe and rev- 
 erence. He was jsuch a dear, but could he make love as 
 she imagined men made love as they make it in books? 
 Would any woman call him "Boy, boy," and what would 
 he do if she did? Janet blushed for him. Would any 
 woman understand him? Would any woman, not a sister, 
 understand a man who went to sleep whenever he didn't 
 want to answer a question? What was there about him 
 that a woman could fall in love with, especially that lovely 
 girl who had dined at the restaurant that night? Janet of 
 course loved him for a thousand things he had done for 
 her, and had been to her, since she was a child and then 
 she was more or less accustomed to him, and that helps so 
 with men. . . . 
 
 "Your rooms here, Jane, I've let," said the waking 
 man. 
 
 Janet sat up. "My rooms?" she said. 
 
 "Yes, to a young man in the Foreign Office. He will 
 be a companion for me and he won't talk, because at pres- 
 ent he is terribly afraid of divulging fearful State secrets. 
 He sleeps, I am told, with his door locked and wears a 
 respirator, as a precaution." 
 
 "Is he going to pay me or you?" asked Janet 
 
 "Mercenary Jane mercenary Janetta," said Michael, 
 and he slept. 
 
 And Janet went on knitting until such time as he should 
 choose to awake and give her Bradshaw information as to 
 how she should reach the station, and from the station how 
 she could get to the village and where, when there, she 
 should lodge. 
 
 "Will there be a bathroom, Michael?" 
 
 "My dearest Jane, it's a low, altogether delightful Queen 
 Anne house farmhouse. Those delicious windows, you 
 know! The entire front of the house is covered with a 
 magnificent vine."
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 51 
 
 "Earwigs, I know/' said Janet. 
 
 Michael slept again, and while he slept Janet turned 
 the heel of the stocking she was knitting for him such is 
 woman. 
 
 "Does the farmhouse woman know I'm coming?" asked 
 Janet, on the chance. 
 
 "She knows, and I have every reason to believe she will 
 be of great service to you in the moulding of your char- 
 acter, I mean so you mustn't try to mould hers, see? I 
 found her possessed of a combination of gentleness and 
 grit quite remarkable in one of her station in fact, she is 
 above station of any kind. If called upon to be Queen 
 to-morrow, she would fill the bill to perfection; the next 
 day a scullery-maid, she would be the best, most willing 
 scullery-maid that ever scoured pots and pans ; moreover, 
 she would be an influence for good in the house. She is, 
 in fact, a jewel of the first water." 
 
 "Will she like me?" ventured Janet. 
 
 Michael said she already did that. 
 
 "How d'you know?" 
 
 "She told me so and she charges nothing for cruets 
 whatever that may be. So you must eat sparingly of 
 mustard." 
 
 "You do know what it means then!" said Janet. 
 
 Michael slept. 
 
 "Michael, you must wake and tell me one thing the 
 girl is lovely?" 
 
 "The girl? Pamela is lovely and Sally is not quite 
 lovely; but much more." 
 
 "Is it the lovely one or the much more one?" 
 
 But this time Michael slept, and there was no awaking 
 him, so Janet left him to his dreams and she went to hers. 
 
 It was Anne Beech Janet was to look after. 
 
 The whole village of Panslea was going to be very busy 
 looking after other people's business, and Jaunty thought 
 the whole thing rested on his shoulders. 
 
 Poor old Jaunty ! His shoulders were rounding beneath
 
 52 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 the burden, and he walked much slower than he used to 
 walk, and there were deep lines on his face drawn by the 
 wayward finger of Miss Pamela, so Jaunty thought. There 
 was that dinner in London. He had felt she would be in 
 mischief. He had gone up to London to see. By some 
 miraculous chance, aided by the intuition of Mrs. Lom- 
 bard's footman, he had found her and had brought her 
 back. If he hadn't brought her back, what had she meant 
 to do?
 
 V 
 
 ONE morning at breakfast Mr. Lawrence was reading a 
 letter. It was a thing he rarely did. He got Pamela to do 
 it for him, or Sally, or Jaunty even; but one marked "Pri- 
 vate and Immediate" he felt bound to read himself. He 
 read it twice, then told Sally to get up and walk to the 
 window. 
 
 "Properly, Sally. There stand there." 
 
 Sally stood. "What's the matter?" she asked. 
 
 The matter was the shortness of her skirts. "Your 
 Aunt Venetia says the shortness of your skirts has reached 
 London." 
 
 "That's long enough, surely." 
 
 "They are too short, she says." 
 
 "Bosh !" said Sally, shortening them. 
 
 "Wait a moment, darling you are not a judge neither 
 perhaps am I." 
 
 "Ask Jaunty," suggested Sally. 
 
 Her father jumped at it. 
 
 "No, Daddy Long Legs, don't be silly. Jaunty's no good. 
 Use your own judgment. If you met me out in the road, 
 walking, how old should you say I was?" 
 
 Mr. Lawrence pondered. "Old enough to know better." 
 
 "No, seriously, darling." 
 
 "I can't be serious, Sally, if you look like that." 
 
 Sally made an effort to look otherwise, and her father 
 pronounced her skirts too short. "Why not add a fringe?" 
 he suggested. 
 
 "Fringes are such peepy, kinky things," objected Sally. 
 
 "Well, why not a strip of those wavy things your dear 
 mother used to make for you when you were babies ?" 
 
 "Scallops?" said Sally, with marvellous intuition. 
 
 53
 
 54 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Mr. Lawrence supposed so. 
 
 No, she wouldn't pass scallops. There were little kick- 
 ups in scallops ; Jaunty wouldn't approve. 
 
 "Why not a new frock?" 
 
 In a moment Sally was on the arm of his chair, her 
 hand in his pocket. 
 
 "No, it's not there; now be good!" said her father. 
 
 "The question is, can you? Pamela having been in 
 London !" 
 
 "I might. What would it cost? Five pounds?" 
 
 "My dear man, how a good woman could take you in? 
 Five shillings, you mean! Why, it's cotton at six-three 
 five shillings, buttons and all, and Mademoiselle can show 
 me how to make it bien chic." 
 
 "Well, send Jaunty to me after breakfast with my 
 cheque-book." 
 
 And after breakfast Jaunty went to the library, cheque- 
 book in hand, and it was he who dipped the pen in the ink, 
 tried the nib on the back of his thumb-nail, and handed 
 the pen to Mr. Lawrence with the injunction not to press. 
 It was Jaunty who blotted the cheque, who subtracted the 
 sum of the newly written cheque from that on the back of 
 the last counterfoil, and it was Jaunty's face that fell. 
 It was Jaunty who said in an aggrieved voice, "You've 
 been writing cheques without me, sir," and Mr. Lawrence 
 admitted it. The corn merchant's bill was "Account Ren- 
 dered." The horses must be paid for. 
 
 "I had been about that, sir; he would have waited until 
 after Miss Pamela ..." 
 
 "No, no, Jaunty I can't bear this money business. 
 You can't make Miss Pamela more beautiful than she is. I 
 see nothing wrong with her clothes. Nothing!" 
 
 "Our eyes are kinder than the eyes of the outside world, 
 sir. If Miss Pamela is to come out, I am here to see it is 
 properly done. I have your permission, sir?" 
 
 This subservience was an afterthought, and was some- 
 thing of an apology. Mr. Lawrence recognised the one as
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 55 
 
 little as he did the other, and gave his permission only 
 Heaven and Jaunty knew for what. 
 
 Then there was the house party to be considered, said 
 Jaunty. 
 
 "The house party?" said Mr. Lawrence, puzzled. 
 
 Jaunty repeated, "House party." It was customary, he 
 explained, to take a party to a dance. If not a party Mr. 
 Lawrence might be spared that there should at least be 
 two gentlemen. 
 
 "Gentlemen?" murmured Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 "So called," said Jaunty, and hastily added that he 
 didn't mean that he meant that it was customary to speak 
 of them as gentlemen when used for dancing or dining 
 purposes. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence asked where Jaunty got all his social 
 knowledge from; and Jaunty said there were many ladies 
 who wrote on the subject and in many cases were as 
 ignorant as he was according to Mrs. Lombard. Then 
 Mr. Lawrence, with a persistence that was foreign to his 
 nature, wanted to know where Jaunty had had the oppor- 
 tunity to talk social etiquette with Mrs. Lombard? And 
 Jaunty said he had taken the opportunity when Miss 
 Pamela had gone to London. 
 
 "And you found the books wrong. Poor Jaunty !" 
 
 Jaunty said the fashion changed with every season 
 what was bad form one season was smart the next. 
 
 "You astonish me," said Mr. Lawrence, and Jaunty said 
 he was sorry, but he couldn't help it, some one had to do it. 
 "The house party, sir? You said you thought two gentle- 
 men would suffice." 
 
 "Did I?" 
 
 "You should know, sir." 
 
 Mr. Lawrence pondered. "There's Mr. Jameson/' he 
 said, after careful deliberation. 
 
 Jaunty frowned. It was a question of age. Failing any 
 one younger, Mr. Jameson must do. He had the spon- 
 taneous gaiety of youth . . .
 
 56 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "And Professor Forsythe," ventured Mr. Lawrence, em- 
 boldened by success. 
 
 "Failing any one older/' thought Jaunty bitterly, "the 
 Professor must do," but Jaunty was troubled. He feared 
 the gibes of Miss Pamela; but after all, why should she 
 gibe? She must come to it herself one day. Perhaps it 
 would not be at age she would scoff, but at age dancing 
 a very different thing. But these two gentlemen, if they 
 danced, would dance for the sake of Miss Pamela's 
 mother. 
 
 Jaunty knew that. So Mr. Jameson and the Professor 
 were bidden, and they promised to come, for the sake of 
 the child's mother, just as Jaunty had known they would. 
 They were nobly determined to see poor John through this 
 great adventure, of launching on to the troubled waters of 
 life this frail bark. 
 
 "I would suggest another word than frail," said Mr. 
 Jameson, and the Professor saw the necessity. 
 
 Pamela came back from London radiant. Her aunt 
 had been very kind. She had advised her about clothes, 
 and Pamela had disregarded her advice and had taken that 
 of a young man who had been attache in Vienna, so knew. 
 The result was charming. She had had such a merry time. 
 She told Sally everything except well, there was noth- 
 ing to tell about that dinner. Sally had never been to an 
 Italian restaurant, so it wouldn't interest her. She didn't 
 understand macaroni or Italian besides, Pamela didn't 
 want to talk about it. She was furious with Jaunty. When 
 she came home she ignored him as a punishment. 
 
 It wasn't easy to ignore him. He persisted. She re- 
 fused to say what she had bought. When he begged her 
 to tell him if she had chosen white for her coming-out ball 
 dress (which of course he knew she must have done), she 
 said she had chosen black. Jaunty smiled; he knew that 
 wasn't true. "The dress is to come?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, Jaunty, by post, and you mustn't call it 'dress.' " 
 
 He remembered the book had said that. He didn't
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 57 
 
 mind, he should call it "dress," and he waited and watched 
 for the box. When it did come, it was so light that he 
 was sure the dress had been stolen on the way. But the 
 postman reassured him. Boxes were much lighter than 
 they used to be, and thefts no commoner. But Jaunty was 
 convinced the dress couldn't be decent. The postman 
 couldn't say one way or the other. 
 
 Pamela refused to be questioned or to answer. Jaunty 
 told her she would wrinkle her eyes if she laughed so much. 
 He went to Sally, but she was sworn to secrecy. There 
 remained but Matilda, the old maid. 
 
 She would be no comfort to him at a time like this; 
 often had he repented getting her the place. 
 
 Then he went to the drawer of which he kept the key, 
 and from a packet of letters tied together he drew the top 
 one. It was addressed to "My Pamela, to be given to her 
 on the evening of her first ball," and Jaunty looked and 
 looked, as if by looking he could read its contents, and at 
 last he replaced it. In any case the dress was bound to 
 be white, and any slight alteration could be made at the 
 last moment. He should give the letter at five o'clock in 
 the afternoon. If it was a matter of flowers he could be up 
 at the Bridlingtons' and back again by dressing. Jaunty 
 could as easily imagine a young lady coming out without 
 maidenhair fern as he could a baby christened without 
 water. Jaunty ventured to mention maidenhair to Ma- 
 tilda and she smiled. She read no books on etiquette, but 
 she knew better than that. 
 
 She had no right to smile, thought Jaunty angrily. What 
 was a mistake in ferns compared to the mistake she had 
 made? Had she forgotten that cold, cold night, years ago, 
 when she had come back disgraced to the house of her 
 father? Had she forgotten that her father had opened the 
 door to her and had closed it to her for ever? Out in the 
 snow, what would she have done she and her baby if 
 Jaunty hadn't been passing (he had been to Bridlington 
 to get maidenhair for Mrs. Lawrence to wear) and hadn't
 
 58 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 taken them to the house of a friend, and hadn't paid for 
 their shelter, food and lodging? What if he hadn't told 
 Mrs. Lawrence about Matilda and her baby? What if 
 Mrs. Lawrence hadn't taken when the poor baby died 
 the poorer mother in, and made her housemaid? 
 
 And why did Matilda in time become maid? Only be- 
 cause, when Mrs. Lawrence died, no one else could com- 
 fort Miss Sally. It was only in Matilda's arms that Sally 
 found rest. That was why Matilda had become maid for 
 no other reason. Yes, one, and that because Nature had 
 given her arms in which children lay comforted. That was 
 all! It was none of her own doing purely a matter of 
 form. 
 
 Jaunty was jealous of Matilda; but he could swear on 
 his honour that she had never done the young ladies any 
 harm. But why laugh when he said maidenhair fern? 
 
 Matilda didn't mean to laugh; but she was surprised 
 that Mr. Jaunty, with his knowledge, should imagine 
 maidenhair in fashion. 
 
 "And why shouldn't it be, Matilda?" he asked testily. 
 
 "You must ask more than me, Mr. Jaunty," said Matilda. 
 "I know little enough of fashions. If I am ever in the 
 fashion it is because the things have come round, that's 
 all there's many a thing put by that would be the fashion 
 if it was brought out to the light after ..." 
 
 "Then don't throw away the young ladies' things, Ma- 
 tilda," cautioned Jaunty sharply. 
 
 And Matilda asked him if he imagined the young ladies 
 would be in Panslea forty years hence to wear the things ? 
 Matilda shook her head. "We shall be lucky if we keep 
 Miss Pamela a twelvemonth." 
 
 "Lucky?" queried Jaunty. 
 
 "Why not?" fired up Matilda. "We have no favourites, 
 Mr. Jaunty." 
 
 "Haven't we?" he asked. 
 
 Jaunty was upset, and he went about other people's 
 business with a face full of trouble and perplexity, and
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 59 
 
 Miss Sally danced and sang and wasn't in the least a com- 
 fort to any one. 
 
 At five o'clock Jaunty gave the sacred letter to Pamela. 
 
 When she saw it the colour drained from her cheeks 
 then her lips leaving her a white, frightened child. Then 
 her eyes blazed at him and she said he must never do it 
 again, and she thrust the letter into the front of her blouse 
 and she went away and cried bitterly. But that Jaunty 
 didn't know or any one else either because Pamela, like 
 the heroine of a novel, could cry without showing it; where- 
 as if Sally cried, all the village knew it, and did not rest 
 till they knew why. 
 
 (There were times when Jaunty did not lack invention, 
 say Mr. Lawrence what he would.) 
 
 Pamela dressed after dinner. She was a long time 
 about it. Mr. Lawrence waited in the hall, fussing and 
 fuming. With him wondering at his excitement were 
 the Professor and Mr. Jameson. 
 
 The Professor's hair proclaimed him a man of learning; 
 the position of his tie, under one ear, a man of profound 
 learning. Mr. Jameson's clothes proclaimed him no longer 
 a man of fashion; but that he had long ago been one was 
 evident even to the eyes of Jaunty. But as a house party 
 neither he nor the Professor were of any use. Why couldn't 
 they keep Mr. Lawrence quiet? Jaunty could have done 
 it, but he was waiting to catch the first glimpse of his 
 young lady dressed for her first ball. For this night he 
 had waited years. For this end he had watched over her, 
 guided her, and guarded her. He thought of the many good 
 shoes he had given away because they pinched somewhere, 
 and the knowledge that her feet were beautiful was his 
 reward. 
 
 At last he heard voices in the passage above Miss 
 Pamela's gay, then Miss Sally's vowing Pamela was the 
 loveliest thing ever seen since the beginning of the world, 
 and Jaunty whimpered. There was no one to hear, or to 
 see, or to laugh at his weakness. Sentimental old Jaunty!
 
 60 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 At the top of the stairs Pamela appeared. A long white 
 cloak covered her. Down the stairs she came. No queen 
 could have trodden the steps more proudly, so Jaunty 
 thought, who knew little enough of queens and their gait, 
 
 "Let me see your dress, miss," he pleaded, "one mo- 
 ment"; and to humour the ridiculous old man she let slip 
 from her shoulders her white cloak, and like foam it rippled 
 at her feet. 
 
 Jaunty gasped. Pamela was dressed in black, startling, 
 daring, striking black, from which her neck and shoulders 
 rose white as lilies. "Solomon in all his glory," inaptly 
 quoted Jaunty, and Pamela picked up her cloak, wrapped 
 it round her and laughed, and Sally laughed too. 
 
 When the Professor saw Pamela he ceased to be a man 
 of learning, forgetting all he knew in the presence of a 
 perfectly unknown quantity, and became much as other 
 men at least he supposed so, not knowing that it was at 
 least unusual for men to cry at seeing a beautiful young 
 girl dressed for her first ball. He supposed that they too, 
 brought face to face with an unfathomable innocence, would 
 do as he did. He turned to Jameson and was glad to find 
 him looking just as abashed and foolish as he felt him- 
 self. 
 
 "A sorry sight it would be," Jameson was thinking, "if 
 young men behaved as he and Forsythe were behaving! 
 Society would become impossible a vale of tears." 
 
 "I congratulate you, John," he said bravely, turning to 
 Mr. Lawrence; "Jaunty, I congratulate you," and Jaunty 
 held himself deserving, until a moment later, stricken to 
 the heart, he saw Pamela step into the carriage. Then 
 and only then did he see the incriminating scarlet shoes. It 
 was the final touch, as Pamela had meant it to be, and it 
 was more than Jaunty could bear. 
 
 "Miss Sally," he exclaimed, "what would She say?" 
 
 "She?" said Sally, recognising that the word was spelt 
 in capital letters. "She?" 
 
 "Yes, miss, She. I gave Miss Pamela Her letter."
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 61 
 
 "Her letter?" said Sally, shrinking as though Jaunty had 
 struck her. "What letter?" 
 
 "The letter forgive me. Before She went away I asked 
 Her to write Her wishes. How could I know what was 
 right? And if I didn't know, who was to know, with 
 your father so innocent in the ways of the world? I gave 
 the letter to Miss Pamela this afternoon, at five o'clock. 
 It was to say what she was to wear and how she was to 
 behave." 
 
 "Don't, don't, don't, Jaunty!" pleaded Sally, stretching 
 out her arms as if to hold him back. 
 
 "Is it no comfort to you, miss? I thought it would be," 
 he pleaded, frightened by her vehemence. To Jaunty those 
 letters had lain there, living things, links with another 
 world. 
 
 "Have you letters for me?" she whispered, paling, her 
 eyes like stars shining. 
 
 "Come," he said, and he went to the old bureau and 
 turning the key in the lock he opened a drawer. There 
 were the packets of letters. He picked up one, untied the 
 ribbon that bound it, and spread the letters fan-shape, 
 holding them like a pack of cards. They were addressed 
 to "My Sally." "Coming Out, Miss Sally," said Jaunty. 
 ' 'Engagement Wedding and Afterwards ." 
 
 The fan was closed and the letters tied up again, and 
 Sally went away and cried her eyes out; not only because 
 the hand that had written the letters could no longer hold 
 hers, but because Pamela had had just such a letter and 
 hadn't cried at all and hadn't told her about it. 
 
 Meanwhile the thought of those red shoes was scorching 
 the heart of Jaunty. He must prevent Miss Pamela wear- 
 ing them, so he went to the stables and saddled the pony 
 and, in the darkness of the night, set forth to the house 
 where those red shoes were dancing their owner to de- 
 struction, if not to the devil. 
 
 It was Mr. Jameson who found Jaunty standing in the 
 hall. Above the strains of the music he heard him
 
 62 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 haranguing a footman, and he went to the rescue of the 
 footman, knowing that Jaunty's anger was no light thing. 
 
 "It's only Miss Pamela I want to see," explained Jaunty. 
 
 Mr. Jameson asked if any one were ill. Jaunty said no 
 one was ill. But he must see Miss Pamela for one mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Mr. Jameson said she was behaving very well was 
 dancing every dance hadn't danced once with the "house 
 party." Was it likely? 
 
 "Not in the least," agreed Jaunty testily. 
 
 Mr. Jameson said they were there if they were wanted. 
 
 Jaunty said he was there and not wanted; but he must 
 see her. 
 
 "She's so like her mother, Jaunty," said Mr. Jameson, 
 anxious to appease. 
 
 "Never, sir, never! Her mother would never have done 
 it." 
 
 "Done what?" asked Mr. Jameson, convinced of the 
 innocence, on all counts, that evening at least, of Pamela. 
 
 Jaunty must see her, it was urgent; so Mr. Jameson 
 went to find her, and he found her engaged in breaking 
 the heart of a splendid young man, made for no other 
 purpose than to bear a heart broken by the beauty of 
 Pamela. 
 
 He relinquished her grudgingly. Mr. Jameson laid his 
 hand on his arm, and promised she should come back. "It's 
 Jaunty; he must see you," he whispered to Pamela. 
 
 Furious with Jaunty, she followed Mr. Jameson, and 
 there, standing in the hall, was the funny old thing. 
 Couldn't he have waited an hour or two longer to hear if 
 she had enjoyed herself? 
 
 But he was not concerned with her happiness. 
 
 "Well, and what is it?" she asked. 
 
 But before she knew what he was doing, he was down on 
 his knees, and in a moment her red shoes were off and her 
 black ones were on, and Jaunty was gone out into the 
 blackness of the night
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 63 
 
 Pamela was missed from the ballroom by several men, 
 and at least one woman. The woman a very pretty young 
 woman with a laudable generosity, was anxious to point 
 out to her husband, "Such a pretty girl really lovely 
 but rather bad style such a pity. She's wearing a black 
 frock and scarlet shoes there she is !" 
 
 The husband looked at Pamela and said, "Women are 
 funny things. She is quite lovely, and her shoes are as 
 black as night. Come, let's dance, and don't detract from 
 a pretty girl; you were too recently one yourself." 
 
 The husband had looked at Pamela and had smiled at 
 her in the kindly way in which some men will always smile 
 at something young and lovely, whether their wives like it 
 or not. And a wise wife will like it, and she will make 
 her husband see that what he really smiles at is the mem- 
 ory recalled of her when she was just as young and per- 
 haps as lovely; and he will realise it at once, will be sur- 
 prised that he hadn't thought of it before. 
 
 Jaunty went off with the red shoes tucked away in his 
 coat pocket, and their close contact warmed his heart, and 
 as he rode he sang snatches of the "Te Deum," and dwelt 
 on the difficulty of bringing up children. 
 
 Early next morning, just before dawn, Sally crept out 
 of bed and sat on the top step of the stairs listening. 
 Pamela should be home at any minute. A slight noise be- 
 low and Sally edged nearer the banister and looked through. 
 She could see nothing. But still there were shuffling, quiet, 
 creaky sounds. 
 
 "Who's that?" she asked. 
 
 "It's me, miss Jaunty." 
 
 "You," said Sally, relieved. "What are you doing?" 
 
 "Miss Pamela should be home." 
 
 "Yes. Jaunty?" 
 
 "Yes, miss." 
 
 "Bags I ask first you know what?" 
 
 "If she enjoyed herself, miss?" 
 
 "Yes, don't you? Mind!"
 
 64. JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "She was, miss." 
 
 "Was what?" 
 
 "Enjoying herself." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 There was silence. Then Sally spoke. "Jaunty?" 
 
 "Yes, miss." 
 
 "What have you got on?" 
 
 "My Sunday-collection coat." 
 
 "That you wear when you hand the plate?" 
 
 "Yes, miss." 
 
 "Is it suitable, Jaunty?" 
 
 "It seems so, miss." 
 
 "You feel it a solemn occasion?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "Why are you waiting? Are you worried?" 
 
 "A little." 
 
 "What about? Tell me!" Sally's face was wedged 
 between the banisters, and she peered down upon the 
 respectable and unhappy Jaunty. 
 
 "Sir Henry you know his reputation, miss? I saw 
 him crossing the hall in time with the band, at his age! 
 I stood at the door." 
 
 "What door?" 
 
 "Well, Miss Pamela had forgotten something, so I 
 went ..." 
 
 "Forgotten to say 'Yes, please,' and 'No, thank you,' you 
 wonderful Jaunty?" 
 
 "Well, I saw him cross the hall." 
 
 "Why shouldn't he? Why does a hen cross a road? I 
 don't see why he shouldn't, if the historic hen did." 
 
 "His reputation is not what I care for. Your father 
 wouldn't know and if he knew he wouldn't believe." 
 
 "Bad reputation, Jaunty? But you can't prevent us 
 meeting wicked people, can you?" 
 
 "No, miss, but I would make you fear them that's all 
 I would ask."
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 65 
 
 "Wicked people are supposed to be fascinating, aren't 
 they?" 
 
 "You shouldn't feel that with your father what he is." 
 
 "Ah, but then he is different to any one, isn't he? He 
 could be wicked and still remain absolutely good, couldn't 
 he? And so could you, Jaunty. It's the wanting to do 
 bad things that matters. To do them and hate them all 
 the time, that's just painful experience, isn't it?" 
 
 "Miss Sally, Miss Sally, where did you learn that?" 
 
 She said the little hen had crossed the road on purpose to 
 tell her. 
 
 "Here they are, miss," and Jaunty hastened to the hall 
 door and flung it wide. The cool air rushed past him, up 
 the staircase, and Pamela after it. Sally wrapped her 
 dressing-gown round herself and her arms round Pamela, 
 and they danced up the stairs and down the passage and 
 back again. 
 
 "Sally, Sally, I can never be the same again it came 
 quite, quite naturally." 
 
 "What did?" 
 
 "Flirting. I loved it. I was sad; I was gay; I was 
 heart-broken. I laughed. I nearly cried. A mood to 
 meet every mood ! I can do it to perfection. See, Sally 
 . . . this when a man told me his horse had broken its 
 back!" Pamela's great tragic eyes brimmed over with 
 tears. 
 
 "Don't, Pamela!" cried Sally. "I can't bear it; but it 
 was no credit to you to cry over that, who wouldn't?" 
 
 "Of course, of course, Sally, but you have missed the 
 point. I might have wanted to cry and not been able. 
 Think what a tear can do at the right moment. It's worth 
 thousands of 'I can't tell you how sorry I ams.' " 
 
 Sally was convinced. Of course it was. 
 
 "See, Sally . . . this when a young man didn't see a 
 joke," and Pamela's eyes danced with delight. 
 
 "What j oke ? Tell me, do !" 
 
 "Any joke, goose."
 
 66 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "It's better than a theatre," sighed Sally. "Did you 
 tear your frock?" 
 
 "What does that matter ?" 
 
 Sally's eyes widened. How in the space of a few hours 
 had Pamela grown away from her and their circumstances ! 
 "My goodness/' she thought, "not matter !" 
 
 "Come and undo my frock, Sally." 
 
 The grey dawn came in at the window, and Sally, instead 
 of undoing Pamela's frock, went to the window and looked 
 out. 
 
 "Look at the sky, Pamela." 
 
 Pamela came over and looked; then putting her arm 
 round Sally's neck she said, "Darling, funny baby, what's 
 the matter with the sky? It can't help itself dawning 
 any more than I can help myself yawning." 
 
 "Pamela," whispered Sally, "Her letter?" She held 
 out her hand. "Do let me see. Did you take it with 
 you?" 
 
 Pamela nodded gravely. She drew the letter from her 
 bodice. She gave it to Sally, and Sally walked away and 
 opened it. She read, "God bless and keep you good, my 
 sweet child." That was all. Jaunty was wrong. 
 
 Neither of the girls spoke. Pamela looked at Sally. 
 Sally looked at the letter. A voice spoke to them both. 
 To Sally most distinctly, because she was most ready to 
 listen; was always listening. 
 
 "You'll have to be, Pamela," said Sally at last. Pamela 
 nodded. 
 
 "I suppose so, but goodness doesn't really appeal to me. 
 I am sorry to say it but it doesn't. Of course now ..." 
 
 "Not Daddy Long Legs and Jaunty 's kind?" 
 
 Pamela shrugged her shoulders. "Delightful; but I 
 cannot see myself leading their life it's monastic." 
 
 "You're hardly likely to," said Sally. 
 
 "You think there are possibilities, then?" 
 
 Sally looked at her. "Your eyebrows," she admitted, 
 "are . . ."
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 67 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Provocative to say the least of it." 
 
 "That's a good word, Sally." 
 
 "Yes, I've just discovered it. But, Pamela, I'm talking 
 like this, because if I don't I shall cry. You've got to be 
 good. Think how good She was, and no one ever laughed 
 so much, or was so happy. Good morning, my Pamela. 
 I'm going to bed." 
 
 "Not to cry?" 
 
 "Who knows?" 
 
 "Sally, wait! Men aren't in the least like Jaunty and 
 Daddy Long Legs or the 'house party.' I was so afraid 
 they might be. They are infinitely more amusing and, 
 Sally, I discovered in London that our bringing up has been 
 absurd and ridiculous. We're children for our .ages. Do 
 you realise that we have known no girls all the women 
 we have known have been dear, good, kind things, leading 
 exemplary lives in this Panslea of ours? Do you realise 
 we have been brought up by two dear, innocent men ? You 
 are fourteen at most, I am sixteen ..." 
 
 "Time will put that right," said Sally, stretching her 
 arms over her head, "and I'm so sleepy. I like the way 
 we've been brought up . . ." 
 
 She went to her room and, leaning out of her window, 
 she cried: 
 
 "Mother, no child ever wanted you so much."
 
 VI 
 
 THROUGH the purple haze of budding larches, Janet drove 
 to the home chosen for her by brother Michael. The road 
 which led to it was beautiful and it was wild at least 
 Janet called it so and she being so tame should know. 
 She could look away on either side to a very considerable 
 distance and see no houses. She loved expanse. If it 
 suggested loneliness it also held out promise of infinity. 
 She didn't know she liked it for that reason; but she did. 
 She expressed it differently, that was all. She said to her- 
 self, "I don't so much mind if I am late for tea." 
 
 The man who drove invited her to sit at the top end of 
 the wagonette, quite close to his brown-and-white check 
 back, so that he could talk to her as he drove. 
 
 Janet sat there and she played noughts and crosses on 
 his broad check back with an imaginary opponent, and for 
 the first time in her life she won. The secret lies, Panslea 
 believes, in beginning first. In this game with the im- 
 aginary opponent Janet began first every time, which she 
 had never done in a real game, and she won, which she 
 had never done in a real game. 
 
 The unconscious driver gave her much information as he 
 drove, pointing with a lashless whip to hollows where 
 houses lay hidden by trees. There were living in those 
 houses people whom the young lady would like if they 
 liked her. They didn't call on lodgers as a rule, except on 
 Mrs. Hill's, and as she was a lodger at Mrs. Hill's, it 
 placed her in a different "cattery." Not long ago a lodger 
 at Mrs. Bond's had turned out to be a divorced lady. It 
 gave Panslea a turn. They were more careful now. 
 
 Janet hastily remarked upon the lashless whip, and the 
 driver laughed. That was Miss Sally's doing. She paid 
 
 68
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 69 
 
 for it, though. So much for lashes, same as some folks 
 paid for "wopses." 
 
 Janet was immensely interested, and she said they both 
 stung, of course. That fell flat, so she confessed she had 
 never seen Mrs. Hill. The driver found that strange. Had 
 Mrs. Hill seen her? No? That was downright comical, 
 that was, because Mrs. Hill was very particular. Janet 
 hastened to say Mrs. Hill had seen her brother. 
 
 The driver pulled up his horse, turned on the box, and 
 asked if it was her brother who was a dark gentleman 
 without an overcoat? And Janet said, Possibly, because 
 he had started with one, but he was on the fair side. 
 
 "That's the party," said the driver, and he gave his 
 horse permission to start. 
 
 When the horse stopped again, it stopped for good out- 
 side the house Michael had described. It was low. It was 
 lovely, and its white-framed windows were as like Queen 
 Anne as windows can be like a woman. The brave vine 
 was there holding the old house up in its arms for every 
 one to see (it had been a tender nurse all these years), 
 and in the doorway stood a little woman, whom Janet in- 
 stantly loved. And as she walked over the uneven brick 
 floor into the best parlour, she was prepared to give her 
 rooms in Westminster, rent free, to the nervous young 
 diplomat. 
 
 "Who is that?" she asked, pointing to a picture hanging 
 on the wall of a little girl. 
 
 "That's dear Miss Sally." 
 
 "And this?" 
 
 "Dear Miss Pamela." 
 
 "And this?" asked Janet gently. 
 
 "She's gone, miss, but she still seems very near.'' 
 
 "Their mother?" whispered Janet. 
 
 "Their mother," whispered Mrs. Hill. 
 
 Then turning to the picture of Pamela, Janet said she 
 had seen some one so like her. 
 
 "Have you ? We never have !" said Mrs. Hill, and Janet
 
 70 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 looked at her and they laughed. Yes, Janet would love 
 tea. 
 
 While Mrs. Hill went to get the teapot, Janet looked 
 around, examining the many photographs on the walls, 
 and came across one that thrilled her. It was undoubtedly 
 of the man with the kind eyes who had taken by mistake 
 the little poulterer's basket. 
 
 "And this one?" she asked, when Mrs. Hill came back 
 with the teapot. 
 
 "That is Mr. Lawrence, their father. It's just made, 
 miss the tea." 
 
 "I met him in London," said Janet eagerly. 
 
 "He was in London lately." Mrs. Hill said it in a way 
 that implied that he couldn't very well be in London and 
 not be seen. 
 
 "What did he go up for, do you know ?" 
 
 Mrs. Hill said that was not known. But what he had 
 brought back or, rather, what had followed him in a day 
 or two, was a partially bedridden French lady. She had 
 come to teach Miss Sally French. Mr. Lawrence could 
 hardly have gone up to London with the exact intention of 
 bringing her back, but that was neither here nor there. 
 The lady was here, however, and was very charming, and 
 spoke French as easily lying down as sitting up which, 
 after all, was what mattered, 
 
 "He had an adventure," said Janet; "he took by mistake 
 at least he carried a heavy basket for a little boy, and 
 when he parted from the boy he forgot to give him back 
 the basket." 
 
 Mrs. Hill said Mr. Lawrence might very easily do that; 
 but the little boy would not be the loser, in the end. "Mrs. 
 Lawrence used to say, 'Mr. Lawrence is unlike any one 
 else in the world he will never do what other people do; 
 but he will do kinder things, better things, than they do, 
 not always perhaps in the way they think best; but in a 
 better way and a kinder way.' " 
 
 "You have known them long?" suggested Janet.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 71 
 
 "Many years." 
 
 "And you look after them ..." 
 
 "I do what I can the whole village does what it can; 
 but there's Jaunty." 
 
 "Jaunty, Jaunty?" repeated Janet, puzzled. "I know 
 the name." 
 
 "He's a great character, and it's an uncommon name." 
 
 Janet nodded her head. It was a curious name. 
 Jaunty? She couldn't place him, and yet she did know 
 the name. 
 
 Imagine her first Sunday at church when not only did 
 she see Pamela, who had dined at the restaurant, but 
 Jaunty who had fetched her away. Jaunty presented the 
 plate at Janet's waist-line as he might have presented a 
 pistol at her head, and waited until she had added another 
 sixpence to the one she had already put in. He wasn't 
 going to let a young lady dressed as she was dressed, 
 lodging cheaply enough, too, at Mrs. Hill's, get off with 
 sixpence, when the church wanted hot-water pipes and a 
 hundred other things. It was the first time in her life 
 that Janet had suffered the penalty of being well dressed. 
 
 From the moment Mrs. Hill pulled back the curtains in 
 Janet's room, Janet became one of the people of Panslea 
 a devoted admirer of Mrs. Hill, and the happy recipient 
 of many confidences. Her questioning eyes found a ready 
 answer in Sally's busy little tongue not that Sally was* 
 indiscreet. 
 
 The farmhouse door stood wide when Janet came down 
 that first morning; if the singing of birds had been a 
 stronger lure than the smell of coffee she would have 
 walked down the flagged path and out into this new and 
 happy world. But Janet was a ready breakfaster, so she 
 breakfasted. Then she walked down the flagged path 
 and out into her new world. She lifted her arms as a 
 bird does its wings, but she had no wish to fly, for she 
 saw in the distance a girl sketching. Now Janet had 
 often been to the Tate Gallery, so she went up to the girl,
 
 72 ; JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 stood beside her, half closed her eyes, and put her head 
 on one side, in the manner assumed by those who would 
 show themselves artistic, and said, "Do you paint what 
 you see?" 
 
 "What d'you think?" asked the girl. 
 
 "People don't always I mean they don't want to they 
 improve upon what they see." 
 
 "I improve," said the girl, pointing her brush between 
 her lips. "I have often wondered what it was I did." 
 
 "People see greens so differently, don't they?" asked 
 Janet, unabashed. Anne Beech admitted it besides, they 
 were different. 
 
 "Some people see them purple," said Janet; then she 
 added, "Shall you put a cow in the foreground? One 
 hardly likes to put a bull, because of Paul Potter but he 
 was oils." 
 
 "It might be dangerous, even in water-colour; besides, 
 it's Mrs. Baker's cabbage patch the foreground, I mean. 
 It is difficult." 
 
 "They're easiest lying down," said Janet kindly. (A 
 cow lying down a horse going over a bridge; she knew 
 those two ways out.) 
 
 "That's not the difficulty," said Anne. "It's a blue 
 reindeer I see so distinctly not a red cow; and if I put 
 in any reindeer, no matter what colour, no one will believe 
 it was there." 
 
 "It isn't," said Janet. "Are you laughing at me?" 
 
 Anne said she hardly knew her well enough. Janet said 
 she might if she liked, adding, "I expect you are very 
 clever." 
 
 "It's very kind of you," said Anne. 
 
 "Not at all," said Janet, "every one is so kind at least 
 Mrs. Hill is, and I was wondering if every one in 
 Panslea ..." 
 
 Anne asked her if she had met the Lawrences. Janet 
 said she had met no one; but she had heard about them 
 from Mrs. Hill.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 73 
 
 "Have you met Jaunty?" asked Anne. "Of course not, 
 you said you hadn't met any one." 
 
 Janet hastened to say in a way she had met Jaunty. 
 
 "Seen him, I suppose?" 
 
 Janet said she thought she had; but she was careful not 
 to be too certain. To confess a foreknowledge of 'Jaunty 
 had already been counted presumption on her part. Her 
 right had been questioned. 
 
 "He's a great character, is Jaunty; he keeps us all in 
 great order. The Lawrences he entirely rules," said Anne. 
 
 "Don't they mind?" 
 
 "They mind nothing that makes any one happy." 
 
 "And it makes him happy?" asked Janet. 
 
 Anne Beech said she wouldn't go as far as to say that; 
 then, packing up her paints, she suggested they should go 
 up the village, where they would be bound to meet Sally 
 Lawrence. Then she remembered that Sally would be at 
 her French lesson. "Would you like to see her at her 
 French lesson?" 
 
 Janet said she would; but she didn't know the Law- 
 rences, whereupon her new friend said every one knew 
 them. It wasn't in the least necessary to be introduced, or 
 to leave cards, or to do any of those absurdly conventional 
 things. 
 
 "But how would you know people's names ?" asked Janet. 
 
 "Oh, I see. Well, I will call upon you properly to- 
 morrow. I will leave my card don't ask my name now, 
 it would be so dreadfully simple." 
 
 They walked through the village, and outside an old 
 red house with white-framed windows, seven in a row 
 above; and below, three on each side of the hall door 
 Janet's friend stopped. 
 
 "This is the Lawrences' house," she said, opening a high 
 iron gate. "It is a delightful house and quite close to the 
 road, which enables the village to learn French if it will 
 even in these days of cheap education it is an opportunity. 
 Listen !"
 
 74 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Janet listened, and she heard some one singing Chopin's 
 funeral march. 
 
 "Come round here," said Anne. Janet followed, keeping 
 close to the wall of the house. As they approached the 
 back of the house the voice grew louder. It was without 
 doubt singing French verbs. 
 
 "There's Sally." 
 
 Janet looked. "Higher, higher, right up; look!" said 
 Anne. 
 
 And Janet looked up, and there on the top of a ladder 
 which leaned against the sill of a bedroom window was 
 perched a girl, singing her French verbs to the sparrow in 
 the ivy, to the swallow in the eave, and to a mademoiselle 
 in bed; but that Janet did not know until she was told. 
 
 "The French governess is partially bedridden," explained 
 Anne. 
 
 "I know," said Janet eagerly. "Mr. Lawrence found 
 her in London and I was there." 
 
 "When he found her?" 
 
 "Well, not exactly, but when the basket was . . . 
 found." 
 
 "Then the Lawrences won't surprise you. Sally, rightly 
 enough, says she can't sit in a bedroom to do lessons, so 
 that is her plan." 
 
 Janet said it seemed a very good one only she would 
 never have thought of singing French verbs to a funeral 
 march. "They don't seem to go together, although French 
 verbs are miserable things at the best of times." 
 
 "All the Lawrences' plans turn out all right in the end," 
 said Anne, "although in their beginnings they^ are quaint. 
 Now we mustn't disturb lessons." 
 
 So Janet went home to think, and next day she wrote to 
 Michael, and this is what she wrote: 
 
 "Michael, dear, you have opened to me the gates of Paradise. 
 But the angel within the gates, so far as I have seen, is Anne 
 Beech. I wish you had fallen in love with her. I met her yes- 
 terday without discovering her name. I could have asked it, of
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 75 
 
 course ; but the mystery surrounding her was charming in itself. 
 I was so afraid it might be dispelled by a name. However, 
 to-day I went out, and when I came in I found upon my sitting- 
 room table a leaf, under a small stone. I took up the leaf. It 
 was a beech leaf, very, very new, very, very green, and deli- 
 ciously transparent. Mrs. Hill came in while I was examining 
 it, and said Miss Beech had called and had left her card. I 
 asked where it was, and Mrs. Hill said I held it. Miss Beech 
 never left any other card. I asked what she did in winter, and 
 Mrs. Hill laughed. Was that being what you call matter of 
 fact? On my part I mean? Is that the sort of thing that 
 makes you sleepy? 
 
 "I said I would call upon Miss Beech, and Mrs. Hill said no 
 moment could be better than the present, because Miss Beech 
 had said she was going straight home. I told Mrs. Hill I 
 should probably not need a card, but might I pick one from 
 the garden wall as I passed? She said I might. It is all child- 
 ish but delightful, and I believe the spirit of Sally Lawrence 
 is in the air. She does her French lessons from the top of a 
 ladder, which rests against the sill of Mademoiselle's bedroom 
 window, and the Mademoiselle is what Mr. Lawrence went to 
 London for. I haven't yet met the one . . . Michael, dear old 
 Michael, I am told she is lovely. Well, I found Miss Beech in, 
 and I laid my card on the table, and I said, 'That's my name,' 
 and she said, 'Plaster'? and when I told her 'Mason,' she said 
 of course she knew. 'So you are Mr. Mason's sister? and what 
 made you come here?' 
 
 "She lifted a tulip from a kinky lead, and put it into another 
 not bettering its position in the least. I dared not tell her 
 about P. L., so I said I wasn't very strong. She looked at me. 
 'How curious,' she said. 'I have never seen any one look so 
 blatantly healthy. However, one can't go by appearances. 
 Tell me some more truths.' 
 
 "I could say nothing after that except that I must go. She 
 asked, Why? Had I many engagements? I smiled. Anne, 
 slim as a daffodil, in her green sheaf-life frock, stood before 
 me, and putting out her hand drew me down on to the sofa. 
 'Dear Miss Mason,' she said, 'I wish I knew why you have come 
 to Panslea. If it is to get colour into those pink cheeks, and 
 flesh on those well-covered bones, stay and be happy, but you 
 must take Anne Beech as you find her, and not try to make 
 her out something else. If you want romance you must con- 
 centrate on Pamela Lawrence. She went to her first dance the 
 other night, and the postman has been weighed down with let- 
 ters for her all proposals ever since.'
 
 76 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "Have I said it too suddenly, dear Michael? It is all rather 
 puzzling. I shouldn't put off proposing too long if you really 
 mean it, and, Michael dear, I find I spend so little here, that I 
 might make marriage possible for you, see? I hope this letter 
 will convey something to you beyond my love I am a very, 
 ridiculously happy Janet if it weren't for your trouble." 
 
 To which letter, by return, came an angry answer from 
 Michael, rather angry! He told Janet she was a dear, 
 silly goose, and not to breathe a word about P.L. to any 
 one. He wouldn't for the world let any. one think he was 
 in love with her. Least of all Anne Beech and he begged 
 to say a daffodil didn't in the least describe Anne she was 
 anything but yellow. 
 
 Janet read Michael's letter and folded it up. "The 
 dear old thing," she said, "he can wake up when he likes," 
 and of course he could. But Janet didn't know why her 
 letter in particular should have aroused him. 
 
 There are men in this world of ours who, being good men 
 and kind, rather than hurt a woman they love who bores 
 them will feign sleep at those moments when they feel 
 at the end of their tether. Living with Janet had become 
 a kind of rest-cure enforced for Michael. 
 
 Janet was sure she felt the atmosphere of Panslea en- 
 veloping her, as it were, in its soft folds. The influence 
 of Mrs. Lawrence was a tangible thing, a living, force- 
 ful thing. So real a thing was it that Janet, at the end of 
 two or three days, had come to the conclusion that it was 
 because of that influence and only because of it that 
 Miss Eleanor Doe had not eloped with Lord Bridlington 
 Mr. Masters with Anne Beech. Panslea without that in- 
 fluence would have been as wicked a place as it was pos- 
 sible for a small village to be. It was very wonderful! 
 Janet ventured to say so to Anne, anxious to show that she 
 too was imbued with the spirit of the place. She said how 
 good it had made Miss Doe. 
 
 Anne admitted the wonderfulness of the influence no
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 77 
 
 one was more alive to it than she was but she ventured to 
 say that Miss Eleanor was naturally very good. 
 
 "Of course good!" admitted Janet, "but not so good 
 as she is now." 
 
 Anne challenged Janet to fit a wickedness to Miss 
 Eleanor's soul. And Janet couldn't find anything that 
 fitted. She dared not suggest elopement. It was much 
 too large and loose a thing. 
 
 "Of course," said Anne, "the influence is this that if I 
 feel cross and impatient I stop and think before I show 
 it. 'What would She have. 
 
 "Oh! that?" said Janet. 
 
 "Yes, just that, and it's quite enough to make a dif- 
 ference, I mean. Then we don't gossip maliciously we 
 don't ascribe motives. ..." 
 
 "But it could the influence, I mean do more if it 
 were necessary," argued Janet. 
 
 "Yes, it could do anything; but somehow or other it is 
 the small sins which hinder us in the paths of Panslea 
 bigger sins, not necessarily worse sins don't seem to come 
 our way." 
 
 But Janet clung to her belief in the power of the influ- 
 ence, and she looked at Miss Eleanor in church with tender 
 misunderstanding. There were so many wickednesses she 
 might have committed. 
 
 Dear little Miss Eleanor was as incapable as was a 
 garden rake of committing deliberate sin. Her thoughts 
 were beautiful her aspirations divine her dreams of an- 
 other world. She thanked God every day of her life for 
 the innumerable blessings showered upon her, and had no 
 idea that her goodness was of them all the most rare. 
 
 She looked forward in her dreams to shaking hands with 
 Leonardo da Vinci in Heaven, but didn't know what she 
 should say to Torrigiano for breaking Michael Angelo's 
 nose. He might so easily have injured the precious eye- 
 sight. Perhaps she would understand Torrigiano's motive 
 and that would make it easier. She was slow to blame
 
 78 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 genius. She hoped and prayed that Sir Joshua Reynolds 
 would not be deaf in Heaven, because she wanted to thank 
 him so much for his beautiful work, and she was very shy, 
 and would like to say it as softly as possible. She wanted 
 very much to ask Romney if Lady Hamilton were really as 
 beautiful as he had painted her but of course the subject 
 was one she could hardly mention. Perhaps he would say 
 something first. The controversy must pain him. She was 
 quite certain her Heaven would be peopled by great paint- 
 ers, and perhaps one of them would tell her how to make a 
 winding path lie down and not stand up like a corkscrew 
 on end. Perhaps perspective in Heaven would be called 
 by an easier name. Perhaps in Heaven there would be 
 none. In that way would it indeed be Heaven to the timid 
 painter. 
 
 All these gentle thoughts occupied Miss Eleanor's mind 
 in church, and Janet guessed none of them.
 
 VII 
 
 PAMELA was very busy. She had so many letters to an- 
 swer (Sally really believed, or said she believed, them to 
 be proposals) that Sally had to amuse herself, which she 
 was perfectly well able to do. 
 
 It was at this time that she started her armchair busi- 
 ness. 
 
 It happened in this wise. She was told that old Simon 
 Saxton, up the church lane, was so crippled with rheuma- 
 tism that he couldn't go to bed, that all night he sat up, 
 leaning his poor dear old head on the table, and that so 
 he slept or tried to sleep. When Sally heard this she 
 rested ill in her soft pillows, and she tossed about in her 
 comfortable bed. Her cheeks burned, and her heart 
 thumped with sympathy for poor old Simon. And when 
 Sally sympathised she didn't end with feeling sorry, she 
 must be up and doing. It was early to get up, five o'clock 
 in the morning, but she must. She could bear it no longer. 
 Pamela was tired out refusing people ; Jaunty was inac- 
 cessible; Matilda didn't count; and Daddy Long Legs she 
 never disturbed unless it were absolutely necessary. 
 
 Mademoiselle alone remained. She was so often in bed 
 that night and day could be but names to her, therefore to 
 Mademoiselle's room went Sally. She awakened her gently 
 and said she had something very important to say, so 
 Mademoiselle must listen. She was going to say it in her 
 best French, introducing all yesterday's idioms. 
 
 She said it in French, and Mademoiselle, half awake, 
 wondered at the fluency of this strange language, but de- 
 spaired of understanding it. Not so much that Sally's 
 French was bad as that Mademoiselle's sleep had been 
 deep. All she gathered was that some one in the village 
 
 79
 
 80 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 had left his head on the table. Now to Mademoiselle it 
 was quite evident that it was some one else who must have 
 cut off the head and afterwards have put it on the table 
 naturally leaving it there, for who would wish to keep it? 
 It was a horrible story, not fit for Sally to hear. But Sally 
 had heard it, repeated it, and was gone. Mademoiselle her- 
 self was helpless, and Jaunty was in the bachelor's wing 
 not within call so the position was a hopeless one. 
 
 A murder! It was horrible. Mademoiselle rang her 
 bell, and of course nothing happened because the bell rang 
 into a passage and every one in the house was in bed, ex- 
 cept Sally, and she had gone for a walk in order to think 
 out a plan. When she came in, dew-drenched, she found 
 Jaunty distracted, and her father, dictionary in hand, 
 trying to make out an extraordinary story Mademoiselle 
 was trying to tell. Sally, of course, cleared it all up and 
 put the dictionary back in its proper place, under the 
 bird-cage, from whence it had eome, and sent Jaunty about 
 his business and her breakfast. 
 
 After breakfast she started for Bridlington Park. She 
 reached it without adventure, for which she was sorry. 
 She rang the bell with determination, and waited. When 
 the door opened she asked of the footman who opened it if 
 Lord Bridlington was at home, and when the footman said 
 his lordship was not at home, Sally said, "Then say please 
 I should like to see him." And the footman went and 
 Sally stood in the great hall, which had been built neither 
 for nor by Bridlingtons, and wondered what it would be 
 like to live there. She knew Lord Bridlington was as proud 
 of the house as Lady Bridlington was of a name that was 
 written one way arid pronounced another. Lord Bridling- 
 ton she knew had infinitely preferred himself as Thomas 
 Brown and his wife as Mrs. Thomas Brown. By that 
 name he had thought of her and loved her for many years. 
 Neither he nor she would ever get accustomed to the 
 change. Sally knew as every one in the village knew 
 that the change had been made on account of the little
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 81 
 
 Browns so Lady Bridlington always said, adding that it 
 was not as if Thomas had sought the honour, disregarding 
 the fact that for years she had prayed for a peerage for 
 him, using other influence as well. Sally wondered why 
 plain Thomas Brown should have been made a peer of 
 the realm because he had made and patented a hard red 
 brick that wouldn't wear out. The paths up to the cottages 
 on the Bridlington estate were laid with these hard red 
 bricks, which no Bridlington foot would ever wear. Sally 
 loved the old bricks that were trodden into unevenness by 
 the feet of generations passed by. She loved the little cups 
 in them that held the clear water after a spring shower. 
 They made, if nothing else, such nice drinking-places for 
 the birds, such delightful things for children either to jump 
 over, or step into, as suited their particular dispositions. 
 
 "His lordship would see Miss Lawrence." 
 
 Miss Lawrence knew it and she stepped gaily into the 
 library, and sat herself down on a sofa. The more she 
 sat the deeper she sank, and she asked Lord Bridlington 
 if he liked cushions. He said he hated them. He always 
 threw them out of a chair. It was a bad beginning. Sally 
 jumped up and slipping behind Lord Bridlington, who 
 stood, sank into the chair the cushion of which was still 
 rising, released from the pressure he had brought to bear 
 upon it. 
 
 "But this is a surprisingly comfortable chair," she said, 
 grieved and shocked that he should lie so lightly. 
 
 He said it was; what he had meant was that he hated 
 loose cushions. A comfortable chair, of course, was a 
 necessity. 
 
 "Done!" cried Sally, springing up. "You've said it and 
 you've never gone back on your word you've said so 
 dozens of times. Say it again, after me; about the arm- 
 chair, I mean." 
 
 She stood, a slip of a thing, before Lord Bridlington, 
 and he looking at her felt just plain Thomas Brown again 
 and radiant at that.
 
 82 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 She stood with her finger lifted while he repeated after 
 her the words, "A comfortable armchair is a necessity." 
 
 He repeated the words glibly enough because the ,child 
 was a pretty child, and a happy child, and because she 
 didn't treat him in the least as he was afraid he ought to 
 be treated. Then begging him to sit down in his com- 
 fortable chair, she told him the story of Simon Saxton, and 
 it lost nothing in the telling. The listener was more in- 
 terested in the fact that Sally's eyes could fill with tears 
 and not brim over than in the story itself. The story 
 wasn't pretty. 
 
 Then Sally, who was as pretty as a fairy story with a 
 happy ending, drew a small table up to his chair, begged 
 him to lay his head upon it and try to imagine himself 
 spending the night like that j ust like that ! Obediently 
 he bent his head, and Sally with the aid of the flat side 
 of a large paper knife pressed it lower and lower till it 
 rested on the table. Thomas Brown felt a fool, but a 
 happy one, until the door opened and Lady Bridlington 
 came in. Then it was all folly and no happiness. 
 
 "Bridlington!" she exclaimed, "what is the matter?" 
 And Sally explained. It was difficult until she came to the 
 Simon Saxton part of the story. There was nothing ridicu- 
 lous about that, and Lady Bridlington's eyes were full of 
 tears when Sally had done. 
 
 "Thomas, this must not be," she said. 
 
 "It must not be, my dear, but what does Sally propose?" 
 
 Sally proposed only this ! That every poor old man 
 in the village, every poor old woman, should have a com- 
 fortable armchair, a good, well-stuffed, comfortable arm- 
 chair. "Say it again after me, please. No? Well, it's 
 a fact a well-known fact that most rheumatism and all 
 sciatica come from uncomfortable chairs. 
 
 Lord Bridlington longed to dispute that point. It was 
 one of the absurd statements Lawrence loved to make. 
 He knew that! Lawrence's theories exasperated him. If 
 dear Mrs. Lawrence hadn't died he would never have . . .
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 83 
 
 "How many chairs d'you want?" he asked, stifling the 
 spirit of controversy. 
 
 Sally proposed ten. 
 
 "Ten at how much?" 
 
 "I would propose ten at seven guineas ten to begin 
 with." 
 
 "Would you?" 
 
 Sally nodded. 
 
 "Seventy guineas?" 
 
 "What's that?" asked Sally, with a fine scorn, who in 
 the whole course of her life had never possessed a tenth 
 of that sum for her very own. 
 
 "You propose that I should give ten armchairs at seven 
 guineas a-piece?" 
 
 Sally nodded again. 
 
 "Well, 7 don't." 
 
 Sally's face expressed the disappointment she felt. 
 
 "Are you surprised, Sally?" 
 
 "Hardly," said Sally, sitting in an attitude of deepest 
 dejection, "a man who makes the hardest things in the 
 world, who tries to make them hard, who is rewarded for 
 making them hard, naturally becomes hard himself. Kind 
 cottage mothers like the brick paths worn by the feet of 
 their children. They like, when they grow old, to see the 
 feet of their big sons, soldier sons, covering three of the 
 little depressions into which the same feet used to stumble 
 when they were tiny. They don't ask for hard, hard 
 bricks." 
 
 "Sally, I'm not so hard as you think. I have another 
 plan to propose. They shall have the chairs if you, from 
 time to time, will inspect them. See that they are kept 
 clean and the springs in order." 
 
 "You darling!" said Sally. Then she did a thing from 
 which neither Thomas Brown nor Bridlington ever recov- 
 ered. She set upon the brow of Bridlington the seal of 
 old age. The kiss was the kiss of a happy child bestowed 
 upon a man too old to count.
 
 84 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "Now to business," said Lord Bridlington, aged in a 
 moment. 
 
 To get the chairs from one cottage to another there 
 must be a cart, which Sally must drive. It must be 
 painted a brilliant green, that was her idea; with red 
 wheels, also her idea. It was Bridlington's that her name 
 should be painted on the cart and so save the tax. 
 
 Sally laughed. She didn't realise that Bridlington was 
 so rich because he and his father before him had thought 
 of little savings all their lives. Nor did she know that her 
 father was poor because his father and his grandfathers 
 before him had never sa>ped anything. 
 
 But she got her chairs and her cart (she had her pony), 
 and she became inspector of armchairs for the people of 
 Panslea. It kept her occupied while Pamela danced and 
 flirted. 
 
 Bridlington had stipulated that the chairs should be 
 lent only to deserving people. Sally demurred. The bones 
 of the bad were just as sharp as the bones of the good. 
 Rheumatic pains attacked alike both the righteous and the 
 evil-doer. But Bridlington held that the lot of the evil" 
 doer must not be softened. 
 
 "Bricks, bricks, bricks," murmured Sally; and when, as 
 inspector, she came to inquire into cases nearly every one 
 of them proved deserving. The only ones a little less de- 
 serving than the others were those of the really fat people 
 which would have been strange, if it had not been that 
 Sally was her father's daughter.
 
 VIII 
 
 PAMELA talked a good deal of London and what she had 
 done there, but not so much as Sally had expected. There- 
 fore at ten o'clock of every night she sat on Pamela's bed 
 awaiting confidences, although not forcing them. She 
 talked gaily of things things from which she could easily 
 switch off at a moment's notice. At last Pamela told her 
 something to which she attached tremendous importance, 
 and from Mrs. Masters' goloshes she switched off at once 
 on to the man rather different from other men, whom 
 Pamela had met one night out at dinner. 
 
 Yes, Sally knew the sort; women nearly always mar- 
 ried him. She shifted her position on Pamela's bed to 
 one of the greatest comfort, anticipating a lengthy stay. 
 
 "How do you know the sort?" asked Pamela, resenting 
 Sally's eyes which danced to the accompaniment of her 
 laughter. 
 
 "Instinct," said Sally. "Go on. Did you ask him by 
 chance if he knew this dear Panslea of ours?" 
 
 Pamela admitted it, and Sally was glad. It showed 
 for all her gaiety that Pamela did love her father, her 
 home, and Jaunty. It was about Jaunty, by the way, she 
 particularly wanted to speak. The man different from 
 other men said he knew of Panslea, and as he said it he 
 laughed. He added, Didn't two very pretty girls live 
 there brought up by a butler? 
 
 "What did you say then, Pamela?" asked Sally, and 
 Pamela said she corrected him gently. The girls weren't 
 pretty exactly; and the butler wasn't a butler exactly. 
 Then the M.D.F.O.M. asked if their father was a real 
 father, and Pamela vowed she said he wasn't. That he 
 was a story-book father; a fairy Story-book father that 
 
 85
 
 86 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 there wasn't another like him in the world, and he wasn't 
 in the least proper. But the question of Jaunty? What 
 was that? Sally wanted to know. Pamela said, Would 
 she promise not to jump? Sally promised, although a 
 spring bed was a temptation. 
 
 "Well, don't," she said, and Sally promised. 
 
 Pamela was going to tell her in one moment, but first of 
 all she must do up Sally's hair to see what she would look 
 like when she in her turn came to sit next a man different 
 from other men, and Sally with her hair wound round her 
 head looked like a ridiculously delicious baby, ready for 
 her bath. 
 
 "Now proceed," she said, nodding her top-heavy head. 
 
 "Well, my child, it's this don't jump!" Pamela laid 
 a restraining hand on Sally's knee. "Do you think Jaunty 
 is a poor relation of ours?" 
 
 "No, why on earth?" exclaimed Sally. 
 
 "Because I don't know he's such a dear and such a 
 bad butler, isn't he? Just the sort of butler a relation 
 of Daddy Long Legs would be most frightfully willing 
 and anxious to give satisfaction." 
 
 "But why do you want to know now?" asked Sally. 
 
 "Because this man I may have to tell him everything 
 and suppose, just suppose, I had to say Jaunty was . . ." 
 
 "Would he mind?" 
 
 "Who, Jaunty?" 
 
 "No, the man." 
 
 "He would. He's very conventional. He isn't like other 
 people, he has no badly off relations at all." 
 
 "He would mind Jaunty being . . ." 
 
 "Of course !" 
 
 Sally was wondering what sort of a relation Jaunty 
 could be. "We aren't in the least like him," she said, 
 gazing at Pamela. 
 
 "Only in ways, perhaps," admitted Pamela; "an uncle 
 he might have been, by marriage. One can amass the 
 quaintest relations that way."
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 87 
 
 "He's poor, of course/' said Sally, "but I'm sure he's 
 not a relation, he approves so frightfully." 
 
 "Of us?" asked Pamela. 
 
 Sally nodded. 
 
 "If we gave a dinner-party, would he approve of that?" 
 asked Pamela. 
 
 "We shouldn't dare!" gasped Sally. There were limits 
 to Jaunty 's affection. 
 
 "We do dare. So think about it; go to bed and think." 
 
 Sally went to bed promising to consider the menu. Sally 
 considering a menu! The absurdity of it, when bread 
 and butter and brown sugar was the food she loved best, 
 and always had, when her father and Pamela were out to 
 lunch, which was not often. 
 
 Pamela lay in bed and considered the menu. The menu 
 itself presented no difficulties. She knew several by heart. 
 She had dined at restaurants; at many friends' houses. 
 She had learnt by short experience how surprising a thing 
 a dinner could be. Bad where you might expect it good. 
 Good where you were certain it would be bad. A menu 
 was one thing; Serena's culinary efforts another. 
 
 Then flashed upon Pamela the thought of Mademoiselle ! 
 A Frenchwoman in bed must be better than an English- 
 woman up ten times better. 
 
 It was nearly eleven o'clock. The clock on the staircase 
 had just struck two, which meant that it was seventeen 
 minutes to eleven. It was quite early. Mademoiselle must 
 be interviewed. It took a second only for Pamela to slip 
 her arms into her dressing-gown and her feet into her 
 slippers, and along the passage she padded. Opening 
 Mademoiselle's door softly she peeped in and there was 
 Mademoiselle sleeping peacefully in the beam of moon- 
 light that lay across her bed. She was smiling. She 
 might be dreaming of cooking. Pamela was sure she must 
 be. So she laid her hand gently on the little white hand 
 that lay on the quilt, and murmured very distinctly, "Ome- 
 lette." And sure enough Mademoiselle stirred and said
 
 88 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 very softly, but very distinctly, "Aux pointes d'asperges." 
 
 Pamela committed that to memory and said very softly, 
 very distinctly, "Entree." 
 
 "Come in," said Mademoiselle, opening her eyes. "Mon 
 enfant!" she exclaimed. There was an immense tender- 
 ness expressed in her voice; so much so that Pamela said, 
 "Ce n'est pas Salade * . . c'est moi. Pomme a la . . ." 
 
 By that time Mademoiselle was awake and she smiled 
 her Pamela smile, which was, if not quite her best, quite 
 good enough and quite as good as Pamela deserved. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, I am in love," explained this apparition 
 bathed in moonlight, her eyes shining like stars set in the 
 heavens. 
 
 "In love!" ejaculated Mademoiselle, as if it were a thing 
 unthought-of, whereas she and Sally had gone so far as 
 to discuss, not only love, but its cloaks and habits, shoes 
 and silk stockings a trousseau in fact. 
 
 "Pour le moment," added Pamela, "and he is coming 
 down to see how I grow in my own garden, and Serena 
 can't cook." 
 
 Mademoiselle admitted it. She would never have said 
 so because of her love for Mr. Lawrence. If le bon Dieu 
 had given him the digestion of an ostrich it was not for 
 her to complain. She would not have said anything, even 
 now, if Pamela had not herself said it. 
 
 Pamela knew that. "But you, Mademoiselle, are a 
 Frenchwoman, and all Frenchwomen ..." 
 
 Mademoiselle raised a hand in protest. 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Pamela, "but one Frenchwoman in 
 bed is worth two Englishwomen in the kitchen Pascal 
 thought it. You yourself suggested Omelette aux pointes 
 d'asperges. You were dreaming of it, and if you dream 
 of it you can certainly cook it. The stuff our dreams are 
 made of you know! Some one says that." 
 
 It was strange, Mademoiselle had thought it was of 
 Sally she had been dreaming. 
 
 "Non, non," said Pamela emphatically, "of Salade . . .
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 89 
 
 je vous assure/' and Mademoiselle gave in as every one 
 did when Pamela willed it so. By twelve o'clock it was 
 arranged that on the day of the dinner Mademoiselle's 
 sofa should be placed in the kitchen, or anywhere most 
 convenient, and on her lap she should make an omelette, 
 mix sauces, and so repay Mr. Lawrence something of all 
 he had done for her. 
 
 Pamela went to bed and to sleep. Not so Mademoiselle. 
 She was in bed; but she could not sleep. She had put all 
 her eggs into one omelette. 
 
 The dinner was arranged. Serena pacified; there re- 
 mained Jaunty to cajole. He took it better than Pamela 
 expected, except when help was suggested. There he was 
 firm. If it must be done, he could do it alone. But Pamela 
 was as firmly determined that the coachman must be there, 
 if only behind the scenes. And if there should be jelly 
 which there wouldn't be he mustn't say "Whoa!" to it 
 because it had been said by Sidney Smith's coachman. So 
 it would be plagiarism if Jaunty allowed it. He must 
 make that clearly understood. 
 
 "But if he's behind the scenes and there is no jelly?" 
 said Jaunty, seeking an escape. 
 
 "It would still be plagiarism, worse than ever, if there 
 wasn't a jelly. It's a saying that has been said once and 
 for all. Lots of sayings can be said, and are said, hun- 
 dreds of times by hundreds of different people, but not 
 this one." 
 
 Jaunty determined to say nothing about it. To begin 
 with, he didn't quite know what plagiarism meant. It 
 wasn't a word used when he was in business. There was 
 another word used then, which he used now. It was as 
 expressive now as it had been then, and had lost nothing 
 from want of use. He had forgotten the very excellent 
 sound of it. He said it twice, and would have said it 
 again had he been so minded. But the relief he sought 
 was his at the second saying, so he left it at that. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence made no objection whatever when the din-
 
 90 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 ner was suggested. He would have been as willing to wel- 
 come twenty guests as one. He didn't know any difficulty 
 existed. He didn't know Serena wasn't a good cook; he 
 knew she was a most excellent woman. She came for less 
 money because she had a wooden leg, not because she 
 was a bad cook. The leg! what did that matter, except 
 the loss to herself? The sympathy he felt for her, and 
 every one felt for her, must be a gain. 
 
 What troubled him was that Pamela should care for 
 any man not her father. How had she grown up without 
 his knowing it? It meant that time was passing quickly, 
 and yet, judging by the wound that was slow to heal, time 
 stood still. 
 
 What if Pamela married? Who was there to tell her 
 things, to warn her? To guard her against sorrow and 
 disappointment ? 
 
 If she should come to him he could tell her of nothing 
 but joy and happiness, warn her against nothing but the 
 awful separation that might come when she and the one 
 she loved were most happy. And that he hadn't the heart 
 to do, knowing too well the anguish. 
 
 Yet his relations had hinted to him that he wasn't doing 
 his duty in not warning Pamela and Sally against what? 
 
 What could he warn Sally against? She was a happy, a 
 wonderful child. Why should he suggest evil? Living as 
 she did in the village, with sorrow at her very gates, she 
 knew sin and wickedness existed; but from the lips of 
 mothers she heard that it was seldom meant. From the 
 lips of wives, that bad men were only bad because they 
 were unfortunate. No husband, hardly, was intentionally 
 bad, given a fair chance. And Sally, looking into the worn 
 faces of the women who pleaded for the best in their bad 
 men, drew her own wise conclusions. And putting two 
 and two together she made a sandwich of her little world. 
 If there was sin, on either side, quite close to it there was 
 also goodness. What wiser than this could Mr. Lawrence 
 teach Sally?
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 91 
 
 He said something of this kind to the children's aunt, 
 and she said, "You and your children are content then to 
 live in a fairyland?" 
 
 "While we are still young!" pleaded Mr. Lawrence, 
 with a twinkle in his eyes, and the aunt gave him up in 
 despair. 
 
 To the fairyland was coming a prince. Whether he 
 would trample down the rose-hedge that bounded the fairy- 
 land on all sides remained to be seen. He might step over 
 it gracefully without brushing the petals from the blooms. 
 There was the chance that he might not, a chance sug- 
 gested so persistently by Aunt Venetia, that poor Mr. Law- 
 rence determined to warn Pamela and Sally of dangers. 
 
 Their aunt held him responsible if he didn't. 
 
 So up to Sally's room he went one night. Sally was in 
 bed. That was bad enough. It was difficult to be serious 
 with Sally in bed. But worse still Pamela was there too. 
 Side by side they sat, looking like two babies in a peram- 
 bulator. Under their lashes Pamela's eyes laughed at him. 
 
 He was much too serious, much too frightened, to notice 
 that. He pulled up a chair to the side of the bed next 
 Sally. He felt safer there. 
 
 "Darling old Daddy Long Legs," she said, looking at 
 him with immense friendliness, "what is it? What is it?" 
 
 He held out his hand, and in it she placed the end of 
 her long pigtail. It made an excellent "pretence paint- 
 brush," and from the time Sally's pigtail had been long 
 enough to play the part, Mr. Lawrence had pretended to 
 paint her face with it. It was a dear old game, and here 
 was Sally with her face all screwed up ready. But Mr. 
 Lawrence was in no merry mood to-night. Very seriously 
 he said, "I want to warn you, my darlings." 
 
 Sally rounded her eyes. Pamela narrowed hers. Sally 
 told him he was doing it beautifully. She felt religious 
 and squiggly all down her back. It was a hopeless posi- 
 tion. He looked from Pamela to Sally, from Sally to 
 Pamela. Then came nobly Sally to the rescue.
 
 92 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "Is it about motors round the Yellow Hammer hill?" 
 she suggested, "the dangerous corner, perhaps?" 
 
 "Yes, darling, they are tarring the road." 
 
 "Thank you for telling us, darling," said Sally gravely. 
 "We will keep clean and unspotted by the tar. Good- 
 night, you dear old blessing," and Mr. Lawrence went feel- 
 ing smaller and taller and clumsier than he had ever felt 
 in his life before, and that was saying a good deal. The 
 lightness of Sally's touch had put him to shame. 
 
 "Sally!" exclaimed Pamela, when their father had gone. 
 
 "We must keep clean, Pamela, souls and bodies, minds 
 and frocks that's all the darling wanted to say and 
 couldn't. I'm not surprised mother loved him so much 
 but how he needs her. Now go to your own bed and let 
 me sleep." 
 
 Pamela went to her bed, and poor Daddy Long Legs 
 went down stairs and into the room which was always 
 empty, and, sitting down in his chair, he thought back 
 through the years that seemed but yesterdays. His wife 
 the mother of his children how easily he conjured up the 
 radiance of her beauty ! How distinctly he heard her voice 
 her laughter. How clearly he saw her playing with her 
 first baby, the miraculous Pamela. Then singing to Sally, 
 less of a miracle perhaps, but even more wonderful, for 
 she was younger and smaller and more absurdly like her 
 father. Her father had disputed that. It was their mother 
 he had looked for in his children then, as now. In little 
 ways it was Pamela now who reminded him most of her 
 mother, in the movements of her hands, in the manner of 
 her talking. But in Sally it was her tenderness, her hon- 
 esty, her happiness that he found the likeness most strik- 
 ing, most strongly developed. 
 
 Jaunty, distrusting these reveries by night, stole into the 
 library, and seeing Mr. Lawrence deep in thought, as he 
 had suspected, began to search for something, fidgeting 
 among the books and papers, a habit of his he knew Mr. 
 Lawrence detested.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 93 
 
 "What is it, Jautaty? It's not there." 
 
 "Your slippers, sir." 
 
 "You won't find them inside a book the puppy proba- 
 bly ! We must get rid of that puppy, Jaunty." 
 
 "By the time we have persuaded some one to give it a 
 kind home, sir, it will no longer be a puppy. Time mends 
 the ways of puppies. But your slippers, sir; you are not 
 by chance wearing them?" 
 
 Of course he was. It was one of the things Aunt Vene- 
 tia most deeply deplored. "If his wife had lived," she 
 often said, "it would never have happened." 
 
 Jaunty having found the slippers on the feet of his mas- 
 ter, where he had known them to be, stayed to talk, and 
 left Mr. Lawrence reading the paper. "Anything better 
 than thoughts, even politics," said Jaunty to himself as he 
 went away. "A man without a wife, the less he dwells 
 on it the better." 
 
 "I have warned the children," said Mr. Lawrence to a 
 friend he met in the village. "It's a difficult task for a 
 father." 
 
 "It's a beautiful task, I am sure, or you would make it 
 so," murmured the friend in whom he chanced to confide. 
 
 "Dear things," said their father. "It is difficult to be- 
 lieve that the children we have watched and loved since 
 they were babies need know of the existence of sin. Since 
 we have known them we have learnt so much more than 
 we ever knew of things that are good and lovely, that sin 
 seems to have become less of a reality. For a man with 
 daughters surely it has less power than it ever had I 
 mean . . ." 
 
 And the one in whom he chanced to confide blew her 
 nose, and said something about Mr. Lawrence being a dear 
 man and unlike the rest of the world of men, and Mr. 
 Lawrence taking fright at that for all his simplicity he 
 was alive to certain dangers disappeared round the first 
 corner, and the one in whom he had chanced to confide,
 
 94 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 or chosen to confide (it would be a disputed point in Pans- 
 lea), put up her umbrella and walked away. There was 
 no sun and it wasn't raining; but there are more reasons 
 than two for using an umbrella.
 
 IX 
 
 "You will meet him yourself, miss," said Jaunty to Pamela, 
 who thought not. It would look a little too eager. 
 
 "Shall I?" suggested Sally. And Jaunty demurred. In 
 the circumstances he knew the best thing that could hap- 
 pen was that Miss Pamela should marry, and he was quite 
 willing she should go all the way to meet the man who was 
 coming down for the night, and for whom souffles and 
 omelettes must be made. No souffle could rise higher than 
 the hope in Jaunty 's heart, for ever since that night in 
 the restaurant at Soho he had seen a vague danger looming 
 in the distance. 
 
 He had no control over Miss Pamela, never had had if 
 he would but own it whereas Miss Sally was another 
 thing altogether. 
 
 But wouldn't a drive alone with Miss Sally, in her beau- 
 tiful cart, distract the gentleman from his allegiance to 
 the elder sister? It seemed to Jaunty inevitable. 
 
 But Pamela said Sally must go if she liked, and Sally 
 liked extremely. 
 
 So she harnessed, or caused to be harnessed, her fat 
 pony to the inspector's cart, and off she went. There was 
 an armchair home for repairs. Sally suspected violence, 
 not on the part of the invalided old woman to whom the 
 chair had been so lately loaned, but on the parts of her 
 grandchildren who had used it as a happy playground, 
 for youth loves springs. 
 
 However, the chair was there, and Sally took it for the 
 august visitor to sit upon. What more of state could he 
 desire? The chair was covered in red. 
 
 It was a lovely day, a lovely day of June. Just the kind 
 of sweet-scented day Sally loved. From Josephsofat's 
 
 95
 
 96 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 point of view, the day was too hot for its hours, and he 
 personally saw no reason to hurry. So between the hedges, 
 deep down in a leafy lane, Josephsofat, hugged by two 
 stout shafts, walked. He ignored the cart he drew, al- 
 though he loved the girl, who sat in the chair, that stood 
 in the cart, and was pleased to imagine she drove him. 
 That the chair had a broken spring was no affair of his, 
 although he would have known better than to ask a visitor 
 of distinction to sit upon it. 
 
 Josephsofat was cross, and Sally knew it. So she didn't 
 draw his attention to the heavens above, although if she 
 had done so, he would have admitted gratitude to the in- 
 trepid young branches overhead, who in reaching from one 
 side of the lane to shake hands with branches on the other, 
 made in their impetuosity a welcome shade overhead for 
 wayfarers such as he. Wayfarers so fat! 
 
 Josephsofat whenever he was so minded tugged at the 
 grasses on the banks at either side of the lane. "Darling, 
 go on," urged Sally, "you are not in exactly an official posi- 
 tion to-day; but you must hurry up for all that. Aunt 
 Pamela has a lover, and if he doesn't propose before three 
 o'clock the shade will be off the lawn, and Aunt Pamela 
 never does what Jaunty wants her to do when it's hot 
 hurry up!" 
 
 Seeing the sense in this, having no particular use for 
 Aunt Pamela, Josephsofat hurried up, and for a few min- 
 utes his little shoes made busy, thudding sounds on the 
 sandy, rutty road; then repenting him of his effort he 
 slowed down. 
 
 The cart he drew was just what Sally had planned it 
 should be. It was of the kind costers drive in their dreams. 
 It was painted bright green, with red wheels, and on one 
 of the shafts, which so tightly hugged Josephsofat, was 
 written in neat lettering, for all who walked that side to 
 read, "S. Lawrence, Inspector of Springs and Stuffings." 
 To Sally there was nothing unusual either in herself, her 
 cart, or her pony.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 97 
 
 To Arnold Monk they were so unusual, all three of 
 them, that the sight of them took his breath away. 
 
 Then he saw the armchair, or rather realised its exist- 
 ence, for it was only when Sally asked him to step up and 
 sit in it that he really noticed it. Sally begged him to sit 
 to the left gently the spring was going to be mended; 
 in fact, she had no right to use the chair for private pur- 
 poses, but as it was in Pamela's good cause . . . 
 
 "Cause?" asked Arnold, stepping gingerly on to the iron 
 step which gave under his weight. Sally hadn't meant 
 cause. Was there luggage? 
 
 Of course there was. He had come for the night. 
 
 Sally knew that. She only wanted to know what kind 
 of a box or bag it was, because the old carrier would fetch 
 it. At least he used to be a carrier, and he would still 
 bring the wrong box if he got the chance. But he was a 
 dear old thing and was very sorry when he did. 
 
 "And if it doesn't come?" said Arnold, "the luggage?" 
 
 "Oh, it will, somehow or other. But the old man must 
 be given the chance." 
 
 "Ready?" asked Sally, seating herself on the shaft at 
 his feet. And off they went, or rather Josephsofat went. 
 "How delicious of him!" said Sally. 
 
 "What's delicious of him?" asked Arnold. 
 
 "Why, to go!" 
 
 "Doesn't he always?" 
 
 "Well no, not always. You wouldn't expect him to, 
 would you?" 
 
 "Yes, of course." 
 
 "Would you? And what about his individuality?" 
 
 "What about it?" 
 
 "Are you not modern in your ideas of bringing up chil- 
 dren ?" 
 
 Arnold Monk said he had had nothing to do with the 
 bringing up of children. 
 
 "How far is it?" he asked of this child who had plainly 
 not been brought up in the way he thought she should go.
 
 98 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Sally said it depended. He asked on what? On the in- 
 dividuality of the fat pony? 
 
 She said on how they went. They could go by the com- 
 mon. If they went over the common they must walk, be- 
 cause the way was steep and the sand was deep and Jo- 
 sephsofat was old and independent and cross. Walking 
 presented distinct alleviations to Arnold Monk, and he 
 chose the common way. 
 
 Now a man in love may drive with the woman of his 
 choice for many a mile suffering a considerable discom- 
 fort, but it takes a man more deeply in love than man has 
 ever been to stand looking ridiculous or, for the matter 
 of that, to sit looking ridiculous and Arnold Monk wasn't 
 even in love with Sally when he started. How could he 
 be, when she asked him to drive along a country road, 
 much frequented, seated in a red armchair? Arnold was 
 nothing if not conventional. 
 
 His conventionality, at times, took the form of uncon- 
 ventionality, if unconventionality happened to be the fash- 
 ion of the moment. But it must be of the right kind, prac- 
 tised by the right people. So he thought for the first mile 
 of the drive with Sally. For exactly seventeen hundred 
 and sixty yards he disliked her. But during the next mile 
 or so these feelings of righteous indignation for so he felt 
 them to be gave way to those of a very definite tender- 
 ness. He began to long to do things for this charmingly 
 attractive child: to guard her from danger, to warn her, 
 principally against unscrupulous men who might take ad- 
 vantage of her innocent naivete. What if a man less 
 scrupulous than himself drove, as he was driving, with 
 Sally leaning against his knees almost? The thought was 
 sacrilege. He loved the little brown fingers that held the 
 reins, the thin knuckles, the slender wrists. He wondered 
 he had never considered the possibility of a younger sister 
 such as this. Pamela had spoken of her, but a younger 
 sister than Pamela had suggested to his imagination some 
 one just a little less pretty, with eyes a little rounder,
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 99 
 
 cheeks a little pinker, and ways far less engaging. And 
 why? From something Pamela had said. She had made 
 gentle fun of Sally, just as she had done of Jaunty. 
 
 Arnold gazed down on the top of Sally's hat. It had 
 seen better and sunnier days. It was burnt, the brim was 
 bent down where it was not supposed to bend, and the 
 ribbon that encircled the crown had once been blue. But 
 he found the hat charming. As to the face beneath it, he 
 had thought it, a minute ago, when it was turned to his, 
 the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Of course it wasn't; 
 but the day was a day in June, and everything was the 
 loveliest any one had ever seen; from the blue of the un- 
 clouded sky to the wild rose that blushed in the hedge. 
 
 And God meant it so. He means it so every June day 
 of every year, and what was Arnold that he should pit 
 himself against his Maker? 
 
 And as to the Jauntys of this world they must be more 
 than ordinarily careful in June that's all. 
 
 So Arnold went on thinking Sally the loveliest thing he 
 had ever seen, and he would have enjoyed it if he hadn't 
 come down to propose to Pamela and Pamela knew it. 
 And Sally possibly knew it too. It spoilt the drive. 
 
 He wondered what she was thinking of. If he had 
 asked her and she had answered truthfully she would have 
 said of her bridesmaid's frock. It would be the first ex- 
 cept for cotton ones she had had for ages. There was 
 no frock of Pamela's into which any one would dare to 
 force her on such an occasion. Not even Jaunty with his 
 power of contrivance would dare to do it. 
 
 But Arnold didn't offer Sally a penny for her thoughts, 
 so she kept them for a rainy day. She asked him instead 
 of what he was thinking? And if he had answered truth- 
 fully he would have said, Of her. But he didn't. He said 
 he was thinking of luncheon, and no thought could have 
 distressed her more. She was hoping he didn't mind what 
 he ate; although she had to admit he didn't look in the 
 least like it.
 
 100 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 They came to the common and Sally got down. So did 
 Arnold. 
 
 "We are very badly off," she said, as they walked. 
 Arnold tried to make light of the subject, which jarred a 
 little, and he said he knew how comfortable a thing was 
 poverty in some circumstances. 
 
 Sally said her home was heavenly, but it wasn't, she 
 imagined, extraordinarily comfortable. "We have coffee 
 after luncheon- and the Times. It's such a companion 
 to the Daddy Long Legs; he carries it about under his 
 arm, and it's always there for reference. Then what was 
 I saying ? oh, yes ! we have ponies to ride ; but we never 
 have a new Bradshaw or new carpets: it seems all right. 
 Only our Aunt Venetia won't come to stay. You see, now 
 that She has gone we don't quite know what we should 
 have . . ." 
 
 "She?" asked Arnold, treading softly, feeling on sacred 
 ground. The drop in Sally's voice had warned him. In- 
 tuition was his if he lacked understanding. 
 
 "Mother," said Sally; "we are just the kind of children 
 who most wanted a mother, because father is so delicious; 
 but he's no older than we are and much more in- 
 nocent . . ." 
 
 "More innocent than you are?" 
 
 "Much, much more," said Sally, turning her eyes upon 
 her companion, and in their depths he found nothing but a 
 profound innocence, and realised that whatever Sally knew 
 or came to know, the innocence would remain, being a 
 thing apart from ignorance. 
 
 "There's Jaunty," said Arnold. 
 
 Sally said, Of course. He was very wonderful. 
 
 "But he isn't really a butler, is he?" asked Arnold, 
 remembering what Pamela had said. 
 
 Here was Sally's chance. "No, we couldn't call him 
 that; but he's no relation." 
 
 "Relation? Oh, well no." 
 
 "You didn't think he was?"
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 101 
 
 Arnold said he had never for one moment thought such 
 a thing. 
 
 "Pamela only wondered . . ." 
 
 "If he were a relation?" 
 
 "Partly, because of you in case she had to tell you 
 everything . . ." 
 
 "And is there any reason she should?" 
 
 "You ought to know/' said Sally, treading water. 
 
 Arnold laughed. He found the idea of Pamela telling 
 him everything, delicious. He could not imagine a day in 
 June more pleasantly spent. He would choose a cathedral 
 of beech-trees; in an aisle open to the heavens above he 
 would sit and worship at the shrine of Pamela's beauty. 
 
 They were out of the wood and Sally suggested they 
 should get into the cart. Arnold set his teeth and got in. 
 
 "I hope the lunch will be all right," she said as they 
 drove along. 
 
 Arnold was certain it would be. She said he had no 
 right to be that. What he ought to feel was that he didn't 
 mind if it wasn't. 
 
 He said that was what he did feel. "Is this the village?" 
 
 She said it was. 
 
 "Are we near your home?" 
 
 "Quite, but I'm going to take you first of all . . ." 
 
 "Where?" He had visions of a tiresome old aunt. 
 
 "Here." 
 
 Josephsofat stopped. Sally slipped down and Arnold 
 followed. 
 
 They were at the gate of the churchyard. Arnold, 
 deeply embarrassed, followed her down the narrow path, 
 over the grass, stepping as carefully as she stepped. "I 
 feel I must bring you here," she explained. 
 
 In silence they stood. Arnold feeling incensed and out- 
 raged, or perhaps shy. He could never bring himself to 
 speak of his mother's death to any one. He felt it too 
 much. And here he was, a stranger, with Sally, a stranger, 
 behaving as if they were the most intimate relations. He
 
 102 JAUNTY IN CHARGE , 
 
 didn't know what to say, nor did he know that Sally didn't 
 expect him to say anything. She picked up a leaf or two, 
 patted the grass and walked away, looking so happy, as 
 if she had stood hand in hand and spoken with some one 
 she loved. It was not in such a spirit as this that Arnold 
 went to a churchyard. 
 
 "Now you will know us better," said Sally, "and will 
 understand the lunch better, and everything. Let's go, 
 shall we?" 
 
 They went, and in a few minutes they reached the tall 
 iron gate which stood open. Sally passed through it into 
 the house. With a wave of the hand she introduced Jaunty, 
 who stood in the hall, and opening a door on the left, she 
 said, "And good Father Lawrence." 
 
 When Mr. Lawrence, looking long and searchingly at 
 Arnold Monk, told him he liked his face, there was noth- 
 ing left, if Sally had but known it, that could come as a 
 shock. After that Monk was prepared for anything, ex- 
 cept for the beauty of Pamela who stepped in from the 
 garden, through the open window. He triumphantly found 
 his choice justified. 
 
 Sally looked on, holding her breath. Pamela was doing 
 it all so beautifully, carrying in her left hand a bunch of 
 roses, just as she had said she would hold them; wearing 
 a white frock just as she and Sally had planned she should 
 wear it. 
 
 "He must, he must, he must . . ." murmured Sally. 
 
 "Thank God, he does !" murmured Jaunty, going a step 
 farther, and Jaunty was on the right road this time. 
 
 By luncheon so deeply in love was Arnold that the ex- 
 cellent disposition of Jaunty, as shown by the way in which 
 he ran with the souffle, to save the fall of two inches, was 
 lost upon him until his attention was drawn to it by Sally. 
 "Would a butler who was a real butler, and nothing but 
 a real butler, run with a souffle to save . . .?" 
 
 Arnold hastened to say that only a man of very excep-
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 103 
 
 tional character would do it be he butler or Prime Min- 
 ister. 
 
 Whereupon Sally said Jaunty was much more fitted to 
 be the one than the other. 
 
 From Jaunty to the souffle was a step only. How ex- 
 cellent it had been the souffle. Arnold could have im- 
 agined himself in Paris. Sally warming to his praise ad- 
 mitted its French origin, and Arnold reminded her of their 
 conversation as they had walked. 
 
 "What about the delightful poverty?" 
 
 "Poverty?" she exclaimed, "but this is an evidence of it; 
 the cook isn't . . ." 
 
 "A real cook?" asked Arnold. 
 
 "No, she isn't. The souffle was made by a sofa-ridden 
 Mademoiselle." 
 
 Arnold looked bewildered. Sally said it was so easy 
 if only he would listen. 
 
 "There is a delightful backyard where roses ramble and 
 tradesmen call, and into this backyard we wheeled Made- 
 moiselle's sofa. We ran it up against the kitchen win- 
 dow. Through the window English Serena hands the Eng- 
 lish ingredients to the French Mademoiselle, and they are 
 returned through the window by the French Mademoiselle 
 a French chef-d'ceuvre. It's so simple if only people knew." 
 
 "There's nothing wrong with the lunch, is there?" asked 
 Mr. Lawrence of Sally, and Mr. Monk turned to Pamela. 
 
 "Nothing," said Sally, sliding her hand along the table 
 and taking her father's. "Do you remember when Aunt 
 Venetia came, and we were so clever and remembered she 
 didn't take sugar because of her rheumatisms, and we told 
 Serena to use saccharine instead? And do you remember 
 how horrible the rhubarb was, and you you dear, wonder- 
 ful thing ate all yours and didn't complain? And when 
 we asked Serena about it she said it had been so difficult 
 to get out of the tube, and she showed us the tube, and it 
 was Seccotine; do you remember, darling?" 
 
 Sally cast a glance at Pamela. She was talking ear-
 
 104 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 nestly to Arnold Monk, and he was listening all the time 
 to Sally. She knew it, because there was a smile lurking 
 at the corners of his mouth that didn't in the least har- 
 monise with the tragedy in Pamela's eyes, but which went 
 perfectly with the Seccotine story. 
 
 "Is Pamela harrowing you?" asked Sally. 
 
 After luncheon Sally suggested that her father should 
 walk down the village with her, and that Jaunty should go 
 to the post. There were no letters to post so she wrote one 
 and gave it to Jaunty. "Is it a real address, miss?" he 
 asked. 
 
 Sally said it would come back if it wasn't. 
 
 "And will do for another time?" suggested Jaunty. 
 "What I mean, miss, is this; that I have to go to the cob- 
 bler, if that will do as well as the post." 
 
 "Go to the cobbler, Jaunty." 
 
 So Jaunty went to the cobbler and Pamela and Arnold 
 to the garden. They made for the place allotted to them 
 by Sally not only in the garden, but in life. 
 
 Sally eased her conscience by saying she knew it was 
 the only thing for Pamela marriage with a wise and 
 sensible man, and not too exciting a man. Sally felt sure 
 Arnold wasn't that. 
 
 Sally was on her way to see Anne Beech, but before she 
 could unburden her heart to Anne she had to get rid of 
 her father. That she did by setting him and the gardener 
 arguing as to whether a tree should come down or not. 
 She knew it would take the better part of the afternoon 
 not to decide that. And while it was not being decided 
 she went to see Anne. 
 
 "Anne," she said, "he's come, and he's very nice a 
 little dull and old, perhaps" (he was thirty), "but I feel 
 it is the right thing, the only thing for Pamela. She says 
 she would feel it to be her duty to love her husband what- 
 ever he might be like so long as he could give her what 
 she wanted. She owes thirty pounds already." 
 
 "Thirty pounds!" ejaculated Anne.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 105 
 
 And Sally told her it was no light matter or laughing 
 matter. "Thirty pounds, dear Anne, if you haven't got 
 thirty pounds, is a vast sum. Quite as big as a thousand 
 pounds you haven't got." 
 
 "But Sally, my child, your father . . ." 
 
 "Yes, I know, he's got thirty pounds, even more, per- 
 haps ; but you see it's the first thirty pounds with Pamela 
 there will be many another." 
 
 Anne asked what Jaunty thought. Sally said, in a sense, 
 he approved. "He chose him, as a matter of fact. He 
 went up to see Aunt Venetia and he looked over her list 
 of young men and he took steps to find out . . ." 
 
 "Jaunty did? Found out about his character, you 
 mean ?" 
 
 "Yes, father never would; besides, he thinks all young 
 men are good." 
 
 Now Sally might plant and pray with all her might, 
 Mademoiselle might mix and stir, Jaunty might serve and" 
 wait, and Mr. Lawrence might look on and bless, but there 
 was nothing to make Pamela promise to marry Arnold 
 Monk unless she chose. She had determined to do so until 
 just before dinner; then his eagerness for his food put her 
 off. She didn't like a greedy man. So she told Sally after 
 dinner in the garden. 
 
 Sally with the wisdom of her years said, Was it greedy 
 to want dinner that was already three-quarters of an hour 
 late? And Pamela said, "Of course. He should have 
 known nothing of time." 
 
 "Did you refuse him, Pamela?" 
 
 Through the open window of the dining-room Sally 
 could see her father sitting talking with such charming 
 ease to his future son-in-law. He was perfectly suited to 
 the part. He must play it. 
 
 "Did you refuse him?" she repeated. 
 
 "No, Sally," whispered Pamela, "I want you to do that; 
 I never could squash even a bumblebee; I can't hurt him. 
 Just tell him I can't bear it. That I love his clothes and
 
 106 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 everything but himself. Do, Sally, there's a darling! I'm 
 going to bed." 
 
 "You're not," said Sally, barring the way with her arms 
 held out. 
 
 "You're too thin, Scraggums," and Pamela ducked. "You 
 don't want me to marry a man I don't love?" 
 
 Sally said, Of course not. But would she ever love any 
 man? 
 
 She wasn't sure. Freddy Lincoln was coming down next 
 week. She would try very hard. 
 
 "Another lunch another dinner?" gasped Sally horri- 
 fied. 
 
 Pamela said, No, they would have bacon and eggs by 
 moonlight fry them and if Freddy looked greedy by 
 moonlight it wouldn't show. 
 
 Sally said there wouldn't be a moon, and Pamela said 
 that was what she meant. There never was at moonlight 
 picnics. 
 
 Pamela kissed her hand and was gone. 
 
 Sally stood alone, thinking. It was a bad business. 
 
 "The gentlemen, miss, are looking for you and Miss 
 Pamela," said Jaunty at her elbow. 
 
 "Jaunty!" she said. 
 
 "Yes, miss." 
 
 "She doesn't care for him." 
 
 "Nor I quite. Of course, there are things in his fa- 
 vour; but if she doesn't feel quite certain we must go on 
 as we are." 
 
 "Could you tell him, Jaunty?" said Sally wistfully, the 
 weight of responsibility crushing her. 
 
 "No no, miss; he thinks I'm a butler a real butler.'' 
 
 Sally said he couldn't do that, because they had told 
 him. "Did he tip you, Jaunty?" she asked, hardly daring 
 to say the words. 
 
 "He would like to, miss." 
 
 "Horrible, horrible! Of course Pamela couldn't marry 
 him. I'll tell him. After all you've been to us, Jaunty!"
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 107 
 
 This was another moment for which Jaunty had lived. 
 
 "Pamela is tired/' said Sally softly, as Arnold Monk 
 stepped through the window into the garden. 
 
 "Tired?" he exclaimed, with deep concern. 
 
 "Very tired/' said Sally, taking a few steps forward. 
 
 "Tired?" repeated Arnold, following. "Are you ever 
 tired?" 
 
 He looked at the slim child, wondering at the fineness 
 of her beauty. 
 
 She said, Of course not. She wasn't old enough to be 
 tired. "Besides," she added, "I haven't had to undergo 
 mental distress. That is what wears." 
 
 "Has she?" 
 
 "To-day, yes !" 
 
 "To-day?" 
 
 "To-day. Mr. Monk, do you care for her?" 
 
 He said he cared very deeply; he had come to care for 
 them all very deeply. . . . 
 
 "Well, that's it. She cares for you so much that she is 
 worried she can't care more." 
 
 "And she has deputed you to tell me?" 
 
 Sally said she had asked Jaunty to, but it seemed hardly 
 fair. 
 
 "It's not as if he were a real butler, is it?" said Arnold. 
 
 If Sally detected petty sarcasm here she ignored it. 
 
 "No, poor Jaunty, he has so much to do." She stopped; 
 a briar had caught in her frock; Arnold stooped to release 
 her. 
 
 "Sally," he said, "when you have to refuse a man will 
 you do it yourself?" 
 
 Sally said she would have to. There would be no one 
 to do it for her. 
 
 Arnold said he was very sorry for the man. Sally said 
 she would be very kind to him. 
 
 "That would be cruel." 
 
 "May I say something?" she asked. 
 
 She leant with her arms on the old sundial.
 
 108 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "Do/' he said, peeling little bits of lichen off the stone. 
 
 "Don't," she said, laying her hand on his, "it's so 
 pretty." 
 
 He replaced the little, grey, crumbly bits. 
 
 "I want you to understand," said Sally, "that we are 
 what we are because without Her it seems we haven't had 
 quite a fair chance what worldly people would call a fair 
 chance. I think to have a father like ours is a most won- 
 derful thing. But he perhaps is too different to other peo- 
 ple. ... I think it right to be quite frank with you." 
 
 Arnold Monk said it was quite right. It was what he 
 wished. 
 
 "And quite honest?" 
 
 "Could you be anything else?" 
 
 "With teaching, perhaps." 
 
 "Go on, please." 
 
 "Well, when Pamela came back from London I guessed 
 there might be something, and I waited and waited, but 
 she said nothing. Then came a night when she told me she 
 had met a man different from other men." 
 
 "And he?" asked Arnold. 
 
 "Was you." 
 
 "Then she did care?" 
 
 Sally nodded. "Well, I prayed that night, as hard as I 
 could, that you might be the right one, because well, for 
 many reasons." 
 
 "Honest, remember." 
 
 "Well, because Pamela needs a strong and a good man 
 and a man who can give her all she wants." 
 
 "You are honest?" 
 
 "You told me to be. Well, I am ! You see, Jaunty and 
 I have discussed it. It seems quite fair. You have much 
 to give, and you get Pamela. We think that rather a won- 
 derful thing to get, because well, she's Pamela, and she's 
 rather a delicious thing to live with it's soft music all the 
 time, which is so exciting. So I arranged that Mademoi-
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 109 
 
 selle Did I? I'm not sure." Sally paused to think. 
 
 Arnold said: 
 
 "You must be quite honest; perhaps Jaunty did?" 
 "No, Pamela did; but, after all, it doesn't matter who 
 
 did, does it?" 
 
 "So long as Pamela won't marry me." 
 
 "If she changes her mind shall I write?" 
 
 Arnold hastily said he thought not. He asked if he 
 
 might write to Sally say in three years two years? 
 Sally said Pamela would be twenty by then and certain 
 
 to be married. "But do write, and I will write to you and 
 
 tell you how Josephsofat is getting along. It will be very 
 
 slowly by then." 
 
 And she danced away in the moonlight and disappeared 
 
 through the window. Then she came back to say she was 
 
 sorry she had danced when he was sad. "Forgive me!" 
 
 and she held out her hand, and for one moment he doubted 
 
 her. 
 
 She went away again and he watched her go into the 
 
 lighted room. He saw her go up to her father and put her 
 
 arms round him. It made him feel lonely. 
 
 When Arnold had gone to bed, Mr. Lawrence called 
 
 Jaunty. 
 
 "Jaunty," he said, "I am in the dark." 
 
 Jaunty put out the lamp. "It's a moth, sir." 
 
 "It's a bad business, Jaunty poor young man. Will 
 
 he feel it?" 
 
 "I'm not sure, sir. It depends on at what hour of the 
 
 day he goes to-morrow. If he waits to see Miss Sally or 
 
 if he goes at cockcrow." 
 "Miss Pamela, you mean?" 
 "Did I say Miss Sally, sir? Well, it depends." 
 "Which will mean, what?" asked Mr. Lawrence, grop- 
 ing. 
 
 "Ah !" said Jaunty, glad of the darkness. 
 
 "You're a wonderful comfort to me, Jaunty. We're not 
 
 fit to bring up . . ."
 
 110 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Jaunty sniffed. He had no reason to think so of him- 
 self, at all events. 
 
 "Good-night, Jaunty; it's a bad business, hurting a fel- 
 low-creature like that. Let me know if he goes at cock- 
 crow, or if he waits." 
 
 At cockcrow, or at what Jaunty chose to call cockcrow, 
 Arnold Monk went. Jaunty saw to his going, and Pamela, 
 some hours later, began to wonder if she had done wisely. 
 By twelve o'clock she was sure she had not. By five she 
 had written to Freddy. 
 
 A month later she was engaged to Arnold Monk who 
 in the meantime had written and re-written, many times 
 over, the letter he was going to send at the end of two long 
 years to Sally. On the day of his engagement he tore it 
 up. No man had ever been more surprised than he was to 
 find himself engaged, or more surprised to discover him- 
 self happy considering that it was Sally who danced in 
 and out of his dreams.
 
 BEFORE the village had recovered from the excitement of 
 Pamela's engagement it had wept at her wedding. Then 
 it dried its tears and thought of Sally. With no Pamela 
 to distract, it could concentrate on Sally, who after all 
 was the one it loved best. 
 
 On the night of Pamela's wedding there rose from al- 
 most every bedside in Panslea prayers for Sally. If she 
 had known she would have been very much surprised, and 
 if Jaunty had known he would have thought it impertinent 
 interference, being quite well able to take care of her him- 
 self. 
 
 The Vicar prayed that the beautiful child might be 
 spared he did not say what. He left that to the Al- 
 mighty, who ordered all things well. Anne prayed that 
 Sally might be spared for Jimmy. 
 
 Janet prayed that Sally might be spared all sorrow. 
 She left nothing to chance. 
 
 Mrs. Hill prayed that Sally might be spared to be the 
 blessing of some good man; and no one prayed for Pamela. 
 
 Jaunty prayed neither for Sally nor for Pamela, but 
 rather for the husband of Pamela, and that long and ear- 
 nestly. 
 
 Within a fortnight of the wedding Sally was doing ac- 
 counts. "There is much to be paid," she said to herself, 
 "and but little to pay with," and as she said it her father 
 came into the room the Times under his arm. "It's a 
 great thing, Sally," he said, "to know that Pamela is so 
 happily and safely married." 
 
 "Um," said Sally; "safely" seemed so ridiculous a word 
 to apply to any state in which Pamela might chance to 
 find herself. "Does the Times say so? If the Times says 
 it . . ." 
 
 Ill
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "No. Seriously, Sally, it is a great comfort to me and 
 Jaunty." 
 
 "Urn," repeated Sally; and at that moment, although 
 she didn't know it, nor did her father imagine it, the high 
 iron gate was gently pushed open and through it slipped 
 the happily and safely married Pamela. 
 
 Jaunty heard the gate creak on its hinges, saw it open, 
 saw Pamela walk through it, and then he closed his eyes 
 on a troubled world. When he opened them again there 
 was no Pamela, and he knew he had been dreaming. 
 
 But it was no dream of Jaunty's fevered imagination. 
 In the library, standing before her father and Sally, was 
 Pamela, with her arms held out. Laughter in her eyes; 
 love on her lips; beauty in every gesture. 
 
 "Go, Sally," she said, with the authority of the newly 
 married woman. "Go!" and Sally went went to Jaunty. 
 She found him in the garden. He looked old and drawn 
 and frightened a pitiable old bachelor. 
 
 "She's back, Jaunty. She doesn't like it I knew she 
 wouldn't !" 
 
 "Miss Sally, what are you saying? You speak without 
 thought, or the fear of God in your heart." 
 
 "It's true, for all that." 
 
 And it was. Jaunty looked at Sally. Sally at Jaunty. 
 "I could always manage you/' he said. 
 
 "Could you?" said Sally, doubting. 
 
 Meanwhile Pamela, by every wile she possessed, was 
 trying to coax her father into seeing things from her point 
 of view. "Daddy Long Legs, I've come back. Yes, to 
 stay. . . ." 
 
 "But your husband . . . ?" 
 
 "Yes, darling, I know; but I've known you so much 
 longer. ... I don't care for being married. It's not what 
 I've been accustomed to. I was much happier with you 
 and Sally. It's so dull! It's certainly delightful living 
 with some one who always has stamps even two-penny- 
 halfpenny ones. I've never once been sent to the post
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 113 
 
 office since I was married. But, darling, I really like 
 you best," and Pamela kneeling on the floor put her arms 
 round her father, poor, bewildered man. "And isn't it 
 natural?" she went on. "It would be horrid of me to 
 leave willingly a father who has been so darling to me 
 all these years. It has troubled me very much what you 
 must have thought of me. Jaunty should have prevented 
 it, and Sally I cannot imagine what they were about." 
 
 "My child, wait a moment. You have completely 
 Wait!" 
 
 "While you consult Jaunty? Do! But, one moment, 
 darling; you must listen and you must understand! He 
 finds fault with the food. When I think of what you have 
 eaten for our sakes for Serena's for . . ." 
 
 Her father laid a restraining hand on hers. "Not that 
 name now . . ." 
 
 "But She would understand," pleaded Pamela. "When 
 you married Her, did you send for the manager in the 
 best hotel in Paris and complain of the food? Imagine 
 such a thing in Paris, too ! Now go to your Jaunty." 
 
 And to his Jaunty he went, and found him waiting 
 outside the door. Jaunty led the way to the dining-room. 
 Mr. Lawrence followed. Jaunty closed the door and made 
 certain it was shut. Then he faced Mr. Lawrence, who 
 said, "Jaunty, this is bad"; and Jaunty, pulling himself 
 together, said: 
 
 "It's damnable, sir," and felt much the better for it. 
 
 "What's to be done?" 
 
 "Does she give specific reasons, sir?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Jaunty paused and frowned. Mr. Lawrence must give 
 him a lead over the thin ice. He was a married man, 
 Jaunty was a bachelor, and had never wished to be 
 otherwise. 
 
 "Mr. Monk, it seems, complained of the cooking in 
 Paris." 
 
 "A little lacking in savoir faire," said Jaunty, "in Paris."
 
 114 JAUNTY IN CHARGE ^ 
 
 There was silence. It was extraordinary how trouble- 
 some Miss Pamela had always been, thought Jaunty. "She 
 has no graver charges to bring?" he asked. 
 
 "No, none." 
 
 "Ah!" Jaunty was relieved. "You didn't ask her, sir?" 
 
 "I asked her nothing, Jaunty; how could I? It is . . ." 
 
 "It is." 
 
 "It is indeed. Jaunty !" 
 
 Jaunty, who was about to open the door, stopped. 
 "Sir?" he said. 
 
 "She's looking very beautiful." 
 
 "It's Paris, sir. My sis ... I mean ... I say, if you 
 want to keep a woman quiet dress her badly. Dress her 
 well and she's got to show herself off. You can't keep 
 her in. That's why dowdy women are so often good, and 
 good women very often dowdy." 
 
 "You surprise me, Jaunty," said Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 "I should be sorry to do that, sir, especially at such a 
 moment as this." 
 
 And Jaunty smiled, knowing that he had within him 
 the power to surprise Mr. Lawrence even more. But the 
 less surprises in life the better, he thought, and he went to 
 oil the hinge of the front gate. Every time it creaked it 
 reminded him of Pamela's return. It should not grumble 
 at her going.
 
 XI 
 
 JAUNTY wondered if any one in Panslea had seen the 
 return of the lately-wed Pamela to the house of her father. 
 Was Panslea blind that Jaunty should doubt it? Of course 
 Janet Mason had caught a glimpse of Pamela's skirt as 
 she had passed through the gate. No one else had lately 
 had a trousseau, or had even ordered more than three of 
 anything at a time, and there wasn't a skirt in Panslea 
 that wasn't much too full, judged by the dictates of the 
 prevailing fashion. 
 
 Janet carried the news to Anne Beech, and Anne rose 
 from her weeding suffering most plainly from blood to the 
 head. Her charming face was rosy red and she refused 
 to believe that Janet had seen Pamela. Her good common- 
 sense told her it wouldn't be true. 
 
 Janet said that, at first, she had not been able to be- 
 lieve her eyes; but she asked Anne if she was given to 
 imagining things, and Anne was bound to admit she was 
 not. But here Anne was certain she had. It was imagina- 
 tion, of course. What else could it be ? 
 
 "Pamela," said Janet stoutly. 
 
 "If it was," said Anne, "I think the less we say about 
 it the better, for the present." And Janet said she was 
 never in a hurry to talk of things that didn't concern her. 
 Yet she had run all the way from Mr. Lawrence's house 
 to Anne's cottage. Anne thought it would be an aeroplane 
 Janet would be requiring when she had something to tell 
 that really interested her. 
 
 But Anne was cross; she was worried. Pamela home 
 again! What could it mean? 
 
 She went up the village, and the first person she met 
 was Jaunty. He was in a hurry. When he was in a hurry 
 
 115
 
 116 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 he rode a wooden quadricycle. It was as unique a machine 
 as Jaunty was a man. When Jaunty was once mounted 
 no one detained him. But now he stood at the side of the 
 machine with one foot on a pedal, and he made time to 
 tell Miss Beech that Mrs. Monk was back. Anne was 
 surprised that he admitted it. She said she knew. Miss 
 Mason had told her. At that Jaunty stiffened ; Miss Mason 
 saw too much. 
 
 Anne said it was a little difficult not to see Mrs. Monk 
 if she walked through the iron gate right in the sight of all 
 Panslea. Jaunty took exception to that. Mr. Lawrence's 
 house was in sight of only one quarter of Panslea. From 
 across the Green the Miss Does looked into its very door, 
 but they were short-sighted, and wouldn't look if they 
 weren't. 
 
 From one corner of the Green any one who chose could 
 look into Miss Sally's window. From the other corner 
 any one who dared to look could see Mr. Lawrence's. Of 
 course, the post office ! Every one had a fine view from 
 there, sideways, of the whole house; but surely there were 
 more moments in the day than one in which to post a 
 letter, and why should Miss Mason have chosen that very 
 one? 
 
 "Jaunty," said Anne, "I am so sorry for you all." 
 
 Jaunty kicked the pedal with his foot, and as it whizzed 
 round he watched its revolutions. Anne watched the tired 
 worn face of the old man. Then he suddenly looked up 
 and said, "Why sorry, miss? Mr. Monk had to go away 
 for a few days on urgent business so Miss Pamela 
 naturally came home to her to us. To whom else could 
 she have gone?" 
 
 "Oh, that was it," said Anne, relieved and delighted, yet 
 doubting. But Jaunty had given her the lead, she would 
 follow. 
 
 How ridiculous of Janet to make it out a disaster! In 
 justice to Janet she hadn't. She had only run to say 
 Pamela was home, and had got very hot in the running.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 117 
 
 "You tell that to Miss Mason and every one you meet, 
 miss," said Jaunty. 
 
 And Jaunty rode away. He didn't tell Anne so, but he 
 was off to the station, then to London to see Mr. Monk 
 and get to the bottom of this bad business. 
 
 He got to London late in the afternoon and drove 
 straight to the house of Mr. Monk. He could not have 
 bettered its position. With no small pride he gave the 
 address. The cabman could have no idea how good an 
 address it was, taking into consideration everything an 
 impossible father and an indifferently dressed daughter. 
 
 "It might well have been this," murmured Jaunty as the 
 cab drove through respectable but deadly dull streets and 
 thoroughfares. "Without her ways her manners it must 
 have been one of these and what of my share in the 
 business !" ' 
 
 When the cab stopped he admitted to himself, "I, alone, 
 could not have achieved this," and he trod lightly the wide 
 marble doorsteps and rang the visitors' bell. The man 
 who opened the door was exactly what Jaunty knew he 
 ought to have been if he had been a real butler. Jaunty 
 respected him. The butler, on his part, showed his respect 
 for Jaunty by treating him as if he were anything in the 
 world rather than a bad butler. 
 
 Jaunty asked if Mr. Monk were at home. He would 
 rather have asked the question of a footman. And the 
 butler who was really a butler, and looked it said Mr. 
 Monk had that moment returned. "What name, sir?" 
 
 Jaunty hesitated, said "Mr.," then added with a gesture 
 of indifference, "Just Jaunty." 
 
 The butler opened the door at the left of the hall and 
 announced "Mr. Justice Jaunty," and Jaunty, blushing 
 at the greatness of the position thrust upon him, found 
 himself face to face with Mr. Monk the deserted, the 
 abominably treated Mr. Monk. 
 
 He was writing at a table, the size of which impressed 
 Jaunty. Mr. Monk too impressed him. He looked so
 
 118 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 calm, so cool, so collected. His hair was as tidy as Jaunty 
 had ever seen it. There was no sign of distress or dis- 
 turbance or even hurry in its parting. A horrible thought 
 struck Jaunty. Had Mr. Monk already recovered from 
 the loss of Miss Pamela? Was he growing accustomed to 
 be without her? Was he as thankful to get rid of her as 
 Jaunty had been? Yet he hadn't given her a fair chance. 
 What was a fortnight against the eighteen years Jaunty 
 had suffered in silence? 
 
 Mr. Monk rose, looking very much concerned, whether 
 over his pen or Miss Pamela Jaunty couldn't determine. 
 Mr. Monk tried the nib on his thumbnail. It gave way. 
 
 "Temper," thought Jaunty. "Nothing spoils pens like 
 it." With that very pen Mr. Monk had no doubt written 
 to Miss Pamela. No pen could bear the weight of such 
 anger. 
 
 "Anything wrong, Jaunty?" he asked. 
 
 "I should advise a new one, sir." 
 
 "The pen, yes," letting it drop. "Nothing wrong in any 
 other ..." 
 
 "Nothing wrong that I know of, sir everything just 
 as usual at home too much so, if I may say so. It was 
 that very question I was going to ask you." 
 
 The look on Mr. Monk's face deepened to one of be- 
 wilderment, and Jaunty felt his innocence established. 
 
 "Sit down, Jaunty." 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 He preferred to stand. He could see better. His heart 
 went out with a rush to Mr. Monk, a rush of gratitude, 
 of understanding, of sympathy. Mr. Monk had given all 
 this to Miss Pamela, and Jaunty went back in his mind 
 to the days when he had grieved over her old frocks, her 
 three-year-old hats. Here in striking contrast were satin 
 brocade curtains, lined with white perishable, beautiful, 
 expensive. He sank up to his ankles in soft velvet pile 
 at least he was going to tell Mademoiselle he had. As she 
 didn't understand him, he might as well enjoy the deceit
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 119 
 
 to its full depth. His eyes rested on pictures hanging 
 on the walls, portraits of distinguished ancestors, ances- 
 tresses, wearing respectively knee-breeches and wigs, 
 patches and powder. All these things had become Miss 
 Pamela's by the reading in Panslea church of a service a 
 service indifferently read, not a word of which he had 
 heard, except Miss Pamela's "I will," and now she wouldn't 
 so like her. 
 
 "Well, Jaunty," said Mr. Monk, lighting a cigarette. 
 
 "Mrs. Monk wants more clothes, sir, if she is stay- 
 ing . . ." 
 
 Then like sunshine after storm came Mr. Monk's an- 
 nouncement that he could not spare her. There was tender- 
 ness in his voice absurd tenderness; the corners of his 
 eyes wrinkled into a smile, and Jaunty found him ridicu- 
 lously handsome or rather, handsome and ridiculous. 
 
 Then Mr. Monk went on to say that it was very unlucky 
 he should have been called away on business. "But busi- 
 ness is business, as you know, Jaunty," and he waved the 
 lighted match in the air, then laid it on the tray appointed 
 for the purpose. Jaunty sighed. The pleasant tyranny 
 of order that had once been as second nature to him had 
 power still, he found. He reverenced that ash-tray. 
 Business? It was such ages since he had lived in a house 
 where business had any place that he had almost forgotten 
 it could be part of any everyday life. "But once a clerk," 
 he thought, "always a clerk. And never a butler; never 
 a butler." 
 
 Then to show Mr. Monk that although a man of busi- 
 ness at heart he knew of other things as important, he 
 murmured something about a honeymoon, feeling that must 
 at least be as tiresome as it was unnecessary; but it was a 
 honeymoon, and as such Panslea held it of some 
 importance. 
 
 "Of course," said Mr. Monk, "it was most unfortunate 
 but, of course, Mrs. Monk explained."
 
 120 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "Of course," said Jaunty, "of course." (It was ever 
 Mrs. Monk's way to explain.) 
 
 Then Mr. Monk said he was going that night to fetch 
 her back. "There is a train?" he asked. 
 
 Jaunty said there were two to be had for the taking. 
 
 Mr. Monk said one would do if they could catch it. 
 Jaunty said they could do that if they went at once. With 
 the Paris episode still fresh in his memory he was sure 
 Mr. Monk wouldn't do that. But Jaunty was wrong. Mr. 
 Monk was prepared to go at once. He rang the bell: 
 gave hurried orders to the butler, gathered up his papers, 
 locked his writing-table drawer, and said, "Ready, 
 Jaunty?" 
 
 The butler murmured something about dinner and Mr. 
 Monk said he didn't want any. Jaunty heard that with 
 surprise and said to himself, "There he had the choice of 
 dinner or Miss Pamela, and he chose . . ." 
 
 There is no doubt which Jaunty at the moment would 
 have chosen. 
 
 As they drove to the station Mr. Monk sat with his 
 watch in his hand. He spoke very little, and when he 
 spoke it was to ask how Miss Sally was. Jaunty said she 
 was as she always was , . . 
 
 "Surprised to see Mrs. Monk?" 
 
 Jaunty said, Not very. Nothing surprised Miss Sally. 
 
 "But surely . . .," began Mr. Monk, then he stopped, 
 and he said no more until they drove into the station ; then, 
 shutting his watch, he said, "Nothing surprises her?" 
 
 "Well, very little," said Jaunty. 
 
 "She was glad to see her sister, no doubt." 
 
 "No doubt," agreed Jaunty. 
 
 "And not surprised?" 
 
 "Perhaps," said Jaunty. 
 
 "You have your ticket?" 
 
 Jaunty said he had it. He took it from his purse and 
 Mr. Monk glanced at it. He paid the difference on the 
 third-class ticket, and Jaunty travelled first-class with
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 121 
 
 the unquestioned control of the window. Mr. Monk slept. 
 Travelling "first" was not the adventure to him that it was 
 to Jaunty. Jaunty, on the other hand, was not going to 
 fetch a wife, so if either had the right it was he who 
 should have slept. He wondered if any one in Panslea 
 would see him alight from the train. It would be snobbish, 
 he decided, to get out more slowly than was his habit; but 
 he saw no reason to hurry. He didn't. 
 
 When he and Mr. Monk reached home he laid his hat 
 on the doorstep and, throwing open the library door, 
 announced, "Mr. Monk." 
 
 The room was not lit up, but it was not so dark on this 
 summer's evening that Jaunty couldn't distinguish the 
 figures of his two young ladies in white. He judged them 
 to be sitting at their father's feet, as they so often sat. 
 He saw a slim figure detach herself from the group and 
 come across the room towards Mr. Monk. By the way she 
 walked he knew her to be Miss Pamela. She was more 
 of a woman in her movements than Miss Sally more 
 graceful, having nothing starched in her outline. Miss 
 Sally's frock stuck out all round if it were fresh from 
 the washtub. Mrs. Monk's clung to her beautiful limbs in 
 a way Jaunty disapproved but was forced to admire. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Monkey Man !" said Pamela, and that was 
 all. But it was said with so exquisite a grace and so 
 charming a manner that Jaunty felt a lump in his throat, 
 and he left Mr. Lawrence and Sally to deal with the situa- 
 tion. And there was no situation to deal with, Pamela 
 had made it an episode. Sally and her father went for a 
 walk round the garden. 
 
 "It seems all right, Sally," said he. 
 
 "Quite," said she, and there the matter ended so far as 
 Sally and her father were concerned. 
 
 Pamela had to explain her little joke to her husband, 
 and it turned out that her sense of humour was not his. 
 Pamela said it might not be the worse for that, and he said
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 gravely, "Yes; but it is as well we should understand one 
 another from the beginning." 
 
 That Pamela said they would never do. If they under- 
 stood one another in the end it would be wonderful. Then 
 there was the middle too to be got through, which would 
 be the most dangerous state of all. "When I'm tired of 
 you, Mr. Monkey Man." 
 
 "Are you not that already?" he asked. 
 
 "I wonder/' said Pamela; and Arnold wondered. He 
 didn't know what to think. Nor did Mr. Lawrence and 
 Jaunty when they came to think things calmly over the 
 next morning. Sally thought nothing about it, except that 
 she was very sleepy because Pamela had told her all about 
 Paris it had taken most of the night, so she vowed. 
 
 Janet Mason went to Anne Beech. "I owe an apology 
 to some one," she said, "and I don't know to whom. I 
 cannot imagine why I jumped to the conclusion that Pamela 
 didn't like her husband." 
 
 "I shouldn't apologise to any one you certainly can't 
 to the Monk nor to the Monkey, and no one else matters." 
 
 "But it would be a relief." 
 
 "You must deny yourself that comfort, Janet, my dear, 
 and the next time you see something your eyes can't be- 
 lieve, don't you believe it either. It's safer in this world 
 and much kinder. Eyes are dangerous things; they see 
 everything but themselves." 
 
 "If I had really felt the influence Her influence . . ." 
 
 "You would have judged her child kindly. We must all 
 remember to do that, Janet." 
 
 "She has gone, non?" asked Mademoiselle of Jaunty, 
 who waited for her tray. 
 
 "Mais, oui," said Jaunty; "gone, allez, bon jour." 
 
 "She looked happy the beautiful child?" asked Made- 
 moiselle, spreading a piece of toast thinly with butter, 
 Jaunty's eyes upon her. 
 
 "She laughed beaucoup," said Jaunty, looking away,
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 123 
 
 grieved that Mademoiselle should have suspected him of 
 measuring the depth of the butter she spread it wasn't 
 as if she were Matilda. 
 
 "The house a Londres, it is a nice house?" asked Made- 
 moiselle, eating her toast. 
 
 Here was Jaunty's chance given him generously by 
 Mademoiselle. "Oui, very nice, very grand, very beau- 
 tiful, very large hall tout marble walls tout silk cur- 
 tains tout brocade lined with thick white silk. Carpets 
 all sink in, so deep!" Jaunty stooped and pointed to his 
 ankle-bone. "Oui vraiment, solemn truth, non pas tout a 
 fait very nearly. Pictures on walls lovely ladies 
 grand gentlemen ancestors, comprendre?" 
 
 Mademoiselle nodded. This telegraphic mode of com- 
 munication Jaunty thought best suited to her Fretnch 
 intelligence. He went on: "Mr. Monk, he eat no dinner. 
 When butler said 'Dinner/ Mr. Monk said 'No dinner, 
 fetch Mrs. Monk, train, come Jaunty,' comme ga com- 
 prendre?" And Jaunty removed Mademoiselle's tray, then 
 said again "Comprendre?" and Mademoiselle nodded. 
 
 She thought, How tenderly the dear old man lied. She 
 knew exactly the depths of those carpets to the fraction 
 of an inch. Jaunty went on to say that it was quite clear 
 that Mr. Monk liked his wife better than his dinner, which 
 did not surprise Mademoiselle as much as it seemed to 
 surprise Jaunty. 
 
 She also understood that Mr. Monk was very rich. But 
 what of that? Since she had come to live at Panslea with 
 the Lawrences she had found money of little consequence. 
 There was very little money, that was quite evident, but 
 it made no difference. It was all happiness and laughter. 
 It was only Jaunty who worried. And it was Jaunty who 
 saved and paid and prayed, that she verily believed, and 
 kept things going. 
 
 "Ah!" Mademoiselle closed her eyes. He was a dear, 
 good old man was this Jaunty. But butler? No. That 
 was he not. What then was he?
 
 124 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 That was what Panslea wanted to know. It knew he 
 had been clerk to old Mr. Lawrence but before he was 
 clerk? Had he been child, son, brother, everything that 
 most men had been? There were a few in Panslea who 
 doubted it. Child he must at some time have been, for the 
 best in a child's nature was still his. 
 
 The people of Panslea, true to their ideal, never spoke 
 of Pamela's return, except Lord Bridlington to Mr. Mas- 
 ters; Mr. Masters to Mrs. Masters; Mrs. Masters to Janet 
 Mason; Janet Mason to Miss Doe. Miss Doe timidly 
 and only after prayer to Mrs. Hill, and there the chain 
 was broken. 
 
 Mrs. Hill said nothing to any one, and Panslea settled 
 down into its ordinary uneventful life, watching peacefully 
 the growth of Sally. 
 
 Michael Mason lived from day to day for Janet's letters. 
 So tactful was Janet in writing that she avoided all mention 
 of Pamela, except once to say that her heart (Janet's) bled 
 for him; and then not quite knowing what to write about 
 she wrote about Anne Beech. So Michael got what he 
 wanted and never told Janet what a goose she was, or 
 attempted to stop the bleeding of her heart. For the more 
 tactful she became the more she wrote about Anne, which 
 was welL 
 
 Michael heard about Pamela in London. From time 
 to time he saw her and, like the rest of her world, admired 
 her; but knowing Panslea, and the father, and the sister, 
 and the ridiculous butler, who waited and longed for news 
 of her, he drew her gently to talk of Panslea and of them. 
 But Pamela laughed and told amusing stories of her father, 
 which she made even more amusing than they were. It 
 was not the side of Mr. Lawrence's character Michael 
 most admired that Pamela loved to dwell on. Some one 
 said to Michael, "What a quaint person Mrs. Monk's 
 father must be!" and Michael answered that it was a pity 
 there weren't more like him in the world. 
 
 Pamela made no effort to see her father and Sally, and
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 125 
 
 Sally began to feel lonely and forsaken. Anne said she 
 must remember what an emancipation it had been to 
 Pamela, and Sally nodding said she understood. It was 
 for her father she felt. He would love to see Pamela. 
 
 "Couldn't he go up?" 
 
 "Pamela doesn't suggest it, and when he suggested it 
 she said every day was full up, and she added that she 
 wished he wore a kilt, because they never get out of 
 fashion. She has learnt to know when a man is well 
 dressed and when he isn't." 
 
 "Don't you know, Sally?" asked Anne. 
 
 "It isn't at a man's clothes I look," said Sally. "I 
 should be proud of Daddy Long Legs wherever I went." 
 
 Anne knew Sally was right. And yet she understood 
 too Pamela's feelings, and knew that one has to be either 
 much older than Pamela, or nearly as large-hearted as 
 Sally, to be indifferent to the personal appearance of those 
 we love.
 
 XII 
 
 ON her eighteenth birthday Sally knelt at her open window 
 and she prayed, "O God, give me romance, and don't let 
 me marry the curate with ebony hairbrushes and without 
 opposition," and having prayed she still knelt awaiting her 
 birthday gift. It came straight from the gates of Heaven 
 a June morning. She saw it peeping through the cur- 
 tain of haze and mist, and stretching out her arms she 
 called to it. The flute of a bird answered her then 
 another and the curtain went up on the newly-awakened 
 dawn wrapped in pink clouds. As she rose a full chorus 
 of birds greeted her, and she blushed at the tribute which 
 had really been paid to Sally. But Sally didn't mind; 
 she went back to bed to give the dawn time to grow 
 accustomed to the light flattery of the day besides, she 
 was sleepy. 
 
 A few hours later her father had begged her to forgive 
 him for having forgotten her birthday, and Jaunty had 
 given her a pincushion without asking her forgiveness. 
 
 "Is it what you wanted, miss?" he asked; and she said 
 it was, but she hadn't prayed for it. 
 
 "What did you pray for?" he ventured. 
 
 "Ah!" said Sally. 
 
 "What could it have been?" wondered Jaunty as he 
 watched her drive away in her cart. "What could it have 
 been?" 
 
 Sally went down the lane in her cart, and if there wasn't 
 romance in that she, at least, drove a pony she loved, 
 through country she loved, at a pace Josephsofat loved, 
 and she thought she was as near Heaven as she was ever 
 likely to be on earth. While she was measuring the exact 
 distance between Heaven and earth, Josephsofat stopped 
 
 126
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 127 
 
 suddenly, which he was bound to do unless he had delib- 
 erately chosen to walk over a young man who stood in the 
 middle of his path. 
 
 The young man laughed at Sally and her cart. Sally 
 sitting in a chair that lacked stuffing looked at the young 
 man^ and the young man who had never taken his eyes 
 off Sally since she had gladdened them, laughed again, 
 and they both laughed. Not really because Sally looked 
 odd sitting in the chair, or because Josephsofat was fat, but 
 just because the man and Sally were both young. That 
 was all, and it was a good enough joke if one thought of it 
 seriously, which wasn't possible. If Sally had been sixty 
 and the man seventy, they wouldn't have done more than 
 politely bow and he perhaps would have said, "I beg your 
 pardon for standing in your way." But of course he 
 wouldn't have stood in the way. He would have passed in 
 a car and she perhaps in a one-horse victoria. O dull, 
 desperately dull old age! What it leaves behind it! 
 Springs summers days in June laughter and tears, 
 even tears! 
 
 "Did you say your prayers this morning?" asked the 
 young man, scrambling up the bank out of the way, and 
 sitting there, digging his heels in the soft grasses that 
 grew in the bank, so that he should not slip. 
 
 And Sally, not in the least surprised at the question 
 since everything that had praised that morning must also 
 have prayed, said, "Yes, of course." 
 
 "And may I ask what you prayed for ?" 
 
 Now here was a difficulty. In the first place, she 
 couldn't tell this stranger what she had refused to tell 
 Jaunty; in the second place, it wouldn't be quite fair to 
 the curate who might at any moment chance to pass that 
 way, so often was he bent on some errand of mercy. Be- 
 sides this young man might be travelling in ebony hair- 
 brushes, though Sally was bound to admit he didn't look 
 like it. Sally had said she never looked at a man's clothes ; 
 but this young man she knew was well dressed without the
 
 128 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 bother of looking. Being in a difficulty she said, "I prayed 
 for you." 
 
 "For me? By what name under what heading under 
 what Heaven?" 
 
 "You come under no heading. The Heaven is above 
 you. You have no name, so far as I know. I prayed 
 for every one who loves a summer's day, and I prayed 
 that this day might last as long as possible and then fly, 
 away, when it must, on the wings of a glorious sunset. 
 And I prayed that no one might be wicked this day but 
 happy and good." 
 
 "And must goodness and happiness go hand in hand 
 alj the days of their your life?" Sober companions, he 
 thought them. 
 
 "Shouldn't they?" 
 
 "I wonder what is goodness ?" 
 
 Sally thought she saw it shining in the young man's eyes, 
 but she daren't say so. 
 
 "D'you know Simon Saxton?" she asked. 
 
 The young man said he didn't that he was sorry he 
 didn't. 
 
 "Why, if you don't know him?" 
 
 "Because at his name your voice softened, and there 
 are tears in your eyes; are those reasons enough? I have 
 others." 
 
 "Do you like cushions?" asked Sally. 
 
 "In chairs?" 
 
 "Yes, in chairs." 
 
 "I loathe them." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Does that spoil the story? I love them." 
 
 "I meant well-stuffed chairs." 
 
 "Oh, of course, I love them. I am of a most indolent 
 disposition." 
 
 He slid a few inches down the bank to better his posi- 
 tion, a thing he had not thought it possible to do. 
 
 Then Sally told him of old Simon Saxton, and how she
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 129 
 
 had been appointed Inspector of armchairs, and leaning 
 over the side of the cart she pointed with the end of her 
 lashless whip to her name written on the shaft. 
 
 "Now, I must guess what 'S' stands for?" 
 
 "Simon never grumbles," said Sally. 
 
 "You visit him? And you call it good of him not to 
 grumble ?" 
 
 "He's what I call a saint." 
 
 "We are told the life of a saint is a hard one." 
 
 "Not now," said Sally triumphantly, "he's got the softest 
 cushioned chair in Panslea." 
 
 "And you the softest heart?" 
 
 "And your head?" asked Sally; and they laughed at the 
 stupid little joke just because they were young, for no 
 other reason in this round, ridiculous world. 
 
 "How did you come down the lane?" asked Sally, 
 sobering. 
 
 "Heaven be praised and the evening paper that led me. 
 I came on an adventure. My love of adventure and love 
 of romance led No, to be quite truthful I must go back 
 to the evening paper; I followed the route mapped out by 
 that most blessed of journalistic endeavours, and I came 
 down the road described as 'indifferent.' May Heaven help 
 it and its circulation. Indifferent!" 
 
 "Romance? You said romance, didn't you?" asked 
 Sally, awed by the strangeness of the coincidence. (As if 
 two young things didn't always go out in search of 
 romance.) 
 
 "Romance; it is a thing I pray for. Give me 
 romance ..." 
 
 "And don't let me . . ." went on Sally. 
 
 "No; I don't go so far as that. Don't let me what?" 
 
 "Give me romance. Did you pray that those very 
 words this morning?" asked Sally, her eyes widening. 
 
 "Yes," lied the young man, "in a sense. I have prayed 
 for it all my life, and I am in a stockbroker's office. Do 
 you believe in prayer?"
 
 130 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "I do," said Sally solemnly ; "I am bound to." 
 
 "Well, I must too. But it has been long in coming." 
 
 Sally couldn't agree; so she said the puppy had eaten 
 the stuffing out of the chair-cushion; and through the hole 
 the puppy's teeth had made she drew what was left of 
 the horsehair slowly and deliberately, and asked the young 
 man if he thought the damage done would come under 
 the head of ordinary wear and tear. The young man said 
 he had no doubt about it. What was more ordinary in 
 the world than a puppy, and every puppy wore and tore. 
 For what other purposes were they made? 
 
 Sally felt she was having a very wonderful birthday. 
 She wasn't in the least disturbed at talking to a strange 
 young man, because she spoke to every one in Panslea, man, 
 woman, or child. That he was a man and young was a 
 happy chance. He on his part was not so bad as he 
 seemed. He knew well enough who Sally was, and it was 
 mere diplomacy on his part to demur when she asked him 
 to luncheon. 
 
 "My father would be so glad to see you," she said. 
 
 "But do you think I may? You know nothing about me." 
 
 "Is there anything to know?" 
 
 "Nothing beyond a name, I'm afraid. We are bound 
 to have mutual friends.'* 
 
 "Bound to," agreed Sally. "Begin 'A' ; do you know the 
 Arnolds?" 
 
 "Matthew Arnold Light of Asia or the World, 
 was it?" 
 
 "No, I mean the dark Arnolds of England." 
 
 "Well, no." 
 
 "The Bridlingtons?" 
 
 "Red-brick Bridlington ?" exclaimed the young man. 
 "Of course, I am on my way there now. Is that introduc- 
 tion enough?" 
 
 "Lunch is at one," said Sally. 
 
 "One moment about this chair business. We are some- 
 thing in the same line of business."
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 131 
 
 Sally asked, "What business?" Did he inspect arm- 
 chairs for the people of somewhere else? 
 
 Well, not quite. He travelled in furniture. 
 
 "What do you travel in?" asked Sally, immensely 
 interested. 
 
 "Furniture." 
 
 "How? Are you wheeled about in a Chesterfield or 
 trundled in a wardrobe?" 
 
 "Oh, that sort of travel. I travel in furniture and I 
 drive in a caravan." 
 
 Here was romance with a vengeance. "A real caravan ?" 
 asked Sally. 
 
 "Quite real. Red wheels green body. No, it's not a 
 butterfly, I swear. Green body, curtains there, does that 
 convince you? No butterfly has curtains. It's really a 
 caravan, windows and all." 
 
 "And what draws the caravan?" 
 
 "The dear old twins Pomp and Circumstance." 
 
 "Are they horses?" 
 
 "They would call themselves so, no doubt, if they 
 were asked." 
 
 "And could answer." 
 
 "Precisely. Well, you admit the fraternity? Travellers 
 in furniture?" 
 
 "I admit your right to be numbered among the few. 
 Go on telling me." 
 
 "It's quite simple. You go about making people com- 
 fortable in armchairs. I go about making them comfort- 
 able in cottages see?" 
 
 Sally did not see. 
 
 "If you took off your sunbonnet you would," said the 
 young man, adding softly, greatly daring, "Neither Pompey 
 nor Circe (for short) ever wear blinkers, on principle. 
 Mine not theirs. They have none." 
 
 The young man wanted to see Sally's hair. He sus- 
 pected the sun was jealous of it. But he had no right to 
 ask her to do such a thing, even to put the sun out, and
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Sally had no intention of doing it. So she looked at him 
 with grave displeasure and they Iboth laughed. The 
 same old reason! When he had laughed he begged her 
 pardon humbly and she forgave him graciously, taking off 
 her sunbonnet as a token of forgiveness. 
 
 "Now go on/' she said. 
 
 "Well, I go into a cottage, I see at a glance what sort 
 of an old woman she is with whom I have to deal. If 
 she loves her tables and chairs, and if I can see in them 
 her face, and deeper down her heart, I make some excuse 
 for having disturbed her. I pay her a pretty and a per- 
 fectly sincere compliment. If she is charming I pay 
 her another compliment prettier, if a little less sincere. 
 I ask her, if by chance a very handsome young man I 
 passed in the street in London, one Tuesday, could have 
 been her son, the likeness was so remarkable? And if 
 she is a very nice old lady she says, 'Why, of course it 
 was!' She had had a letter from him only the other 
 Wednesday telling her to look out for a softy who was 
 coming her way. Then perhaps she grows serious and 
 says I am like her dear boy who died in a far-away 
 country then I pay her no compliments, but I say good- 
 bye, and I go with her blessing tucked away in my heart. 
 If, on the other hand, the old woman who .owns the cottage 
 cares neither for her chairs nor her tables if they are 
 badly kept I offer her in exchange for them a Brussels 
 square fawn ground covered with red roses a picture, 
 framed, of Queen Victoria, and another of Moses in the 
 bulrushes also framed and a rocking-chair. 
 
 "Having entirely refurnished her cottage and made it 
 thoroughly comfortable and quite hideous, from my point 
 of view, and no doubt from yours, I go off with my table 
 and chair, feeling exchange to be no robbery. The other 
 day I came across a really genuine Chippendale chair and 
 a lacquer clock things you seldom find in cottages, or 
 anywhere. The woman who owned them had no affection 
 for anything. She said every time the clock struck it
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 133 
 
 reminded her of her father, who drank. She said she 
 didn't stop the clock striking because a Higher Hand than 
 hers had taken no steps to stop her father, so she supposed 
 she needed the reminder, painful though it was. She had 
 no soul, no soul !" 
 
 "Saying it twice," said Sally, "won't make it true. How 
 do you know she had no soul ?" 
 
 "By the very joy in her face when I left her." 
 
 "She was glad to get rid of you." 
 
 "In a sense. I left her with the promise of so much." 
 
 "Of what money? That didn't show she had no soul. 
 It showed perhaps that her children wanted soles to their 
 boots, and clothes and food for their poor little bodies." 
 
 "She had no children," said the young man. 
 
 "Poor old thing!" said Sally. 
 
 "She didn't complain. She was Miss Buttersweet 
 nice name, isn't it? And she has no relations 'to speak of 
 (her words not mine), and I left her without giving her 
 money, but in exchange for those two uncared-for pieces of 
 furniture I promised her a Brussels carpet . . ." 
 
 "Pink roses on a buff ground cabbage roses?" asked 
 Sally. 
 
 "Quite right!" said the young man. "A walnut 
 (veneered, I own) chiffonier, a mahogany table, round, a 
 portrait of Queen Victoria . . ." 
 
 "Framed?" said Sally, "and a picture of Moses in the 
 bulrushes, framed?" 
 
 "Yes, yes; and a sofa and an armchair." 
 
 "Is that all?" asked Sally. 
 
 "No; a clock in the shape of a frying-pan or a banjo, 
 I forget which." 
 
 "How did the caravan hold it all?" 
 
 "It didn't. Miss Buttersweet and I went shopping. 
 I gave her carte blanche to buy. She was very diffident, 
 very ladylike, very proper, but her womanliness overcame 
 in time her sense of propriety, and we might have been 
 an engaged couple buying our furniture for our little
 
 134 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 home Brixton way. She bought what she loved in ex- 
 change for what she didn't care for. Is there injustice 
 in that?" 
 
 "So long as you don't give a small sum for what you 
 know to be valuable. I hate that." 
 
 It appeared that the young man hated it too. "I am 
 quite fair, and I have collected quite a nice lot of furniture 
 for my home not Brixton way." 
 
 Sally liked this young man with his sunburnt face and 
 his laughing eyes. He was more like her father than any 
 man she had ever met, and so different from Arnold. 
 Poor darling Pamela! 
 
 "You have ruined the homes of rural England/' sug- 
 gested Sally. 
 
 "By making them comfortable ?" 
 
 "By making them hideous." 
 
 "Ask Miss Buttersweet; think of the difference in her 
 life. The frying-pan clock never reminds her of her 
 father when it strikes, because it doesn't strike. Do you 
 know, I might have been a piano-tuner aren't you very 
 rash ?" 
 
 Sally said she wished he had been, their piano wanted 
 tuning. The young man shook his head. He wished he 
 had the right to forbid her ever again to speak to strange 
 young men. But he had offended once. "You knew I 
 wasn't," he ventured; there was at least comfort in that. 
 
 Sally nodded. 
 
 "What did you think I was?" 
 
 Sally thought awhile, and then said that he was rather 
 like a butler. Not a real butler, of course; but just a 
 little like one who isn't really a butler. 
 
 "Wait a moment; I've heard that before. Is it out of 
 some play?" 
 
 Sally didn't think so. She knew no plays. "Come," 
 she said. 
 
 "Would you talk like this to any one?" He was 
 strangely upset by the thought.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 135 
 
 "Not unless he looked like . . ." 
 
 "A butler?" 
 
 "Not a real one." 
 
 And they went: Sally driving in her cart, the young 
 man walking beside her. They passed among other cot- 
 tages, Anne's. Anne was at luncheon. She jumped up to 
 see what was passing and she saw Sally. Then the young 
 man. It was enough. Jimmy had a rival. Anne knew it 
 at once. But she didn't know it was in answer to Sally's 
 prayer; that Sally had prayed for romance and was taking 
 it home to lunch with her. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence made much of romance; welcomed it 
 with open arms, and asked of it an immense number of 
 questions. So many that the young man was bewildered. 
 He sat between two fires at luncheon: Mr. Lawrence on 
 one side, on the other Sally. 
 
 "How can you get away?" asked Sally from her side, 
 "if you are on the Stock Exchange. Oughtn't you to be 
 making money?" 
 
 "You do that best by staying away. It's different just 
 now from other businesses." 
 
 "Bentleigh is your name?" said Mr. Lawrence, from 
 the other side. "I wonder if a Bentleigh I used to know 
 could have been your father?" 
 
 "What would you do if you had a pony that wouldn't 
 go?" asked Sally. 
 
 "I never had one," said Mr. Bentleigh. 
 
 "You mean that you don't remember him?" said Mr. 
 Lawrence. "He died young, I suppose, and yet the Bent- 
 leigh I knew was , , ." 
 
 "I was answering your daughter's question, sir; my 
 father died when I was very young." 
 
 "Who looks after the horse twins?" asked Sally. 
 
 "Brodrib, when we're on the road." 
 
 "Brodrib?" said Mr. Lawrence, "I remember that name. 
 I was at Oxford with him. He became a botanist of 
 some note . . ."
 
 136 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "This is an old factotum at home knows a lot about 
 botany, I'll be bound. He is a sort of groom, gardener, 
 coachman, tinker, tailor has been a sailor would be a 
 soldier if . . ." ,' 
 
 "Very like Jaunty," said Sally. 
 
 "Who's Jaunty?" 
 
 "Probably one of the same family," said M Lawrence. 
 "It's curious how local names are. My Brodrib came from 
 Worcestershire." 
 
 "Mine certainly from the borders of Worcestershire and 
 Gloucestershire." 
 
 "Jaunty?" said Sally. "He's a sort of uncle butler 
 English governess church dignitary . . ." 
 
 "May I see him?" asked the young man. 
 
 "I can't think why you haven't. At this hour he gen- 
 erally stands and waits." 
 
 "And also serves?" 
 
 "I know what you mean," said Sally. "It's often been 
 said about Jaunty. Daddy Long Legs, where is Jaunty?" 
 
 "Jaunty?" said Mr. Lawrence. "I don't know. Call 
 him !" 
 
 Now the difference between a real butler and one that 
 isn't real is that for the real butler you ring. You call 
 the butler who isn't real. It's a nice distinction, and 
 Jaunty set great store by it. 
 
 Sally called him, but no Jaunty came, and when Sally, 
 came back to the table Mr. Lawrence had monopolised 
 romance, and for the first time in her life she found her 
 father too great a talker and his theories absurd! 
 
 Jaunty was halfway down the village and bound for 
 Anne's cottage. Anne had seen him coming and was at 
 the door to meet him. "What's the matter, Jaunty?" 
 
 "There's a strange young man lunching, miss." Jaunty 
 made a jerky movement with his hand in the direction of 
 Mr. Lawrence's house. "I don't like it. Mr. Lawrence 
 will as likely as not leave them alone. Will you come
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 137 
 
 down, miss? I don't like young men picked up in the 
 road." 
 
 Anne didn't either. She promised to come down. "What 
 is he like?" she asked. 
 
 Jaunty couldn't say exactly. He hadn't waited to see. 
 The manner of his coming was enough. He had always 
 said mischief would come of Miss Sally's over-friendliness 
 to all men. 
 
 Anne was disturbed on Jimmy's account. Jaunty on 
 general principles. He had married one young lad^r well 
 from a worldly point of view and the one that least mat- 
 tered. Miss Sally was to do very differently. 
 
 So differently that Anne deemed it wiser not to mention, 
 at this moment, the dear Jimmy who was sweltering in 
 India saving up his money economising in polo ponies 
 and probably in ice. Running the risk of unpopularity 
 with his regiment, all for the sake of Sally who, Anne 
 was perfectly convinced, never thought of him except when 
 she gave Josephsofat carrots on Sunday and only then 
 because Jimmy had suggested it as a good moment. 
 
 Anne begged Jaunty to sit down, but he preferred to 
 stand; it had become a habit. 
 
 "Miss Sally must go to London," he said. 
 
 "To whom?" asked Anne. 
 
 "To her aunt. Mrs. Monk has prepared the way, as it 
 were. Mrs. Lombard now sees what dressing can do 
 what can be done with the right stuff, and Miss Sally's 
 that. Mr. Monk was a catch and Mrs. Lombard knew it, 
 and didn't believe Miss Pamela was pretty enough. Mrs. 
 Lombard would have struck him off my list but I knew 
 I was right. Who should know better than I her fascina- 
 tion? Miss Sally is worth ten of Miss Pamela, though I 
 say it as shouldn't." 
 
 "And how will you manage it, Jaunty?" 
 
 "I suggest you should do that, miss." 
 
 "Me?" said Anne in astonishment. 
 
 "Yes, you, please, miss. Mr. Lawrence shall ask Mrs.
 
 138 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Lombard down to lunch. We've done it once} we can do 
 it again. We pleased Mr. Monk, we can please Mrs. 
 Lombard. The souffle needn't rise nearly so high to meet 
 with her approval. She won't have forgotten the Seccotine 
 rhubarb. Then, miss, if you will be so kind as to wear 
 the lilac cotton you wore in church two Sundays ago, and 
 walk up to tea the thing is done." 
 
 "How, Jaunty?" 
 
 "You will suggest Miss Sally going to London. You 
 will say what she needs is Mrs. Lombard's influence, and 
 coming from you it will carry weight. She will ask Miss 
 Sally, and Mr. Lawrence must be made to see the impor- 
 tance of her going." 
 
 "You think it so important?" 
 
 "I do! If Miss Sally thinks any strange young man 
 good enough to ask in to lunch she must see other men 
 and learn to discriminate." 
 
 "And if I don't, Jaunty do as you ask?" 
 
 "You will disappoint me, miss." 
 
 That was enough. After all, what was the use in keep- 
 ing Sally from seeing men ? Jaunty was right. The more 
 she saw the better it might be. 
 
 So she promised to wear her mauve cotton. In the mean- 
 time she might as well see the young man and judge for 
 herself whether he was likely to rival Jimmy/ in Sally's 
 affections. 
 
 "Oughtn't you to be there?" 
 
 "At the house, miss ?" asked Jaunty. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I don't dare. I am ashamed. It's pancakes to-day. 
 Pancakes in June such pancakes!"
 
 XIII 
 
 ANNE saw Mr. Bentleigh and found him pleasant to look 
 upon. Jaunty saw him and found him something very 
 different. He learnt too, for the first time, his name. It 
 was a revelation. 
 
 "This is Jaunty," said Sally gaily, so gaily that Jaunty 
 looked at her, grieved that in the face of such tragedy 
 she should laugh. Then he looked at the young man and 
 back again at Sally. "May I speak to you?" he said to 
 the young man, and Douglas Bentleigh, charmed at what 
 he chose to call the quaintness of the old man, said, "Of 
 course !" 
 
 "In the pantry, please," and Jaunty went, followed by 
 the young man. 
 
 The old man was a little quainter than he need have 
 been, but Bentleigh was prepared to be amused. 
 
 "It's not exactly a pantry," said Jaunty, opening the 
 door, "is it?" 
 
 Douglas looked round. It wasn't. On the mantelshelf 
 stood two silver mugs, on a bracket a china mug, inscribed 
 with "A Present for a Good Girl." As to the rest of the 
 room there were shelves, but on the shelves there were 
 books, not cups nor crockery nor glass. 
 
 "It's a jolly place," said the young man, inclined to 
 please. 
 
 "D'you think so?" said Jaunty. "I prefer the garden 
 with Miss Sally." 
 
 "Naturally," said the young man, stiffening. He was 
 too much of an original, this old man. This came of 
 spoiling old servants. Few could stand it. 
 
 The young man walked to the window and looked out. 
 
 139
 
 140 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 The window was barred by a tangle of roses. "You can't 
 see out much," he said to Jaunty. 
 
 "I can see farther than you think," returned Jaunty. 
 He followed the young man to the window, and touching 
 him gently on the arm, he said, "What was your mother 
 about not to bring you up better? You mustn't make love 
 to my Miss Sally. You can't speak to her on the road- 
 side as is apparently your habit. She is different from 
 other young ladies. Her daring is born of a profound 
 innocence; neither her father nor' I have seen reason to tell 
 her what men are." 
 
 The young man swung round at these words. "What 
 right have you to speak like this?" 
 
 Jaunty again laid his hand on the yjoung man's arm, 
 firmly this time, as though he would calm him. "Every 
 right the right of an uncle to speak to his nephew. I 
 am your uncle I'm sorry to have to tell you, but you've 
 brought it on yourself." 
 
 Douglas Bentleigh looked in amazement at the old man. 
 Was he in his right senses? 
 
 "My dear, good old man, this requires some explana- 
 tion. Wait!" and out of his pocket he took a large and 
 exceedingly thin gold cigarette case, took from it a 
 cigarette which he lit with deliberation. He threw away 
 the match. Jaunty picked it up and dropped it into the 
 mug which had been destined for a good girl. 
 
 "My uncle?" said Douglas Bentleigh. 
 
 "Your uncle." 
 
 "Tell me how." 
 
 "In the most usual and the very simplest of all ways. 
 I am your mother's brother. My sister married your 
 father is that plainer? It's as plain as the Table of 
 Affinity can make it. Your father and I were in business 
 together; by that I mean we were in the same office. I 
 was a clerk. He was senior to me in the business, in age 
 younger. He was a clerk too. He had brains and should 
 have got on. Your mother was devoted to him, I was
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 141 
 
 devoted to her. I cannot think how she came to call you 
 Douglas !" 
 
 "Look here, my name is neither here nor there. I've 
 got to understand this. You say you are my uncle, and 
 you are living here as butler." 
 
 Jaunty raised his hand. "Not a butler exactly. Wait! 
 The most painful part has to come. It will pain you even 
 more than the fact that your uncle is a butler, but it's 
 got to come. You must bear it like a man. Your father 
 got into difficulties. In order to get out of those difficulties 
 he did what no man has any right to do, under any circum- 
 stances, to save himself or others he took money that 
 wasn't his to take, meaning of course to pay it back. He 
 was unable to pay it back. The suspicion had to fall on 
 some one; it fell on me. For your mother's sake I accepted 
 the blame. I was forgiven by the firm or rather they 
 refused to prosecute. I was taken on again in considera- 
 tion of my past services, and the whole horrible business 
 was hushed up. Your father left 'to better himself.' He 
 died before he was able to repay the monej. Wait ! When 
 young Mr. Lawrence as he was then succeeded to a 
 share in the business he was given his choice under old 
 Mr. Lawrence's will of a picture or a piece of furniture. 
 He chose me! Yes, it was funny, I admit; but I adored 
 him for it, and I have adored him for it ever since. Mr. 
 Loan, the partner, told him of the cloud under which I 
 lived. He didn't care. Possibly, I hope, he didn't believe 
 it of me; anyhow, he forgave me and trusted me. I went 
 to him as librarian. There were no books of any value to 
 care for, but in time there were two mugs, two porridge- 
 bowls, and two babies and very little money. So I 
 became butler, or whatever you choose to call me. My 
 sacred charge has been those two children. Their mother 
 left them to me. Miss Sally can never marry my nephew 
 never! You may marry a duke's daughter I cannot 
 prevent you you have the means to do it, no doubt.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Your mother has done well for her child but you can't 
 marry here; so the sooner you go, the better." 
 
 "Does my mother know?" 
 
 "She knows nothing beyond the fact that she has a 
 brother she is ashamed of. I am to blame, not she. I 
 took the blame to shield one dear to her. That I am a 
 very bad butler she has no idea. She doesn't know where 
 I am. Once a year I write and tell her I am happy. Don't 
 spoil her happiness or mine! Of course, what I have 
 told you of your father is sacred?" 
 
 "Well, look here, Uncle 'Jaunty' is that it? You 
 must own that this is something of a blow. You can't 
 expect me to sit down under it and say nothing. I have 
 been kept in the dark. I have been brought up to look 
 upon you . . ." 
 
 "Not even as a bad butler?" said Jaunty, smiling. 
 
 "No, as it's beastly unfair on you I hear all of a 
 sudden that my father ..." 
 
 "I am sorry, sir," said Jaunty, laying his hand on the 
 young man's arm, this time with affectionate tenderness. 
 "Nothing short of what I have told you would have pre- 
 vented you making love to Miss Sally. She's got to marry 
 well. She couldn't marry into my family now could 
 she?" 
 
 Douglas saw the impossibility. As a matter of fact, 
 marrying Sally had not entered into his head, but he could 
 not tell this uncle-butler so, who expected of every man 
 that he should at least wish to marry her. 
 
 "I am afraid," said Jaunty, "you have little of your uncle 
 in you. No dislike inherent dislike of the other sex ! I 
 now recognise you. You have puzzled me. It was you who 
 was at the restaurant with Miss Pamela that evening when, 
 by the mercy of God, I took her away." 
 
 Douglas laughed, "No, no, it wasn't so bad as that. She 
 wanted to dine at an Italian restaurant. Her aunt said I 
 might take her. It was you, Uncle Jaunty, who made the
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 143 
 
 thing impossible, carrying her off in that fashion as if I 
 had kidnapped her. You made us both ridiculous." 
 
 "It made me very unhappy at the time. Miss Pamela 
 ought never to have done it." 
 
 "But now that you know she went out with your 
 nephew it makes it all quite as it should be doesn't it?" 
 
 "It keeps the scandal in the family/' admitted Jaunty. 
 
 "D'you know I can never go to that restaurant again?" 
 said Douglas. 
 
 "If no young man could ever again enter the doors of a 
 foreign restaurant with a member of the opposite sex, it 
 would be well," said Jaunty sententiously. Then he added, 
 "If you will leave quietly now it shall be as if nothing 
 had ever happened." 
 
 And Douglas left quietly; what else could he do? and, 
 after all, what had happened? Nothing. Sally had dis- 
 covered the meaning of a June day, that was all. 
 
 What troubled Douglas most was when he married 
 should he have to ask his uncle to the wedding? It pre- 
 sented social difficulties. 
 
 Sally watched his quiet going. He no longer laughed. 
 There was nothing to laugh at. It was a poor ending to a 
 delightful day. 
 
 As she turned from the gate she found Jaunty standing 
 waiting, with Pomade Divine in one hand and a box of 
 chocolates in the other, as he used to do in days gone by? 
 Not quite! "Miss Sally," he said, ^ "now that you are 
 eighteen years old and a grown-up young lady ..." It 
 was too gentle, this ; he started afresh. 
 
 "You have no right to speak to strange young men in 
 the road and bring them home to lunch. No right, miss. 
 Neither your upbringing nor Serena's cooking justifies it 
 or you." 
 
 "But, Jaunty," pleaded Sally, "he looked so trustworthy 
 so different from other men. And, do you know, so like 
 you, Jaunty. Wasn't that amusing? He was . . ." 
 
 Here Jaunty heard Mr. Lawrence calling him and he
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 ran. Sally knew her father hadn't called, and she knew 
 Jaunty had only gone to escape a difficulty. 
 
 Within a day or two a letter came for Jaunty. It was 
 from his sister, Mrs. Bentleigh. 
 
 "DEAR JOHNSOH, Douglas has told me what has moved me 
 profoundly. You are a butler yet not quite a butler I am 
 glad of that. Are you happy? Won't you let me give you 
 money so that you may live independently? Bob's partner, 
 knowing how clever Bob was with money, has done so wonder- 
 fully for me. Dear Bob died just too soon. His partner said 
 he looked upon my affairs as a sacred trust. He invested what 
 I had, just at the right moment. I am a very rich woman. It 
 has suddenly struck me that the money you borrowed from the 
 firm has possibly never been repaid. For so long after that 
 unhappy time I had no money that I am afraid I forgot all 
 about it. As a butler where you are you can't have saved 
 much. Let me pay it for you. I hear you are called Jaunty. 
 That absurd name! I never liked it, nor did I ever call you by 
 it. Now do tell me about the money and I will pay it into 
 your account. Poor dear Johnson, you haven't got one, of 
 course. 
 
 "Douglas tells me you sat in a pantry that is just like a nice 
 smoking-room, and that there is a deaf parlourmaid who really 
 does the parlour work. So you have lived in the family of Mrs. 
 Arnold Monk? The new beauty. You didn't bring her up very 
 well, from what I hear. But of course being a butler you 
 wouldn't have anything to do with that." 
 
 Which roused Jaunty's wrath where the rest of the letter 
 had left him unmoved. He must answer it at once. 
 
 "DEAR ERMYNTRTTDE," he wrote, "You are quite wrong; I 
 had everything to do with the upbringing of Mrs. Arnold Monk 
 since she was eleven, I mean; in bringing her out, marrying 
 her, etc. Up till then she was brought up by the greatest saint 
 and the most beautiful woman that ever lived. If she is a little 
 difficult to manage it is that she was born so. I did what I 
 could and so did her father. I must think over your kind 
 offer about the money. Yes, I am a very bad butler. Douglas 
 is a fine young man. Don't let him make a fool of himself over 
 this caravaning business old furniture, unless it has been cared 
 for in good houses, brings moths into the house and worse. I
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 145 
 
 am glad to hear from you, my dear Ermyntrude. Mr. Law- 
 rence is calling me. Your affec. brother, 
 
 "JOHHSON JOHNSON." 
 
 Then Jaunty wrote to the firm of Loan and Lawrence 
 he wrote privately to Mr. Loan and asked what was the 
 sum of money, with interest, that he owed the firm. He 
 saw his way to paying it back sooner than he had thought 
 possible. 
 
 Mr. Loan answered by return of post expressing sur- 
 prise at the receipt of Mr. Johnson's letter. The money 
 had been repaid years ago. In fact, a few days after he 
 had left the services of the firm. Mr. Loan added that he 
 was sorry Mr. Johnson should have been kept in ignorance 
 of this fortunate circumstance. 
 
 The letter fell from Jaunty's fingers and fluttered to 
 the ground. "All these years it had been paid who had 
 paid it?" 
 
 Jaunty thought of the pile that lay awaiting only the 
 last coins. To whom now should he pay that money the 
 money he had saved? He would pay it back to Mr. 
 Lawrence. In some way or other . . . 
 
 He found out the way. 
 
 He wrote to Mrs. Lombard: 
 
 "MADAM, Mr. Lawrence seems to me not quite himself. 
 Nothing serious, but will you come down and judge for your- 
 self? He will be pleased to see you to luncheon any day you 
 would care to suggest. Yours obediently, 
 
 "JAUNTY." 
 
 Mrs. Lombard having seen that Pamela Monk was to 
 be of some account in the social world had opened her arms 
 to her, and was quite prepared to do the same by Sally, of 
 whom Arnold spoke in raptures. It was quite amusing 
 finding two nieces grown up without having had any of the 
 trouble of bringing them up. So she wrote to Mr. Law- 
 rence suggesting that she should come down and see him 
 and make friends with Sally, of whom she had heard most 
 charming things spoken.
 
 146 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "This is strange, Jaunty," said Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 "What, sir?" 
 
 "Mrs. Lombard is coming down to luncheon one day 
 soon." 
 
 "Will you make it a fortnight hence, sir?" 
 
 "Yes, but why?" 
 
 It had to do with kitchen arrangements, said Jaunty. 
 
 "Oh," said Mr. Lawrence, "these mysteries. In old 
 days there was never any difficulty in having any one to 
 luncheon." 
 
 But it had nothing to do with kitchen arrangements this 
 time, only Jaunty had to make an excuse. He must have 
 time. He wanted a fortnight. 
 
 He had his money to spend, and in order to spend it 
 to good account he telegraphed to a .well-known firm in 
 London to send down a fitter with patterns, and a fitter 
 came down with patterns and took the measurements of a 
 bewildered Sally. The fitter went back to London, and 
 in due course of time she returned with frocks that fitted 
 Sally quite remarkably well considering that she never 
 stood still for one minute. There were cottons and mus- 
 lins and evening frocks all chosen by Jaunty. Was the 
 world coming to an end? No, but Jaunty's savings were; 
 and at a given moment he gave the signal, and back to 
 London went the fitter went, not only with the frocks that 
 needed altering, but with vegetables and flowers and fresh 
 eggs, and in a few days there came back the cardboard 
 boxes for Sally, and she was the best dressed woman in 
 Panslea, or so Jaunty thought. But not even the sense of 
 being well dressed could please her now. She was hurt 
 and angry with Jaunty. In vain he displayed the frocks, 
 spreading them out to their best advantage, pointing out 
 the beauties of tucks technical words failed him; but 
 weren't they beautiful? 
 
 But Sally would have none of. them, and she went out 
 and sat on the common by the hour alone, and Jaunty was
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 147 
 
 as miserable as she meant him to be, and he cursed the day 
 that had brought his nephew to Panslea. 
 
 A few days after the accursed nephew had been, he wrote 
 to his uncle, and this is what he wrote: 
 
 "DEAR UNCLE JAUNTY, I've been thinking a lot about you. 
 Look here, things can't go on as they are I didn't treat you 
 the other day as I now wish I had treated you. I am proud of 
 you. I am fond of you. You've behaved awfully well. I can't 
 bear to think it is through us you have come to this. I must 
 tell you it seems only fair ! that I have never thought of my 
 poor father with any respect, let alone affection. He made my 
 poor mother unhappy in many more ways than you probably 
 know. You spared her the crowning sorrow and I can never 
 thank you enough; but we must start fair. 
 
 "In the first place, I am engaged to be married. I feel I 
 ought to have told you that the other day. She's older than 
 your Miss Sally, but in her own way, I think, as beautiful. 
 Now look here, Uncle Jaunty. I want you to be one of us. 
 Go abroad, travel come back, and there's a cottage on the edge 
 of the park at home, a jolly little place. Live there! The 
 money is no difficulty. I have heaps. Just come and show us 
 what we ought to be and to do. Hats off to you, Uncle Jaunty ! 
 Your affec. nephew, 
 
 "DOUGLAS." 
 
 Over the reading of which letter Jaunty shed a few 
 tears, as much at the dear stupidity of the boy as at his 
 kindness. Leave Mr. Lawrence? Not for all the cottages 
 on the edges of parks in the whole wide world. But he 
 would like to show Mr. Lawrence that letter. He couldn't, 
 of course. 
 
 "I should never have thought a generation could have 
 done it!" he said.
 
 XIV 
 
 "Nor the lilac cotton after all, please, miss," wrote Jaunty 
 to Anne, and Anne put on a blue one and up to the Law- 
 rences she went, and in the library she found a discon- 
 solate Sally sitting dressed in a lilac cotton the very exact 
 copy of her own, and she smiled. Of course, Jaunty had 
 seen that the effect would be utterly spoilt and lost upon 
 Mrs. Lombard had there been two frocks of the same kind 
 and colour. 
 
 "What a pretty Sally!" cried Anne, and Sally smiled 
 sadly. She would fain have been less pretty to have 
 been happier. 
 
 "Heaven only knows," she said, "who's paid for it all. 
 I have got three cottons upstairs, two evening dresses, 
 stockings, hats, and Daddy Long Legs has never noticed 
 any of them, so he can't have paid for them. It's a 
 mystery." 
 
 "Pamela?" suggested Anne. 
 
 "She knows I don't care for clothes paid for by other 
 people." 
 
 "Is there anything you do care for at the moment?" 
 
 Sally turned her mournful eyes upon Anne. "How did 
 you know?" she asked. 
 
 "My dear child, your face is enough. Look here, Sally, 
 isn't it rather ridiculous. You saw him once. You know 
 nothing about him. He was nice-looking, but a little 
 absurd. . . ." 
 
 "I liked that; he was more like father and Jaunty than 
 any man I have ever met then the twins, Pomp and 
 Circumstance . . ." 
 
 "Yes, Sally; but do cheer up." 
 
 And Sally said she was cheerful really. She was enjoy- 
 
 148
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 149 
 
 ing it immensely. She was only trying to teach Jaunty 
 that he must not interfere. She really must, now that 
 she was grown up, do what she liked. Jaunty was growing 
 quite impossible. Why should he have sent Mr. Bent- 
 leigh away? because it was Jaunty who did it. There 
 was no doubt about that. Everything was perfectly all 
 right until Mr. Bentleigh went into the pantry. He had 
 eaten two pancakes at lunch. She had been able to do 
 what Pamela hadn't; no man had eaten of Serena's pan- 
 cakes for the dear sake of Pamela. 
 
 "I've no one to play with now," she said sadly. 
 
 And Anne, judging her to be in a softened mood, took 
 a letter out of her pocket and began reading it. It was 
 from Jimmy. She anxiously looked up from time to time 
 to watch Sally's face. It brightened at the mention of 
 polo ponies and clouded at the description of Jimmy's dog 
 that had been mauled by a cheetah. "Poor dear Jimmy!" 
 she said, and when Anne had finished the letter Sally 
 wondered if Jimmy was often in love? 
 
 Here was Anne's chance. She didn't make the most of 
 it; she said rather sententiously that Jimmy would never 
 change, whereupon Sally exclaimed, "How dull for him; 
 poor Jimmy!" and there remained nothing for Anne to 
 say but that she thought Sally wasn't improving with old 
 age. And Sally admitted it. She was growing horrider 
 and horrider every moment. 
 
 What was Aunt Venetia coming for? 
 
 "We shall soon know," said Anne, and at that moment 
 a car stopped at the door and out of it stepped Mrs. 
 Lombard. "The same old place the same old things!" 
 she exclaimed as she came into the room, bringing with 
 her an atmosphere of another world, a much larger world, 
 a harder world, an infinitely richer world, but a world 
 that lacked just what Panslea had that made it what 
 it was. 
 
 "A kind little niece would have come to meet me," she
 
 150 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 said. "What a pretty child it is, and so charmingly 
 dressed. Where's your father?" 
 
 "I'll tell him/' said Sally. "This is Anne Beech" 
 introducing her with a wave of her hand "my clothes 
 are copied from hers. Jaunty takes the patterns as he 
 hands the plate in church; Anne doesn't mind." 
 
 "A great tribute, isn't it?" said Mrs. Lombard, smiling. 
 "It must be counted to you for righteousness." 
 
 She walked round the room, making it seem absurdly 
 small. Anne resented the way she did it. Anne felt 
 nothing escaped her critical eye, no contrivance would 
 deceive or amuse her. She wouldn't love the room as 
 Panslea loved it. "You never knew their mother?" she 
 asked, standing Tbefore the portrait of Mrs. Lawrence. 
 
 Anne said, "Unfortunately, no." 
 
 "She was very beautiful, of course (that doesn't do her 
 justice), but she was the last kind of woman my dear 
 brother should have married; he wanted some one practical 
 to balance that ridiculous optimism of his." 
 
 Anne said they found it charming in Panslea. 
 
 "Oh yes!" said Mrs. Lombard, laughing. "A lot of 
 unmarried women oh, I beg your pardon! you're too 
 young to count, and . . ." 
 
 Mr. Lawrence came in. "Venetia, Venetia," he ex- 
 claimed, "my dear, my dear after all these years !" 
 
 "Don't say that, John; it ought not to have been all 
 these years, but, after all, London is nearer to Panslea 
 than Panslea to London. Your Pamela has established 
 herself a beauty. But where did she learn her little her 
 astonishingly attractive little ways? Arnold is quite be- 
 wildered, poor man. Dear John, it looks just the same." 
 She put her hands on her brother's shoulders and looked 
 at him searchingly, and as she looked she laughed, very 
 softly. 
 
 "A little older," admitted Mr. Lawrence, "and a little 
 shabbier, but just the same, I'm glad to say. You've 
 seen Sally and Jaunty?"
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 151 
 
 "Jaunty opened the door to me, I believe. I didn't 
 look, but . . ." She released John, shaking him affection- 
 ately as she did it. 
 
 "But we all look at Jaunty in Panslea he expects it; 
 and Miss Beech?" Mr. Lawrence turned to Anne. 
 
 "Miss Beech? I have offended her, I'm afraid." 
 
 "Anne offended? Never!" 
 
 "No?" asked Mrs. Lombard, and Anne shook her head. 
 She thought Mrs. Lombard too much of a goose to bother 
 about except as Sally's aunt. Anne was wrong there; 
 Mrs. Lombard was no goose, but how she could be Mr. 
 Lawrence's sister was 'a puzzle. In appearance she was 
 not unlike him. She had the same eyes without their 
 twinkle, the same smile without its friendliness. 
 
 Jaunty announced luncheon. He enjoyed doing it, and 
 did it after the manner of a toastmaster at a city dinner. 
 
 Mrs. Lombard sat down critical. She rose impressed. 
 She assured John he had an excellent cook. He knew it. 
 "You must be introduced to her afterwards," he said. 
 "Poor dear Serena, she has done well to-day; she has 
 improved wonderfully." 
 
 Sally kicked her father under the table. He told her 
 not to be afraid, he wasn't going to say anything about 
 Serena's leg. "It doesn't make her less of a cook, though, 
 Sally, does it?" Now Sally was kicking her father not 
 because of Serena's wooden leg, but because it was poor 
 Mademoiselle out in the backyard who was responsible for 
 the souffle. It would never do if Aunt Venetia went out 
 and said grace to Serena. Besides they were out to deceive 
 Aunt Venetia. She had got to think they had an excellent 
 cook. Serena was too honest to play the part face to face. 
 
 "And who else lives in the village?" 
 
 Mr. Lawrence said there were so many. Mrs. Lombard 
 said she meant of people who counted. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence said there was Mrs. Hill. 
 
 "Who is she?" 
 
 "A farmer's wife."
 
 152 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "And an angel/' added Sally. 
 
 Mrs. 'Lombard laughed. "A delightful combination. 
 Who else less celestial?" 
 
 "Janet Mason/' suggested Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 "Oh yes, Michael Mason's sister. He told me. He's 
 charming deeply in love, I'm told. He's been making 
 money lately. The Stock Exchange is booming I'm glad. 
 Tiresome sister rather I'm afraid." 
 
 "He doesn't think so, I'm sure," said Sally. "She 
 adores him." 
 
 "What a champion the child is !" said her aunt, looking 
 at Sally and laughing. 
 
 Luncheon passed off triumphantly. As Jaunty put the 
 coffee-tray down on the oak chest in the library, he whis- 
 pered to Sally, "It's gone off splendidly, miss." 
 
 "Splendidly!" whispered Sally. "Sugar, Aunt 
 Venetia?" 
 
 "Sugar and black, please." She raised her eyebrows 
 as she tasted the coffee. "Excellent, John, quite excellent. 
 John, I've been under a complete misapprehension. I 
 thought you were happy but uncomfortable." She stirred 
 her coffee thoughtfully. "I never suggested coming be- 
 cause I didn't want to put you to any inconvenience to 
 stay, I mean." 
 
 Sally was making faces at her father. He saw them 
 but didn't know what they were meant to convey. 
 
 "There was my maid," went on Mrs. Lombard. 
 
 "We're very comfortable, Venetia your maid need have 
 no fears. She could dine with Jaunty, if we weren't grand 
 enough." Mr. Lawrence's eyes twinkled. 
 
 "It's all very well to laugh, John, but there's no one 
 in the world so difficult as servants. They know at once." 
 
 "We have no difficulties. They are quite comfortable 
 here perhaps more so than we are. We can't afford young 
 servants, but we can have as many old ones as the house 
 will hold. It's quite simple. I'm told people won't engage 
 an old housemaid. Why not? If you have one to each
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 153 
 
 floor and give her plenty of time I don't see that age mat- 
 ters. Old ones eat less than young ones, and are quick to 
 see their position. . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Lombard laid her hand on John's. "Don't, dear; 
 you mustn't carry this nonsense too far. There are people 
 who might believe you. Do you know what is said of you 
 in London ? That you have a blind man to teach your girls 
 drawing, a deaf man to teach them music . . ." 
 
 "Did they happen to mention a bedridden lady to teach 
 them French?" asked Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 "But that is true, John?" 
 
 "And they stopped at that, did they?" 
 
 When Jaunty came in for the tray he looked at Anne, 
 looked so pointedly that she blushed, rose and suggested 
 to Mrs. Lombard that they should go round the garden 
 together. Jaunty walked round by Mr. Lawrence, frowned 
 at him, then on to Sally and frowned at her, which evi- 
 dently meant that they were to stay where they were, and 
 that Anne was to take Mrs. Lombard round 'the garden. 
 Mrs. Lombard said she would be delighted. But really 
 there were few things she disliked more than walking 
 round gardens. Country people always gave names to 
 everything in the beds and borders, and they were never 
 the names by which she knew the same flowers in pots and 
 tubs at those horticultural shows to which she and others 
 possessing no gardens go note-books in hand trying to 
 look as though they had planted and potted and weeded 
 and sown and gathered all the days of their long London 
 lives. 
 
 "It's badly kept, isn't it?" she said as she walked with 
 Anne. 
 
 Anne said she loved it. To Panslea it was the model 
 of what a garden should be. 
 
 "Well, perhaps not the garden particularly. Nature 
 covers a multitude of sins at this time of year. But the 
 front gate wants painting."
 
 154 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Anne admitted it, adding that the man who should have 
 painted it had a stroke last winter and couldn't. 
 
 "Do you mean his workmen struck ? wretches !" 
 
 "No; his heart, and his dear old legs, and his brain the 
 only workman he has." 
 
 Mrs. Lombard supposed some one else might have done 
 it; but Anne said that wasn't Mr. Lawrence's way. It 
 was the old man's job. Mrs. Lombard dug furiously at 
 an innocent weed with the point of her sunshade. "But 
 if he couldn't?" 
 
 "Mr. Lawrence wouldn't let him see any one else do it. 
 The old man lies in a window from which he can watch that 
 gate," said Anne. 
 
 "My dear Miss Beech, I wonder if you realise how 
 exasperating all this is to the ordinary prosaic and practical 
 mind ?" 
 
 Anne said she had some slight idea, from what Lord 
 Bridlington said. 
 
 "Now he's a sensible man," said Mrs. Lombard. "And 
 it makes him angry, does it?" 
 
 "He admires Sally very much," said Anne hastily, 
 remembering her duty towards Jaunty. "What do you 
 think of her?" 
 
 Mrs. Lombard stopped in the middle of the path and, 
 pulling the end of Anne's tie straight, said she thought 
 Sally extremely taking astonishingly so. She shouldn't 
 be surprised if she became a great success. 
 
 "You'll take her to London and give her the chance?" 
 suggested Anne. 
 
 "Of course. I imagine that is why I am here to-day, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 Anne couldn't deny it. 
 
 "I don't mind. I shall be glad to do it. The child 
 has more sense, I should say, than Pamela. Pamela goes 
 too far. She has no right to do it yet! So recently 
 married, her position unassured. It doesn't do. People 
 are beginning to talk ; she's an outrageous flirt."
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 155 
 
 Anne said she didn't think so. 
 
 "My dear Miss Beech, you don't know! Who did she 
 ever see? Arnold Monk, and married him the first man 
 who asked her." 
 
 "Oh no/' said Anne. 
 
 "Oh yes, if you leave out quite impossible people. 
 Well, she's talked about now. I see no harm in the child 
 and an immense amount of charm, but . . ." 
 
 "You will see Jaunty about it?" suggested Anne. 
 
 "Jaunty why Jaunty? What has he got to do with it?" 
 
 "Everything." 
 
 "The butler?" 
 
 "Well, he isn't a butler . . ." 
 
 Then came the unexpected. Mrs. Lombard stopped, 
 begged Anne to go no farther. She was quite excited. 
 "Now wait, how does it go? He isn't a butler exactly. 
 Isn't that it? Now do tell me what does that absurd 
 joke mean? It's all over London. It's making Arnold 
 Monk ridiculous. Everything is 'not exactly.' If any one 
 says Arnold is married, some one says 'Not exactly.' " 
 
 "It's a silly Panslea joke," explained Anne. "It has 
 become the ordinary way of describing Jaunty. There's 
 nothing in it. Jaunty isn't a butler exactly. It's a silly 
 joke of Pamela's." 
 
 At that moment Mr. Lawrence joined the two women. 
 "Jaunty wishes to see you, Venetia," he said, putting his 
 hand on his sister's arm. "He expressed it more politely. 
 'Would you grant him an interview kindly grant/ those 
 were his words." 
 
 "My dear John, the impertinence ! Send the ridiculous 
 creature to me." 
 
 And the ridiculous creature came and stood beside Mrs. 
 Lombard under the trees. She looked at him as though 
 he were some strange and rare animal. He was uncon- 
 scious of it. Here was a chance of doing something for his 
 young lady, and he was going to do it in the best way he 
 could.
 
 156 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 It turned out to be a better way than he knew. Very 
 quietly and simply he took Mrs. Lombard through the 
 last twenty years of his life at Panslea. He described to 
 her the day on which, over this very lawn, Mr. Lawrence 
 had led his bride. He described Mrs. Lawrence as she 
 had looked then. He alluded briefly to the birth of the 
 children. It seemed still fraught with mystery the won- 
 der of their coming. He described their bringing up his 
 small share in the great adventure. He told her much 
 about Mr. Lawrence much that was astonishing, much 
 that was touching, much that recalled to her John's young 
 days and hers together. He had been a wonderful brother. 
 He was apparently as delightful a father though an 
 impossible one. This strange old man made her feel for 
 her brother, in his sorrow, as she had never felt. She 
 had never realised the depth of his grief, for she had never 
 troubled to understand the height of his love. The death 
 of his wife had seemed to her a sad ending to a very 
 pretty fairy tale. Too pretty to be true too charming 
 to last. Jaunty had made her see that it must always 
 last it was too true not to last. It was lasting now under 
 these trees; it lived in this old man's face. 
 
 Jaunty touched lightly on the subject of Sally's clothes. 
 The colours that suited her, the styles, what she should 
 wear at night; the way in which her hair should be done, 
 and it seemed all vaguely familiar to Mrs. Lombard. She 
 could see Sally so dressed. But how? It was impossible. 
 Then she remembered Mrs. Lawrence's portrait. Jaunty 
 didn't march with the times. Matilda was right. As he 
 remembered Mrs. Lawrence he wanted to see Sally. 
 
 At the end of it all Mrs. Lombard said, "Well, Jaunty, 
 I should like to know which is the quainter, you or your 
 master?" And Jaunty must have asked for notice of the 
 question if he would have answered it truthfully. Answer- 
 ing in a hurry he would have said there was little to choose 
 between them, and Mrs. Lombard must have agreed with 
 him.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 167 
 
 She went back to London, and in the course of a few 
 days Sally was to follow. 
 
 "It will be lonely, Jaunty," said Mr. Lawrence, as 
 Jaunty addressed labels. 
 
 "It will be that, sir, but as you say if you bring 
 young creatures into the world you have got to see them 
 through." 
 
 "Did I say it? If you mean by seeing them through, 
 marriage, I want her to marry the man she loves . . ." 
 
 "She shall do that. It becomes our business to see she 
 loves the right one." 
 
 "I liked that young man who came the other day. You 
 remember him?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." Was Jaunty likely to forget him? 
 
 "A fine young man honest and straightforward," said 
 Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 "Not quite a gentleman, sir, if you ask me." 
 
 "I didn't ask you." 
 
 "No, sir, that's why I made a point of saying it."
 
 XV 
 
 ON a summer's day Sally went to London, and when the 
 evening was come the men home from their work sat 
 smoking in the doorways of their cottages, and they talked 
 of Mr. Lawrence. One had passed him in the road look- 
 ing lonesome like. Women sat on the walls of their neigh- 
 bours' gardens, their babies in their arms, and they too 
 talked of Mr. Lawrence, and what was he going to do 
 now, Miss Sally gone? Miss Sally grown up? He would 
 be lonely. He must feel strange. Could any one believe 
 it? and she a baby a few years ago! Didn't most of them 
 remember her christening? Her first Sunday in church, 
 when she was three, how she had talked! Bless her little 
 heart! She had asked in a loud voice, When the puff-puff 
 was going to start? A pew was like a train, too to a 
 child it would be, not knowing any better. And when her 
 mother died! Didn't she take on terrible, poor child? It 
 was terrifying, wasn't it? And she would marry just as 
 quickly as Miss Pamela had married. Most likely. She 
 was more of a beauty some thought. Others not. Well, 
 more pleasing? Yes, there was no doubt about that. Old 
 Grandfather Wedgewood said she was her mother all over 
 again no difference that he could see without his spec- 
 tacles and no one like her mother had ever been seen in 
 Panslea Church. There was queer old Mr. Jaunty wan- 
 dering about as if he had lost a child and he had; they 
 all had, if it came to that. If praying for a child makes 
 her yours, there wasn't one in Panslea that hadn't a 
 share. 
 
 Anne and Janet sat talking in Anne's garden. 
 
 Anne said it seemed so quiet without Sally. Janet 
 wondered how that could be when she had only just left. 
 There had hardly been time to notice a difference. 
 
 158
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 159 
 
 "Everything looks different to me," said Anne. Janet 
 was too matter-of-fact. 
 
 "I think/' said Janet, "that Sally is very lucky. Every 
 one seems to behave as if she belonged to them, and no 
 one ever seems to think she can do wrong. I suppose 
 she isn't very different after all to other people except 
 that she's prettier." 
 
 Anne said nothing, and Janet wondered what would 
 happen to Mademoiselle. "She can't go, because she is 
 partially paralysed. Can she?" 
 
 Anne said she wouldn't go if she were ten times a centi- 
 pede and in full possession . . . 
 
 Janet hastened to say she couldn't imagine Mademoiselle 
 a centipede. 
 
 Anne hadn't said she could. 
 
 "She will stay, you think?" persisted Janet. 
 
 Anne was certain of it. Mr. Lawrence would never 
 let her go back to that home. "No; she will be here to 
 teach Sally's children French." 
 
 "You think Sally will marry at once?" 
 
 That Anne could not tell. She was in no speculative 
 mood. 
 
 "I wonder if some one is hopelessly in love with her, as 
 there was with Pamela?" said Janet, and she looked to the 
 heavens to answer her, since Anne's shrugged shoulders 
 meant that Heaven alone knew. 
 
 "Who was hopelessly in love with Pamela?" asked Anne, 
 not giving the heavens a chance. "And your grammar, 
 Janet it's atrocious !" 
 
 "Oh, I mustn't say I promised Michael I wouldn't. 
 But it's so long ago, isn't it? Grammar? I never could 
 do grammar." 
 
 "Michael?" said Anne, "your Michael?" 
 
 "Yes, didn't you know?" Janet was surprised; if the 
 heavens weren't telling she thought that Anne at least 
 would have heard from some one. Anne shook her head. 
 
 "You didn't know? Well, I don't think she would have
 
 160 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 made him a good wife," she said, not daring to add, "but 
 you, dear Anne, would." 
 
 There were moments when Anne was austere; this was 
 one of them. 
 
 Janet looked at her. Anne stooped down to pick a 
 flower. She threw it to Janet, threw it on to her lap. 
 "Why don't you ask him down?" she asked. 
 
 "Would he come?" wondered Janet. 
 
 "Ask him." 
 
 A load was lifted from Anne's heart to be replaced 
 by a feeling of agonised shame. She had been imagining 
 Michael in love with her. She had been discouraging him 
 to the best of her ability, imagining herself kind, and 
 it had been Pamela all the time! "Do ask him down, 
 Janet, it's so dull." 
 
 She must let Michael see that it would be delightful 
 to have him down as a friend, and if as a friend who 
 wanted consoling, all the better; but as a lover he had 
 proved dull too much Janet's brother. "Do, Janet, it's 
 dull," she repeated. 
 
 "Dull without Sally?" objected Janet. "Why, she has 
 this moment I should say reached London." 
 
 "Are you and your brother alike?" asked Anne. 
 
 Janet indignantly denied it. "Michael says I am 
 frightfully matter-of-fact. Why, he sleeps all the time 
 I am with him," and Anne felt for Michael and she 
 closed her eyes. 
 
 Janet, glad at last to be of some importance in Panslea 
 (she had felt sadly neglected), wrote to Michael and said 
 Anne wanted him to come down; and of course he came 
 down by the earliest train he could catch on a Friday 
 afternoon. And at tea-time he was sitting in Anne's 
 garden, drinking Anne's tea, and gazing at her with a 
 pathetic gratitude in his eyes. Anne thought it very odd 
 that a man so lately in love with one girl should look at 
 another as he was looking at her. She didn't like him any 
 the better for it. So she was cold and distant, and he
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 161 
 
 wondered why in the world she had asked him down if it 
 was to treat him like this? So he hurried away, and as he 
 and Janet walked back to the farm she asked him if it 
 had been as bad as he had expected, adding that he was 
 a dear, brave old thing that she was proud of him. 
 
 "What was as bad?" he wanted to know. Everything 
 was bad. 
 
 "Without Pamela." 
 
 "Without Pamela? What's Pamela got to do with me, 
 or me with Pamela?" 
 
 Janet stood still in the road, and was nearly run over 
 by the curate who came round the corner on his bicycle, 
 without ringing his bell. She wasn't run over, so why 
 think about it? And she went on standing and looking at 
 Michael in wonder and amazement. Had he gone out of 
 his mind? 
 
 "Nothing to do with Pamela?" she exclaimed. "You 
 said you were in love with her." 
 
 "I? Never." 
 
 "Never?" 
 h "Never." 
 
 "Well, why were you so angry, then, when you saw her 
 in the restaurant?" 
 
 "A motherless girl, that's all. She hadn't any one to 
 look after her. ..." 
 
 "The influence again," thought Janet. "How strange!" 
 Then she said, "It's a very wonderful thing, Michael. It 
 seems to me that dying is much less than I ever thought it 
 was. I thought you were in love with ..." 
 
 "That I can't help." 
 
 "Then, who?" 
 
 "Why, Anne, of course; always has been Anne, always 
 will be Anne," and he walked on quickly, and Janet trot- 
 ted beside him; then he stopped, cut at a weed with his 
 stick, and said, "She asked me down here, probably be- 
 cause you told her it was Pamela?"
 
 162 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Janet picked up the weed, jerked it into the hedge, and 
 said she was afraid so. 
 
 "Well, Jane, my dear, I never thought you brilliant, 
 but ..." and he walked on, she trotting after him. "Have 
 you ever tried to make her like you?" she said. "Do try, 
 Michael dear I'm sure you could. You look so nice and 
 sunburnt," and with that very encouraging remark she 
 marched up to the farm, went to her bedroom and cried. 
 
 And Michael sat in the sitting-room and smoked and 
 Anne went to the post office to get Jimmy's letter, which 
 was due. The letter was there. Mrs. Stitchwort at the 
 post office knew more about letters than most people in 
 Panslea, and as she handed this one to Anne across the 
 counter she said, "The young gentleman well?" 
 
 Anne said, Very well she hoped. He always was. 
 
 "That's right," said Mrs. Stitchwort. "I didn't like the 
 look of the stamp, that's all." 
 
 "The stamp?" asked Anne; "in what way can one stamp 
 differ from another?" 
 
 "Lor', miss, there's a wonderful deal of difference, to 
 my mind. A feverish stamp this was, I thought, put on 
 feverishly like. Maybe I'm wrong, we've got to be wrong 
 some day. There's the lover's stamp, that's always to be 
 known. I could show you three to-day but my position 
 is official and I don't forget it. The lover's stamp is al- 
 ways to be known. The business stamp, that's quite clear 
 quite straight. There's the worried stamp. You've got 
 to do with letters a deal before you see the signs. And 
 the stuck-down envelopes. There's character for the read- 
 ing! The suspicious writer, you know that? You've got 
 to take a hairpin to it nothing else for it. No room for 
 so much as a little finger," and she held up her little finger 
 to emphasise her point. 
 
 "I see," said Anne; "it's very interesting. Good-day, 
 Mrs. Stitchwort." 
 
 "Mind, miss," said Mrs. Stitchwort, following her to 
 the door, "I don't say I'm right about the feverish stamp
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 163 
 
 the lover's stamp is so near to it one of a family, I say. 
 Good-day, miss." 
 
 Anne opened the letter before she got home. She leant 
 on a gate to read it, and as she finished it she raised her 
 eyes to the view she loved ; but she saw nothing because of 
 the mist of tears that were in her eyes. 
 
 She brushed them away and looked at the stamp. What 
 nonsense! How could Mrs. Stitchwort have told? 
 
 Yet it was true. Jimmy had fever. He wrote a cheer- 
 ful letter, a letter full of hope and comfort but for all 
 that he was ill. She hadn't the money to go to him, and 
 if she had she knew it wouldn't be sister Anne he watched 
 for. She went back to the post office and telegraphed to 
 Sally, "Write to Jimmy; he's rather ill cheer him up." 
 
 And Sally wrote to him and told him she had fallen in 
 love, and she described how the young man had come to 
 Panslea, travelling in furniture; told him how she had 
 fallen in love with him for the sake of the twin horses 
 how Jaunty had sent him away how she couldn't really 
 enjoy herself when she was so badly treated. How, in 
 spite of it all, she was enjoying herself immensely how 
 she hoped Jimmy was, in spite of his not being well. Of 
 course by the time this letter reached him he would be as 
 jolly as possible. Then she told him Panslea news, Jaunty 
 news, Anne news, Janet news, and every news she could 
 think of, and she addressed the envelope to Jimmy, stamped 
 it and posted it. But by the time the letter reached India 
 he was beyond the reach of all letters, and the Colonel's 
 daughter to help her mother made a packet of Jimmy's 
 letters that had just come out by the mail and sent them 
 back to England. The only one she looked at with any 
 interest was Sally's, because it was evidently written by a 
 girl it was a girl's handwriting, and not his sister's; hers 
 she knew. Had there been some one else who loved him? 
 And had he loved her? Was that why nothing had ever 
 come right? 
 
 And the girl's mother coming into the room, and finding
 
 164 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 her child crying, put her arms round her and said, "My 
 darling, I wish you had the right to do this I wish you 
 had! But you must remember you haven't." 
 
 Mrs. Stitch wort had handed sorrow over the counter 
 before this in Panslea, and many a time she had done it 
 with a heavy heart; but this was worse than anything in 
 her day. She couldn't hand such a message to any one, 
 least of all to one who could never be a mother, so she 
 said to the boy who waited to take the telegram, "No, 
 Johnnie, I'll take it it's for Miss Beech. You shall have 
 the penny; it's a penny she gives you?" 
 
 "No, a bun; I likes buns," he said, and by the look of 
 him he spoke the truth. 
 
 Mrs. Stitchwort took down from the peg her deerstalk- 
 er's cap, put it on, and went up the village way. Coming 
 to the door of Miss Beech's cottage she stood still and 
 prayed. Inside the cottage she could hear Miss Beech 
 singing. What could prayer do for Mrs. Stitchwort now? 
 Nothing could give her the power to soften the telling of 
 this tragedy. She knocked at the door. Anne opened it. 
 
 The first thing Anne saw was the deerstalker's cap. She 
 knew it was kept for the woodshed and the backyard. Why 
 had Mrs. Stitchwort put it on? Why had she come her- 
 self? She hadn't meant to come out. She had put on 
 the thing nearest to hand in a hurry! 
 
 "A telegram?" said Anne. She held out her hand. It 
 trembled. "How kind of you to bring it yourself." 
 
 "My dear, my dear, who else?" and then Anne knew. 
 
 She dropped into a chair and sat crouched there with 
 her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands. On her 
 shoulder rested tenderly Mrs. Stitchwort's work-roughened 
 hand. "It came to me once myself, miss," she whispered. 
 "I got the news straight of my boy ..." 
 
 "No kind friend to tell you gently. I am more fortu- 
 nate than you were," said Anne; and Mrs. Stitchwort 
 went, and as she went up the village way her tears spread 
 the news first to Jaunty, then to the Vicar, then to the
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 165 
 
 children playing in the road, then to Miss Mason and Mr. 
 Mason, and Mr. Mason turned hurriedly and made for 
 Anne's cottage. Mrs. Stitchwort watched; saw him open 
 the door, go in and close it. "I'm glad of that," she sobbed, 
 jerking her thumb in the direction of the cottage, to which 
 all eyes were turned. "It's what a woman wants a friend 
 that's closer than a brother." 
 
 Jaunty went home. 
 
 "There's bad news for Miss Beech, sir," he said to Mr. 
 Lawrence. 
 
 "Then it's bad news for us all, Jaunty." 
 
 "There's special reason to mourn in this house, sir." 
 
 Mr. Lawrence said indeed there was, for he guessed 
 what news it was Jaunty brought. 
 
 "Yes and more than you think. He cared for Miss 
 Sally; I knew it. He didn't seem to be the right one too 
 young and she didn't care, and now I'm not sure that I 
 was right in preventing it. ..." 
 
 "My dear Jaunty; how could you have prevented it? 
 Poor, poor boy." 
 
 "There are ways, many ways, of preventing things, sir, 
 without saying anything. Dear, dear, I would give all I 
 have to have him back." 
 
 "We would all give that, Jaunty all of us. Who is with 
 Miss Beech? Miss Mason?" 
 
 "Far better than that, sir. Miss Mason's brother."
 
 XVI 
 
 DID Sally take London by storm? Of course not. Only 
 girls in novels do that, or girls with very rich papas or 
 very clever mammas. Even Panslea knew that. Sally had 
 her triumphs. The old crossing-sweeper at the corner of 
 the square had seen nothing approaching her, and a man 
 drawing a bath-chair had shaken his head and said, "No 
 work for me there," which was a tribute less sweeping 
 perhaps than the other, but a tribute. 
 
 Of course Panslea expected every one who noticed Sally 
 to say she was the loveliest thing they had ever seen; but 
 they were wise in that they did not expect every one to 
 notice her. 
 
 Jaunty did. 
 
 Panslea was nearer the mark than he. Those people 
 who noticed her admired her immensely, and many who 
 looked at her once looked again. In London, of course, 
 she wasn't nearly so well dressed as she had looked to 
 Jaunty in Panslea. Pamela, for one, laughed at her cot- 
 tons; but Sally wouldn't have others. She vowed Arnold 
 had enough to do in buying clothes for Pamela. He had 
 married Pamela, not her. Arnold knew that, but he wanted 
 Sally to stay with them; but she discovered a duty to her 
 aunt. Nothing could distract her from it. And the aunt 
 found her a delightful companion. It was like having a 
 field of buttercups and daisies to stay with one in London 
 so she told some one, and the some one she told it to 
 was a man, and he understood. For he saw in Sally 
 everything that was fresh and lovely, and pure and good, 
 and amusing too. And the tenderness in his eyes deepened 
 as her aunt talked of her, and she talked so sympatheti- 
 cally that the man told her things he had imagined he 
 
 166
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 167 
 
 would never tell any one but his mother. Then talking of 
 mothers Mrs. Lombard told him about Sally's mother. The 
 thought of that loss touched him very nearly. He knew 
 what a precious thing a mother was. Poor little Sally! 
 
 Mrs. Lombard hastened to say that the father was quite 
 wonderful. He had made up in an extraordinary way for 
 what the children had lost. Neil Wentford was sure he 
 must be wonderful; but could anything make up? 
 
 Mrs. Lombard maintained, "To a very wonderful ex- 
 tent." 
 
 Sally's social success was assured when in answer to 
 an invitation from friends to go to supper at the Carlton 
 she wrote that she was very sorry she was afraid she would 
 be too late. She was going to a concert. That spread 
 quickly, and socially it helped her enormously, because she 
 was pretty enough to make it amusing. And it amused 
 her aunt's little world, and all worlds like to be amused 
 big or little. 
 
 Sally felt as if she were country butter when she heard 
 herself described as fresh. She wrote to Jaunty and told 
 him she had heard one man, in the Park, say to another, 
 "By Jove, what a clean-looking girl !" and it wasn't enough 
 for Jaunty's jealous old heart, although to Sally, new to 
 the smuts of London, it seemed a tremendous compliment. 
 Jaunty took the letter to Mr. Lawrence, and Mr. Law- 
 rence laughed at him. 
 
 "I think, sir, if you will allow me, I'll go up for the day, 
 and I'll sit in the Park and see for myself how people look, 
 and hear perhaps what they say. Miss Sally tells me the 
 hour at which she walks in the Row. ..." 
 
 "By all means, Jaunty. By all means." 
 
 But before Jaunty had arranged a day, the telegram 
 for Anne came and Mr. Lawrence wrote to Sally. 
 
 Sally came in from a ball and found the letter on the 
 hall table. She saw it was from her father and kissed it. 
 "You ridiculous child," said her aunt. 
 
 "I'll read it upstairs, Aunt V.; I shan't thoroughly en-
 
 168 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 joy it until I am in my dressing-gown with my hair down. 
 Good-night! Life is one glorious, enormous, delicious joke 
 that's what Jimmy Beech calls it. You darling!" And 
 she kissed her aunt, who was growing softer and softer 
 every day, consequently much happier; and Sally ran up- 
 stairs, slipped out of her frock, shook down her hair, and 
 throwing the window wide to the morning, opened her 
 father's letter. 
 
 "Mr DARLING CHILD," she read, "You have known sorrow. 
 Since your greatest sorrow you have known happiness again 
 it's the way of the world, otherwise we couldn't go on. Great 
 sorrow has come to Panslea. How great it will be to you your 
 old father, of course, doesn't know. But he knows your tender 
 heart will ache for others for your dear, beautiful Anne do 
 you guess, Sally? That dear boy Jimmy we all loved ! He died 
 in India of fever; he was your playfellow, wasn't he? So 
 ridiculously and delightfully young for his age; such a man for 
 his years. Of course, do as you like about coming home. Mi- 
 chael Mason is here. He is often with Anne. Your devoted 
 Father." 
 
 Sally read the letter twice; even then she couldn't be- 
 lieve what she read. Jimmy dead, and she had said a 
 moment ago that life was one glorious, delicious It 
 was his joke, just as the world had been his. 
 
 She -heard some one coming up the stairs hurriedly. She 
 knew it couldn't be Aunt Venetia, who, though stirred by 
 passion or terror, could hardly rush upstairs like a hurri- 
 cane. She went to the door, barring it with her arms. 
 "Let me in, Sally it's me," and Sally opened the door to 
 Pamela. 
 
 Pamela had come straight from the ball as Sally had 
 done; but she had heard it there. "There in the full blaze 
 of lights, Sally!" she cried, "every one looking at me." 
 She flung out her arms with a despairing gesture. And 
 Sally thought, What would Jimmy have said if he had 
 seen her like this? Dressed in flame-colour, with a band 
 of diamonds round her hair, round her neck a rope of 
 pearls ?
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 169 
 
 And yet her frock, her jewels, were as nothing compared 
 to the beauty the tragic beauty of her face. Sally was 
 astonished who knew it so well and had never loved it 
 so little. 
 
 "Jimmy!" gasped Pamela. "Sally, why do you stand 
 like that as if nothing had happened? Jimmy!" 
 
 "I know," said Sally. 
 
 "You know, and you can stand there like that?" 
 
 "What can I do?" and if Pamela had had ears to hear 
 she would have heard the desolation expressed in those 
 words. Sally began to plait her hair, pulling the thick 
 rope over her shoulder. 
 
 "Don't do that, Sally. What am I to do? He loved me 
 and I loved him." She paced the room like a wild thing, 
 Sally's immobility stirring her to fury. 
 
 "Why did you marry Arnold, then?" asked Sally. 
 
 "Why? Because what was there to do? What was 
 the use of waiting? Jimmy was poor we were both poor 
 but he was alive ..." 
 
 "And now he is dead," whispered Sally. 
 
 "Don't ! Was he nothing to you ?" 
 
 "He seemed a lot." 
 
 "You haven't the right to mourn him as I should have 
 had as I have ! With hair that colour you can never 
 decently mourn any one !" 
 
 "Have you the right, apart from your hair, Pamela?" 
 
 "The right that every woman has who loves ! O Sally, 
 pity me ! If it was you it would be all right every one 
 would be sorry for you; but what am I to say to Arnold?" 
 
 "Ask him to forgive you ! I think, if you ask me, you've 
 done Arnold a far greater injury in marrying him than 
 you ever did Jimmy. Did Jimmy tell you he cared? Be- 
 fore he went away? I used to think so then I thought 
 you didn't ..." 
 
 Pamela made no answer. She left the room as she had 
 entered it tempestuously and tragically and Sally went 
 on plaiting her hair.
 
 170 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 She would have gone to Panslea but she hadn't the 
 right. She hadn't imagined it necessary to have a particu- 
 lar right to grieve for a playfellow. "You haven't the 
 right/' the words came an echo from India. 
 
 Anne waited for a letter from Sally waited anxiously 
 eagerly. When it came it was a stilted little letter. It 
 expressed great sorrow for Anne but it didn't say the 
 one thing Anne wanted to hear; and yet in her heart of 
 hearts she must have been glad that Sally was spared 
 what she was suffering. She would be glad some day; but 
 just at first it was the love of every one she wanted for 
 Jimmy. Most of all the love for him that he had wanted. 
 Poor Anne was at that stage of her grief when the sun 
 seemed to show heartlessness in shining. How could the 
 sun shine, and the wind play in the leaves of the trees, 
 and bend the flowers to its wanton will, and the streams 
 laugh as they ran to the river, when he lay still, unmoved 
 by it all, who had loved life and all that lived so dearly? 
 
 Jimmy had lived for the future, and the future to him 
 had meant Sally. He was gone and Sally didn't care. 
 
 Janet Mason had constituted herself companion to Mr. 
 Lawrence during Sally's absence. It was very kind of 
 her, and no one thought it so more than Mr. Lawrence; 
 but there were times when he sat gazing into space, hoping 
 that silence might drive the ministering angel from his 
 gates. But no; Janet knew it was real friendship that 
 made it possible for two souls akin to sit in silence; so 
 she too sat gazing into space, and Mr. Lawrence was sorry 
 for the child, and in the kindness of his heart he broke 
 most of the silences and Janet at once became her brightest 
 self. 
 
 She walked with him; she talked with him; she tea'd 
 with him, and he began to long more than ever for the 
 return of Sally, the feel of her arm in his, for their walks 
 together, when Sally strode to suit his stride, and when 
 they both laughed over the delicious absurdity of it all. 
 Most absurd were the plans they made for the time when
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 171 
 
 they should both be old and live together with their dogs 
 and their kittens, and their flowers and their books, and 
 Pamela's grand-children now and then ; but not too often. 
 Children try old people. 
 
 "I shall be so old, Sally," he would say. 
 
 "No, I shall catch you up and if you are a little older 
 than I am and should grow blind too blind to see my 
 eyes shall see for yours; if your voice grows cracked and 
 you can't sing in church, mine shall sing for you my 
 hands shall work for yours." 
 
 "What about our being the same age?" 
 
 It was ridiculous all this fond imagining, and when Janet 
 asked him if he were thinking of Sally he had to say 
 "Yes !" 
 
 "What about her?" she would say a little jealously. 
 
 "Oh, nothing in particular." For what of all that ab- 
 surdity could he tell Janet who was so sensible, and 
 darned stockings so neatly? 
 
 Mr. Lawrence breathed the very smallest hint to Jaunty 
 of his feelings with regard to Miss Mason's visits, and 
 from that moment Jaunty, seizing what to many people 
 would have been too small a thing to be called by even so 
 small a name as hint, never left him for a moment. He 
 brought accounts to be paid which in other circumstances 
 might have waited. Letters to answer that need never 
 have been answered. There was no limit to his resource, 
 and Janet finally stayed away for hours at a time, then 
 days; then altogether. 
 
 This distressed Mr. Lawrence. Jaunty was too violent. 
 The poor child must be offended. So off to the farm he 
 went, and he found Janet alone, darning, with a very large 
 work-basket before her forlorn in her unauthorised do- 
 mesticity. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence hadn't been there five minutes when 
 Jaunty appeared. A gentleman had arrived to see him. 
 Would he come at once? Whereupon Mr. Lawrence told 
 Janet how sorry he was, that the visitor couldn't have come
 
 172 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 at a more inopportune moment, and she said, "Never mind ; 
 I'll come down to tea with you, shall I?" 
 
 "Do do !" he begged, and off he went. Long as his legs 
 were they couldn't overtake Jaunty at his fastest trot, and 
 as Jaunty disappeared through the high iron gate, Mr. 
 Lawrence had just come round the corner. Arrived at the 
 house, he went into the library: no one there. Into the 
 drawing-room: no one there. Into the garden. "Jaunty!" 
 he called. 
 
 "Sir?" answered Jaunty. 
 
 "Where's the gentleman?" 
 
 "Well, sir, it's strange but he's gone! I told him I 
 shouldn't be a minute." 
 
 "What was he like?" 
 
 "Much as other men." 
 
 "It wasn't any one in Panslea? Not the vicar, by 
 chance?" 
 
 "You are difficult to save, sir," pleaded Jaunty. 
 
 That evening Jaunty wrote to Sally. "Miss Sally, I am 
 doing my best to take care of your father but there are 
 dangers to which the best of men are blind. Why don't 
 you come home? There's some one up the road who is 
 wondering her poor broken heart out. Didn't you care 
 for that poor young gentleman? In any case I can't de- 
 fend your father any longer. Your obedient Jaunty." 
 Which wasn't a wise letter, as he afterwards learned to his 
 cost. 
 
 And Sally came home as quickly as train could bring 
 her, and that was too slowly. She didn't understand in 
 what possible danger her father could be, but Anne? What 
 did Jaunty mean? 
 
 She arrived home at tea-time. She flung her arms round 
 her father's neck, then she was off up the village to Anne's 
 cottage. 
 
 It was in the eyes of Panslea a fashionable Miss Sally 
 who passed by their windows, a beautifully and wonder- 
 fully dressed Miss Sally, but she ran every bit as well as
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 173 
 
 she had run when she went away, and it was only when 
 she came in view of Anne's house that she slowed down. 
 At the gate she stopped. Had she the right to go in now? 
 Had she forfeited the right? She walked up the little 
 path, and turning the handle of the door, went in. Anne 
 was not there. Sally passed through the cottage out into 
 the garden behind, and there among the flowers she found 
 her. Sally said nothing, and Anne said nothing till Sally 
 put out her arms, and then Anne broke down within their 
 tender encircling hopelessly, helplessly broke down. "I 
 didn't know I had the right, Anne," said Sally. 
 
 "Who else, Sally, if not you?" 
 
 "Why, Pamela!" 
 
 "Pamela ? Never !" 
 
 "But she thinks so." 
 
 "Then she thinks it without reason." 
 
 Then it suddenly came upon Sally if Pamela hadn't 
 the right must she accept it? Could she refuse it? "Tell 
 me, Anne," she said. 
 
 And Anne told Sally of Jimmy's letter asking her to 
 come and look after her, of all his letters about her. Would 
 Sally like to see them? And what could she say but 
 "Yes"? 
 
 Anne fetched a packet and handed her a letter from it. 
 Sally read: "I have been to the Lawrences. She was out. 
 I waited and waited at last she came in dishevelled and 
 lovely; she had been to gather cherry blossoms to send to 
 poor old Smithereens, their old governess. Pamela said, 
 'Tell the dear old thing I thought of it,' and I said, 'But, 
 hang it all, Pamela, you didn't get up at six to pick it.' 
 This is only to show you how unselfish Sally is. She fired 
 up at once and said, 'It was the thought, of course; that 
 was the thing people appreciated.' " 
 
 "Pamela didn't mean it in that way," said Sally, handing 
 back the letter. "I remember Jimmy that day dear, pep- 
 pery old thing. Pamela was quite right. It was the 
 thought Smithereens loved the blossom lasted no time."
 
 174 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Anne said she was sorry she had shown her that one. 
 "Read this." Sally read: "She looked like an angel from 
 Heaven to-day. Her father sent her up to tidy. I longed 
 to ask her not to, she looked so lovely, with her hair flying 
 about, her cheeks pink as roses in June. Oh dear, Anne, 
 what it is to be a man !" 
 
 "I never remember father sending me up to tidy," said 
 Sally which was beside the point, and not in the least 
 what she meant to say. 
 
 "His letters are nothing," said Anne apologetically; 
 "they were only to me, but they were full of you always 
 you. I thought you would like ..." 
 
 Anne looked at Sally, and Sally saw in her hands, as it 
 were, a cloak of sorrow. She was holding it out for Sally 
 to slip into. Sally had loved Jimmy, of course, but not 
 like this. But she couldn't say so now least of all to 
 Anne. If Jimmy had lavished all this upon her, could she 
 refuse to accept it? At last Anne said, "You did care?" 
 And Sally answered, "I did care, I did I only ..." 
 and she felt the weight of the cloak on her shoulders and 
 she wrapped the folds round her. 
 
 "Did you give him any hope in the letter you wrote? 
 but, of course, it never reached him. Would you like it 
 back when it comes?" 
 
 Sally said she would. She was thankful it had never 
 reached him. 
 
 "Did you ever give him any hope ?" persisted Anne. 
 Sally searched her honest heart. Yes, she thought she 
 had she had ! Yes, she said she would wait for him ; yes, 
 she did! (and so she had in fun). 
 
 "O Sally, Sally, it makes all the difference! If only I 
 knew Jimmy was happy and knew you were his, it would 
 make all the difference. He did know? Say it again, 
 Sally," she pleaded. 
 
 Poor Sally! It was so easy to say, so difficult not to 
 say. 
 
 "Yes, I am sure he knew." The words came easily
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 175 
 
 enough, but she was appalled that words that meant so 
 little could have such an effect. Anne rose from her grief 
 looking as though she had seen a vision. There was hope, 
 love, everything that triumphed written on her face. It 
 was transfigured. "I can bear everything now," she said, 
 and Sally went back to her father not running, as she 
 had come, but walking with the cloak of sorrow trailing 
 behind her it was too big everywhere. It had not been cut 
 to her measure. 
 
 Panslea looking out from its windows saw the child had 
 grown up since she had been away, and how grandly she 
 walked, just her mother all over again. "But sadder," 
 said one woman, and another exclaimed, "Miss Sally sad 
 
 -never 
 
 "Well, look," said the first woman, jerking the curtain 
 back closer to the wall. And the second woman looked 
 out over the pots of geraniums that crowded the window- 
 sill, and said, "Well, maybe she would be sad after seeing 
 Miss Anne." 
 
 "You found dear Anne?" said Mr. Lawrence, and Sally 
 nodded. 
 
 "Were you able to comfort her at all?" 
 
 Sally said she thought she had been able. 
 
 "Poor dear Anne; I hope she will marry Michael Ma- 
 son. Sally, had you any idea that Jimmy . . . ?" 
 
 "No no, no." 
 
 "Forgive me, my child I don't wish to force your con- 
 fidence I am thankful you didn't care for the dear boy 
 more than we all did we all loved him." 
 
 "Not as I did," said Sally passionately. 
 
 Her father looked up astonished. There was passion 
 in her voice, passion in her eyes; she breathed quickly, she 
 was distressed. 
 
 "My child, my child," he cried. "Not that !" 
 
 "Leave me it's true, it's true. I loved him I had 
 promised to wait. Jimmy knew it, and it makes all the dif- 
 ference to Anne."
 
 176 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 She was gone, leaving her father bewildered. He went 
 to Jaunty. 
 
 "Jaunty, we were mistaken it is serious with the child." 
 
 "Miss Sally?" 
 
 "Yes; she says she cared." 
 
 "Since when?" 
 
 "She didn't say." 
 
 "It's since she went to see Miss Anne, to-day that's it, 
 sir." 
 
 "Jaunty, what do you mean?" 
 
 Jaunty said he meant what he said. "This sorrow 
 mustn't be forced upon her." And the wise old man went 
 upstairs and, listening outside Sally's door, heard the tear- 
 ing sound of the child's sobs, and they tore his heart with 
 their violence. 
 
 "It's late to cry," he thought. "She's doing it for her 
 sake Miss Anne's sake. It mustn't be." He knocked at 
 the door. 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 "It's me, miss your ridiculous Jaunty." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Will you come into the garden, miss, and talk to me 
 where we have so often talked?" and she followed Jaunty 
 downstairs and out into the garden, to the place where 
 she had stood as a child and told him that the world was a 
 happy place after all. It had to be happy again Jaunty 
 was determined on that. 
 
 "Now, miss," he said, "this won't do. You will have 
 sorrow enough in life of your own you mustn't take more 
 upon your shoulders than God lays upon them we all have 
 our burdens. Mr. Jimmy wasn't all this to you. You 
 loved him as your father loved him as his sister (a little 
 less, of course) loved him. There wasn't a soul in the 
 village he spoke one word to, who didn't remember that 
 word. He had a way with him. I'm told his men felt for 
 him almost an adoration. He was the best kind of officer 
 England has, and he died for bis country; if not on active
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 177 
 
 service, in doing his duty. He was all this; but, Miss 
 Sally, he wasn't more to you than he was to most who 
 knew him. You mustn't think you can blind me to that. 
 If you have told Miss Beech so to make the wound hurt 
 less you have made a fresh wound, because she loves you 
 so well that when she gets better she will feel the wound 
 of your sorrow for many a long day and who wouldn't 
 be wounded to think of a young thing on the brink of life, 
 as it were, hurt to death. Miss Sally, you cared for Mr. 
 Jimmy as we all cared . . . " 
 
 "No, Jaunty a thousand times no. As he cared. And 
 he knew it. Go, go! and I danced in London while he 
 lay It was you who wrote. Go!" 
 
 And Jaunty went, and he wrote to Mrs. Lombard: 
 
 "MADAM, Have you any reason to suppose Miss Sally was 
 broken-hearted at the news from India? That she cared more 
 than every one must care who knew Mr. Beech? Will you be 
 so good as to tell me how she took the news when you broke it 
 to her? Yours obediently, 
 
 "JAUNTY." 
 
 To which letter Mrs. Lombard wrote in answer: 
 
 "To JAUNTY, I do not understand your letter. I did not 
 break the news to Miss Sara. Her father's letter did that, and 
 quite kindly, I imagine. Miss Sara ate very little breakfast 
 the next morning and she had been crying. She spent most of 
 the morning at the telephone saying she couldn't do all the 
 things she had promised to do. She went to the four o'clock 
 service at St. Paul's in the afternoon, and didn't go to a dance 
 that night. The next day she read General Gordon's Life. Her 
 eyes looked less red. She went with me to the Park and went 
 early to bed. 
 
 "The next day, the third day from the day she received her 
 father's letter, she came down to breakfast made a good break- 
 fast read Rudyard Kipling's "William the Conqueror" and 
 "The Brushwood Boy" the choice significant went to the 
 Park in the morning, Ranelagh in the afternoon. She wasn't 
 in her best spirits and wouldn't watch the Polo. Yours faith- 
 fully, V. LOMBARD."
 
 178 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "I'm right, then," said Jaunty when he had read the 
 letter. 
 
 But Sally walked from her own house to Anne's cottage 
 and back again several times a day, and her eyes grew 
 larger and her face smaller, and Jaunty watched in despair. 
 
 Miss Eleanor Doe worked day and night at a miniature 
 of Jimmy, but she cried so much that she couldn't see 
 what she painted. Perhaps that was why the miniature 
 bore so little resemblance to him. Anyhow when it should 
 be finished Miss Eleanor was determined that Sally should 
 wear it on a black watered ribbon round her neck. Poor 
 Sally! There was no escaping her sorrow; it encompassed 
 her round about on every side. It was to hang round her 
 neck all the days of her life. 
 
 Pamela heard of it and came down to Panslea. When 
 she saw Sally what she had meant to say died on her lips. 
 "Who said it was you?" she asked, awed. 
 
 "Anne," whispered Sally. 
 
 "And why didn't you know you cared at first?" 
 
 Sally begged Pamela not to ask. "I don't know I was 
 too young to know, perhaps." 
 
 "I thought I did and found I didn't; and you thought 
 you didn't and found you did? It's a funny world, Sally. 
 It has saved me a lot of bother with Arnold." 
 
 "I don't think marriage has improved you, Pamela." 
 
 "Improved me?" said Pamela, laughing; "how could 
 marriage improve any one? It's impossible. From morn- 
 ing to night, it's all me. I am the centre of the entire 
 household. Arnold waits for me to express a wish for 
 something, and I have it. I go out, every one makes a 
 point of petting me and admiring me. Of course, I'm not 
 improved. I'm frightfully spoilt a dustman took off his 
 hat to me and cheered me one day as he passed in his cart. 
 Isn't that enough to spoil any young woman? I go out 
 to dinner, I make the most utterly foolish remark, and the 
 man next me laughs immoderately it's not what I say, 
 it's because I say it. There's a conspiracy abroad in the
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 179 
 
 land to spoil me. How can I be improved? I shall never 
 be to any one what you will be to your husbarid, Sally. I 
 shall always be a hindrance to Arnold; but you you will 
 go to India and have crowds of children and keep your 
 complexion you are just the kind of aggravating creature 
 to do it. You'll be such a help to your husband. He'll 
 consult you about everything great big bridges and huge 
 dams. You'll be so wise with those great eyes of yours, 
 and your sons will look up to you and speak of their 
 mother with bated breath and their unfortunate wives 
 will be up against an impossible ideal all the days of their 
 lives. You'll live to be ninety without wearing spectacles, 
 and you'll read as you drive in London, on a placard across 
 the street, the news of the death of your favourite grand- 
 son a field-marshal in India and you'll say to the foot- 
 man, 'Home,' and when you get there they will find the 
 brave spirit has joined the grandson she loved on the 
 farthest away of all frontiers. O Sally dear, life's a great 
 joke after all, and the greatest joke in it is Arnold. He 
 is so serious, dear old thing. I feel inclined to keep him 
 for Sundays do you remember the kind of toy we kept 
 for Sundays? Well, 'that's what I feel about Arnold. 
 But, seriously, Sally, you won't let this sorrow spoil your 
 looks, will you ?" and to her horror Sally began to laugh 
 and she laughed and laughed till she cried and cried. 
 
 Pamela was frightened, and she went to talk prettily to 
 her father. He wanted to talk about Sally; but Pamela 
 wanted to talk about herself. 
 
 "Dear old Daddy Long Legs, I did worry you, didn't I ? 
 Well, Arnold and I get on much better now. I like him 
 very much very much indeed." 
 
 "I'm glad, I'm glad," said her father. "I wish I were 
 as happy about Sally." 
 
 "Sally will get over it. You can't expect her to, all in a 
 moment. She is so romantic always was. I think you 
 should send her away for a while. She was immensely ad-
 
 180 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 mired in London. I am very disappointed; there was a 
 delightful man who seemed so devoted ..." 
 
 "Not that, not that, Pamela at such a time/' and 
 Pamela shrugged her shoulders. If they would insist on 
 saddling Sally with a love trouble, they must do it. But 
 she had seen Sally on the night they had heard the news 
 of Jimmy's death. She was not broken-hearted then only 
 horrified and distressed. 
 
 So back to London went Pamela, and Sally stayed in 
 Panslea with her sorrow, and there were moments when 
 she began to think it must always have been like this. She 
 must always have been unhappy without Jimmy. 
 
 She couldn't feel like this entirely to please Anne nor 
 to worry Jaunty.
 
 XVII 
 
 EVERY one was so terribly kind to Sally. She could have 
 borne anything better. Miss Eleanor Doe wrote to her: 
 
 "Mr CHILD, There is shade and quiet in our garden. The 
 scent of the heliotrope is delicious or would it add summer 
 memories, the saddest of all memories because the sweetest, to 
 your sorrow? There is a dear little wren that runs, like a 
 mouse, in the creeper over the house. These gentle distractions 
 are ours, and shall be yours. Above all, you shall find perfect 
 quietness and no questions. If it would help you I have a 
 little story that I have told to no one. I could tell it to you. 
 That shall be as you wish. I want, dear child, when you feel 
 able to bear the strain, to consult you about the dear left eye- 
 brow. If it pains you too much we will leave it as it is. It 
 seems to be questioning. I may have it a little too high. 
 Yours in deep sympathy, E. DOE." 
 
 Lord Bridlington was one of the first to notice the change 
 in Sally. He called his wife's attention to it; but she said 
 it was dancing. She knew a girl who had lost two stone 
 in her first season. 
 
 But Bridlington wouldn't hear of that. Sally hadn't 
 been fat to start with. She had danced all her life. She 
 had run like a deer, had jumped like a gazelle. There was 
 something more than dancing to account for her thinness. 
 Lady Bridlington could only suggest a love trouble. An 
 unrequited love? Bridlington was furious at the very 
 idea. Unrequited love? Show him the man who wouldn't 
 return Sally's love a thousand-fold ! Lady Bridlington 
 laughed. "You are very ridiculous about that child," she 
 said. 
 
 The result of all this was that one fine morning Lord 
 Bridlington started to call upon those of his tenants to 
 whom he felt he owed the civility of a call, forgetting that 
 
 181
 
 182 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 no landlord owes it to any tenant before three o'clock in 
 the afternoon. 
 
 The first person he met was Janet Mason. She was not 
 a tenant, neither did she lodge with a tenant of his, but 
 she was as likely as any one to know why Sally was thin. 
 So he stopped her and from one thing to another he got 
 on to Sally. Had she enjoyed herself in London?" 
 
 "Oh yes," said Janet, "until ..." 
 
 "Until what?" 
 
 "Oh, don't you know?" 
 
 "I know what is said but I wasn't sure of the truth; 
 from you I should know . . ." 
 
 "Well, of course, I do know it's true; but I didn't know 
 she was really engaged to him." 
 
 "Dear, dear engaged ! It's too bad." 
 
 "Yes, isn't it? And for poor Anne, too. She was so 
 devoted to him; but, of course, it's worse for Sally; al- 
 though I sometimes think it's worst for a sister who has 
 known him all her life." 
 
 "Of course, of course. Poor dear Jimmy! Good-morn- 
 ing, Miss Mason," and on he sped, unconvinced, but very 
 unhappy. Not Jimmy Beech ! He must have known of it 
 had it been Jimmy! 
 
 The next person he met was Anne Beech, and in defer- 
 ence to her black frock and the delicacy of the situation he 
 raised his hat and passed on. Then he came to a patch of 
 red, blue, and white confetti scattered on the road. To a 
 stranger passing that way the confetti must have sug- 
 gested a wedding. Not so to Bridlington. He knew it 
 meant that Miss Eleanor had passed that way, and he 
 knew she must return that way. It was to make it a 
 certainty that she had scattered the confetti. If she ven- 
 tured, on her constitutional, farther than the actual village, 
 she always scattered it at those corners where, on her re- 
 turn journey, she would be bound to make a decision. She 
 had so much in life, but lamentably lacked a sense of lo- 
 cality.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 188 
 
 Lord Bridlington waited a few minutes and Miss Eleanor 
 came along. 
 
 "Good-morning," said he. 
 
 "Good-morning," said she. 
 
 "Not painting, this beautiful morning?" He quickly 
 outlined a baby with the point of his stick on the soft 
 sandy road. 
 
 "Not this morning. I am giving my eyes a rest." 
 
 "Are you so busy, then?" 
 
 "Yes; and when I am busy it means others are sorrow- 
 ing. I would be less busy at this moment." 
 
 "You are painting the miniature of ... ?" he lowered 
 his voice. 
 
 "Yes, of dear Mr. Beech in uniform." 
 
 "For the one he loved? You are privileged, Miss El- 
 eanor." 
 
 "I am indeed." 
 
 "She was engaged to him?" 
 
 "Yes, so it seems ; but no one knew." 
 
 "Her father, I suppose . . . ?" 
 
 "I believe not at least, Mr. Lawrence told me it had 
 come to him as a great shock. Sally seems so young to 
 have been engaged." 
 
 "I wonder if she really was?" questioned Lord Bridling- 
 ton, smoothing out the baby with his foot. 
 
 "Secretly, of course, and have you not seen her?" 
 
 Yes, he had seen her, and he had learned all he wished 
 to know that he hated to know. What business had Sally 
 to be sad and in trouble when there was nothing Panslea 
 wasn't prepared to do in order to shield her from all 
 sorrow ? For what other reason had they watched her from 
 childhood? But if the child was in sorrow, all honour 
 should be paid to the one she had loved and mourned. 
 
 He turned in at the Vicarage. The Vicar was at home. 
 Lord Bridlington was shown into the study, where the 
 Vicar was preparing his sermon for the next Sunday. 
 Lord Bridlington apologised, but begged him to give them
 
 184 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 the sermon he had given them two Sundays back. It was 
 excellent and he wanted his second coachman to hear it, 
 who hadn't been in church that morning. 
 
 "Send him to hear this one instead," said the Vicar; "it 
 will do just as well will do him just as much good." 
 
 "Ah, but you are not in a position to know how well. 
 . . . However, there's something in all sermons for some 
 one," said Lord Bridlington, and the Vicar agreed. This 
 one might prove the very thing the second coachman most 
 needed or the fourth footman even! 
 
 "Now, seriously," said Lord Bridlington, "I have come 
 to talk or rather I have come about this memorial." 
 
 The Vicar asked, What memorial? He had heard of 
 none other than those raised in the hearts of all feeling 
 men and women. This kind of sentiment bored Bridling- 
 ton, and he hastened to say there had been nothing to hear, 
 until this very minute. "Miss Eleanor Doe is painting 
 his miniature Jimmy Beech's. It's not enough. It may 
 not even be recognisable bound not to be but a suitable 
 memorial in the church, I suggest." He paused to give 
 weight to his words. The Vicar was visibly moved by 
 them. "Now, what do you say?" went on Bridlington; "A 
 screen, a window or what? Think it over. I will get the 
 best man to do it no money shall be spared and Sally 
 shall unveil it." 
 
 "Why Sally?" questioned the Vicar, shaking his foun- 
 tain pen. 
 
 "Because they were engaged secretly. I have it on the 
 best authority." 
 
 "Are you sure of it ? Your authority, I mean ?" he asked, 
 trying his pen on the blotter. 
 
 "Yes, quite." 
 
 "And her father, he knew of it?" he said, unscrewing 
 the end of his pen. 
 
 "It was secret secret." 
 
 "And it is a secret no longer?" He laid the pen down 
 and wiped his inky finger on the blotting paper.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 185 
 
 "No, of course not. 7 know. Now, my dear Masters, 
 there is no question of feelings. We ought to have seen 
 for ourselves. Look at her eyes. Did you see them fixed 
 upon you during your sermon last Sunday? No child 
 unless she had been secretly engaged should listen to a 
 sermon as she was listening to yours I mean unless the 
 young man had died. Her interest at her age was unnat- 
 ural. She should be thinking of other things. Excellent 
 as your sermons are, they should not appeal to happy 
 young things you can't mean them to. We, in Panslea, 
 feel particularly responsible for the happiness of those 
 children I don't mean you aren't to preach to the drunk- 
 ards of Panslea you must, of course; but you mustn't 
 expect Sally to take it to heart, and last Sunday she did. 
 Therefore, my dear Masters, you had every chance of 
 learning for yourself what you are now pained at hearing 
 from me." 
 
 "It's only this," said the Vicar, "the happiness of those 
 children ! Who should foster it more carefully than I ? I 
 have prayed for them night and day I knew nothing of 
 this engagement why, she was a child when Beech went 
 away." He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, and 
 putting his finger-tips together, held them so, and repeated, 
 "A child." 
 
 "How old were you, Masters, when the first pangs of 
 love assailed you?" 
 
 The Vicar grew red. Bridlington had a way of saying 
 things that was particularly disconcerting. 
 
 "Out with it, Masters; thirteen, fourteen fifteen?" 
 
 The Vicar smiled. "Somewhere about that age, no 
 doubt. But the object of my affections was always twice 
 my age." He dropped his fingers one by one until his 
 hands were folded in a position familiar to his parishion- 
 ers. "Quite twice," he repeated. 
 
 "That makes no difference. The power to love or 
 fancy yourself in love was yours at an early age; why 
 deny it to Sally?" persisted Bridlington, who had been
 
 186 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 ready enough to deny it himself, but the memorial had 
 him fast; and the Vicar, in the interests of the church he 
 loved, began to think in memorials and as he thought he 
 smiled. 
 
 A window? a screen? Why not both? Bridlington was 
 so rich, and young Beech had been undoubtedly possessed 
 of very considerable charm. They would be fitting me- 
 morials to the integrity of his character. But what had 
 Sally seen in him, and why at her age should she have 
 fallen in love? 
 
 Who had spoken to her of love? She had been so care- 
 fully guarded, so shielded. She had seen nothing of lovers. 
 Both he and Mrs. Masters were so careful, in their manner 
 one to the other so careful to set the young people in 
 the village an example to show them what a true affec- 
 tion could be strong without demonstration, deep without 
 demoralisation. 
 
 Lord Bridlington asked the Vicar what he was thinking 
 about so seriously, and the Vicar said he was wondering 
 what had made Sally think of love, living as she had lived, 
 so sheltered. 
 
 "You talk as if love were a sin, Masters. Why, I've seen 
 it dozens of times in this village in the eyes of old Fur- 
 longer when his grandchild runs out to meet him." 
 
 Mr. Masters raised a hand in gentle protest. "Ah, a 
 love like that that's different." 
 
 "But, my dear Masters, Sally can't love a grandchild 
 till she loves its grandfather and you would be the last to 
 wish it. Sally a grandmother, the absurdity of it!" the 
 tender absurdity of it! 
 
 "You are looking far ahead," said Mr. Masters, smiling 
 at the thought, which he too found absurd. "We are now 
 discussing the memorial to Sally's lover; he can never be 
 a grandfather that you will admit, so it seems hardly 
 decent to talk of Sally as a grandmother." 
 Lord Bridlington swore she would make a delightful
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 187 
 
 one. He liked to think of her as one, until he realised 
 that he would not be there to applaud her. 
 
 "Very well, Masters/' he said, "the matter is settled so 
 far as the memorial goes. Sally's grandchild we must 
 leave to time. You agree to have something of the sort 
 the best of its kind. Window or screen? If window, I 
 would suggest a young man in the armour of righteousness 
 holding the shield of faith. It could be done with 
 Jimmy's face, eh?" 
 
 "If not too painful a reminder to Sally," said the Vicar. 
 
 "Oh, it's not likely to be so like as all that; they never 
 are. Personally I don't for one moment believe Vandyck 
 satisfied the friends and relations of his sitters. We judge 
 his pictures now as pictures, not as portraits;" and he 
 went his way having, he imagined, impressed Masters 
 with his knowledge of the Old Masters. 
 
 When he confided his scheme to his wife she said she 
 thought the memorial would be very little help to Sally, 
 and would only encourage Mr. Masters in church practices. 
 Her idea would be to make Sally happier, not the Vicar, 
 who was thinking of turning old Summers out of the choir. 
 
 "Why?" asked Lord Bridlington, looking very grave. 
 These were serious things in village life. 
 
 "Because he sings out of tune!" 
 
 "Well, well ! There might be worse reasons." 
 
 "Well, my dear Thomas, who is it Summers worships 
 in church? His God or his Vicar?" 
 
 "My dear, my dear, you must remember the title. You 
 forced it upon me. You must live up to it." 
 
 "And give up my God?" 
 
 "If called upon to do so in church matters." 
 
 "Thomas, you are teasing me." 
 
 And Thomas didn't deny it. 
 
 Lady Bridlington said she would suggest taking Sally 
 away right away, for a time. 
 
 "A yacht, you mean?"
 
 188 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 She had not meant anything of the kind, knowing her 
 husband to be a bad sailor. 
 
 "You are a bad sailor, my dear/' she reminded him, 
 without malice. 
 
 "And what if I am. We have to consider these children 
 our position ..." 
 
 "I know, I know," said Lady Bridlington. She realised 
 her many positions. 
 
 "It's an excellent idea, my dear; we'll charter a five- 
 hundred-ton steam yacht, and take Jack and all anybody 
 who likes to come. If we hug the islands of Scotland I 
 can't very well be ill, can I ? Yes, we'll do that. There's 
 nothing in the sea to remind Sally of Jimmy he was a 
 soldier, not a sailor." 
 
 "He went to India by sea ..." 
 
 "Oh, Sally's far too sensible to think of that she knows 
 he couldn't go any other way. I think I'll write to Mas- 
 ters; a mural tablet would do to remind Sally, and I will 
 spend the larger sum in helping her to forget." 
 
 But the stained-glass window had entered the very soul 
 of the Vicar. It coloured his whole existence. He trod on 
 air as he walked down the village. He looked in imagina- 
 tion at his congregation through the wonderful carvings 
 of an oak screen. No money was to be spared. For this 
 he had lived. For this he had waited. Then it struck him 
 as strange that his heart's desire should come to him 
 through the breaking of Sally's heart. 
 
 As he thought this he saw her coming towards him. He 
 judged her step lighter than it had been her face brighter. 
 But when she saw him she seemed to slacken her pace and 
 set her face into lines of sorrow. 
 
 "Sally, my child," he said, and he put his arm through 
 hers. She smiled. "I never knew till now," he said. 
 
 He felt her arm stiffen within his; felt it gently with- 
 drawn. He released it. "You always have seemed to us 
 such a child."
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 189 
 
 Sally made no reply; she walked, looking on the ground. 
 She made it difficult for the poor Vicar. 
 
 "Lord Bridlington," he said, "has been telling me con- 
 sulting me, rather about the memorial." 
 
 "The memorial?" she whispered, "what memorial?" 
 
 "The memorial to the one you loved 'and lost awhile.' 
 It is as much for your sake as for his that we want it to be 
 as beautiful as possible. Lord Bridlington suggested a 
 window he thought that a young man panoplied in the 
 armour of righteousness, with his foot . . .'.' 
 
 "What young man?" asked Sally. 
 
 "Jimmy Beech, my dear child who other than he? Or, 
 if that would remind you too poignantly, we will have an- 
 other window and a screen to him, exquisitely and won- 
 derfully carved. ..." 
 
 "Wait !" cried Sally, "why do you tell me this ?" 
 
 "My child who else should I tell? When it is for you 
 it is done; from the great love we all bear you to express 
 to you our deep sympathy to you and Miss Anne. ..." 
 
 "To Anne, yes ; not to me. No, no, no !" 
 
 The Vicar looked at her in amazement; he sought to 
 pacify her. But she would not. She must speak to him 
 alone and at once. Where could she? 
 
 "I am on my way to the vestry; come there," and Sally 
 followed him. As they passed through the church she 
 glanced quickly at the east window, with its pink-lozenged 
 panes of glass, so hideous, so dear. Never again could she 
 lift her eyes in church if Jimmy in armour gazed reproach- 
 fully down upon her oh, why hadn't she really loved him ? 
 She could so easily have done it. It would have been so 
 easy to feel gratitude to these dear, kind people. 
 
 The Vicar opened the vestry door, and she went in. He 
 followed her and offered her the chair, but she preferred to 
 stand. 
 
 "Mr. Masters," she said, "I loved Jimmy ..." 
 
 "My child, my child," murmured the Vicar, and shutting
 
 190 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 his eyes he saw, as in a vision, Jimmy in armour stand- 
 ing ... 
 
 "Yes, but not as you think." 
 
 He opened his eyes; the vision faded, and he looked out 
 on to his world through the pink light of the lozenged win- 
 dow-panes, white where they had been broken and re j 
 placed. 
 
 "No, not as you think," went on Sally. "I loved him 
 as I love you all because you're so delicious to me so 
 kind! When he died I was very sorry; but it wasn't the 
 kind of sorrow it would have been if ... Then I came 
 down here and I found Anne broken-hearted. I found that 
 it would help her if she could think I had loved Jimmy 
 that she felt if she could think of Jimmy as having died 
 knowing I loved him, it would make her grief easier to 
 bear; and I love Anne I love her so much that I felt 
 nothing would be too great a thing to do for her, and I told 
 her I let her think I had cared that way; and her dear 
 face became all of a sudden quite different. Then I real- 
 ised what I had done I had taken upon myself a sorrow 
 greater than I could feel. Oh, if you could understand 
 and now I feel sad that I can't feel sadder; as sad as I 
 ought to be. That's what's making me so miserable; I'm 
 deceiving every one, and there's some one ..." 
 
 "Sally, Sally, my child why do you tell me this?" 
 
 "Because you and only you can save me this me- 
 morial. I couldn't bear it, please. I did love Jimmy; but 
 he would have laughed laughed till he cried, if he had 
 imagined himself in a coloured window dressed in the 
 armour of any armour," and Sally fell into a violent fit 
 of sobbing, and the poor Vicar was distraught. What could 
 he do? His first thought was of Jaunty. 
 
 Now Jaunty wasn't far off. He had never been far away 
 when his Miss Sally wanted him. He had seen her going 
 up the village ; had followed her, had seen her walk with the 
 Vicar, and had guessed that here was another kind friend 
 strapping the burden of sorrow tighter and tighter upon
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 191 
 
 the back of the already over-burdened child, so he fol- 
 lowed her at a distance, and when the Vicar hurried out of 
 the vestry he found him waiting, where he often came to 
 stand, asking what She would have done in circumstances 
 that for him were too hard. 
 
 "Jaunty! You here?" said the Vicar. 
 
 "Am I wanted, sir?" 
 
 "Go into the vestry; Miss Sally is not quite herself." 
 
 And Jaunty went into the vestry and closed the door. 
 He stood watching the bowed figure of the child he had 
 loved and served all her life. Was he now powerless to 
 help? 
 
 She raised her head from the register of baptisms. 
 "Jaunty, I've told him you know ..." 
 
 "I've guessed," said Jaunty. "Why did you tell him?" 
 
 "Because of the memorial, Jaunty I couldn't bear it. I 
 should love him to have something, but it mustn't be any- 
 thing to do with me any more than any one else." 
 
 "Miss Sally, you're making yourself ill what would She 
 say? Is there anything behind all this that your old 
 Jaunty doesn't know or doesn't understand?" 
 
 "I'm so sorry that I can't be sadder." 
 
 "That I know anything else? Your funny old Jaunty 
 has known that all along. Is there anything more?" 
 
 There was a pause. Then Sally said, "It's no use trying 
 to keep anything from you, Jaunty is it?" 
 
 "No use; yet you have been trying to do it!" 
 
 Sally nodded. Jaunty drew a step nearer, and laying 
 his hand on the back of the rush-bottomed chair on which 
 she sat said, "Another man, for whom you could feel what 
 you have been forced to feel for Mr. Jimmy, if ... ?" 
 
 And Sally dried her tears and said, "Look here, Jaunty, 
 this is ridiculous; come." 
 
 And she smiled. Her secret was in Jaunty's safe keep- 
 ing, and somehow or other he would find a way out. 
 
 They walked home together. 
 
 "Miss Sally," said Jaunty, as they walked, "by this time
 
 192 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 under ordinary circumstances it would be time you began 
 to be more cheerful. You would be going out a little to 
 tea at the Vicarage, if you wished to go there. You would 
 laugh occasionally. Your poor old Jaunty would say, 'She's 
 getting better.' He would go to your father and would 
 say, 'She's better, sir, she jumped the pampas grass at 
 the Vicarage to-day,' and your father would say, 'Jaunty, 
 you are a great comfort to me' which he will never say 
 again until I take him good news of his child. You're 
 overdoing the part, Miss Sally, if I may make a criticism." 
 And from that day Panslea remarked a change in Sally. 
 She began to take more notice of people and things, and 
 one old woman swore to having heard her sing. When it 
 was questioned she excused it, saying, "The young soon 
 forget; yet it's not so much forgetting as remembering 
 without pain that's what it is." 
 
 Lord Bridlington was a little unhappy about the me- 
 morial. He had seen the light flame in the Vicar's face 
 and hated to extinguish it. So he cudgelled his brains and 
 wondered to whom he could erect a memorial or dedicate 
 a window. After much thought he decided to put up a 
 window to the memory of those saints who had died in 
 Panslea. By a saint he meant what Sally called a saint 
 any particularly good, patient, and self-sacrificing person, 
 who had put up with a fractious, nagging wife, or rheuma- 
 tism, or any other infliction. It would please every fam- 
 ily, because every family might count their deceased rela- 
 tives among the saints; and if any woman could rise to 
 calling her late husband a saint because he had lived with 
 her in such peace as to gain the crown, then she herself 
 would be in a fair way to a window of her own, for to 
 know oneself difficult to live with is to know all. 
 
 So Lord Bridlington wrote to Mr. Masters: 
 
 "DEAR MASTERS, On thinking it over I have come to the con- 
 clusion that there are better ways perhaps of showing sympathy 
 with Sally. But the church wants a window badly I have 
 thought so for some time. It has struck me I mean, I have
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 193 
 
 very often been struck by the patience of the poor in Panslea, 
 who have fought the great fight and have lived at peace with 
 difficult relations. We needn't mention any names but just 
 put up a memorial to those who have set us a good example. 
 It's an idea, I think; anyhow it will give the church a window, 
 what it needs and what you want it to have. A young man in 
 armour of course won't do; but almost anything else would. 
 Something after the nature of Millet's 'Angelus' that's what 
 gives the old people rheumatism, working in the fields ! Please 
 let me know what you think of the idea. It's mine, nothing to 
 do with Lawrence. It strikes me it looks a little as if it might 
 be. The screen, I think, must wait. It would do well for me 
 when my time comes . . . ? Yours, 
 
 "BHIDLINGTON. 
 
 "P. 8. Consult Miss Anne about the mural brass."
 
 XVIII 
 
 WHEN is a secret not sacred? was the question that Mr. 
 Masters asked himself over and over again after Sally's 
 astounding revelation. He wished he might go straight to 
 Anne and beg her to lift the load from the child's shoul- 
 ders. And yet it was for Anne's sake that the child had 
 accepted the burden. What could he do ? 
 
 He had to go and see Anne. It would give him the 
 opportunity to see how she looked. If her burden was 
 growing lighter might she not shift Sally's a little change 
 its position? 
 
 He found Anne in. Her beauty seemed rarefied by sor- 
 row. From her eyes shone a wonderful light. Was it 
 sorrow alone that could do this? Was it Sally's act of 
 self-sacrifice that had given this wonderful addition to 
 Anne's beauty? The Vicar wondered. He had seen the 
 same light in the eyes of lovers, in the eyes of the newly 
 made mother . . . but never quite this look in one sorrow- 
 ing. It may be thought that every one in Panslea was 
 beautiful. They were no more so than in any other place. 
 But Panslea knew where to look for beauty, which makes 
 all the difference. There is a beauty apart from feature 
 it is what Jimmy called "the light behind," and that light 
 shone at all times in Anne's eyes and in that lay her great 
 charm. And it is a charm that a greater beauty than Anne 
 may not have. She may if she likes she must think as 
 Anne thought it's not so easy as it looks. 
 
 "I have come," said the Vicar, "to lay before you a 
 scheme. It has been conceived in sympathy and born of 
 love towards you and your dear brother." 
 
 The tears started to Anne's eyes; that, of course, was 
 only to be expected. The Vicar would have thought it un- 
 natural if his voice had not called up tears. 
 
 194
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 195 
 
 "We would suggest a brass tablet in the church to his 
 memory placed so that many of us may see it during 
 service, and remember." 
 
 "It is very kind, very kind of you all I cannot thank 
 you enough. Somehow or other I cannot quite think of 
 Jimmy in brass ; couldn't it be something for the old people 
 or the children? Something that would help the old 
 and . . ." 
 
 "My dear Miss Anne, what is there? If you can think 
 of anything, please do." 
 
 "I will ask Sally." 
 
 There was a silence, broken only by the grandfather's 
 clock that ticked tocked. The Vicar hardly dared talk of 
 Sally now that he had the opportunity. 
 
 "Or else," said Anne, "a window; but that would be 
 too much too expensive; and Jimmy somehow or other 
 I cannot connect him with a stained-glass window ; I should 
 have loved him, though, as a soldier, if that had been pos- 
 sible. His favourite text as a boy was 'Quit you like men, 
 be strong.' " 
 
 "A window, of course," said the Vicar hastily, "is very 
 costly. ..." 
 
 Anne nodded. She said she thought something for the 
 poor and the old or the children Jimmy loved them all. 
 "Mr. Masters, I am unhappy about Sally I think she is 
 grieving too much. Don't you see a great change in her?" 
 
 The Vicar said he did. He thought it was partly for 
 Anne herself that Sally grieved. "If you could tell her 
 that her grief adds to yours she is so curiously unselfish, 
 I think ..." 
 
 "I could not bear," said Anne, "to think I had added to 
 her sorrow. She has helped me so much in mine." 
 
 "The young must be allowed to forget," said the Vicar; 
 "it must not be counted against them. They feel deeply; 
 but they heal quickly." 
 
 The Vicar left, feeling he had done something very 
 small; but still something for Sally.
 
 196 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Meanwhile Lord Bridlington had chartered the steam 
 yacht that was to bear Sally away away from her sorrow 
 and from those who sorrowed with her. 
 
 Those who had sorrowed with her were puzzled. They 
 felt they were kept in the dark. They had shared her sor- 
 row, and now they didn't know the name of the yacht on 
 which she had sailed; nor where she had gone. Half of 
 Panslea thought brass buttons bad taste in one who had 
 never yachted before. Jaunty said every one had to yacht 
 for the first time. Panslea thought Jaunty had over- 
 reached himself. 
 
 They did not think a yachting cap suited to Sally's style 
 of beauty. There were those in Panslea who rose here to 
 say that her beauty was of that triumphant order, anything 
 became it. But still it was extravagance unnecessary ex- 
 travagance. Ah, that was another thing altogether. There 
 Mr. Lawrence was never to be understood. 
 
 He couldn't afford a thing he needed, and instantly 
 bought another he couldn't want and didn't want or if he 
 did he gave it away. 
 
 Jaunty was miserable. Any one could see that. He 
 walked aimlessly about, going to and from the post office 
 at those hours when there could be no letters. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence was no happier, and he was going to be 
 very much unhappier. But that he didn't know. 
 
 It wasn't that he was lonely he would fain have been 
 lonelier, for Janet Mason had resumed her kind atten- 
 tions, and one day when he spoke in his haste of a lonely 
 old age without his children, poor Janet broke down and 
 tried to tell him that he had no need to look forward to 
 a lonely old age . . . and when it dawned upon him what 
 she meant he, poor man, was overcome with remorse and 
 pity. 
 
 "My dear, good, and beautiful child," he said. (This 
 was another case of beauty in Panslea; Janet wasn't really 
 beautiful outside the radius of Mr. Lawrence's kindly im- 
 agination.) "My dear, beautiful, and good child," it
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 197 
 
 bears repetition because it helped Janet so "you mustn't 
 say these things you spoil me. I have traded on your 
 kindness your generosity you must forgive me; forgive 
 an old man's stupidity. Here you have been amusing me 
 when you should have been out in the world among young 
 things of your own age." 
 
 Now to Janet Mason Mr. Lawrence wasn't in the least 
 old. From the moment when she had first seen him, on that 
 eventful day in London, he had seemed to her a veritable 
 knight of old. His chivalrous manner had then and there 
 set light to her imagination, and her heart had caught fire 
 and had smouldered ever since. 
 
 His apparent helplessness was an added attraction, and 
 that energy that had wasted itself hitherto in making 
 dozens of woollies for dozens of babies, exhausted itself in 
 a vague desire to mother this lonely man. 
 
 To poor Mr. Lawrence Janet Mason had been a nice, 
 kindly young woman a good companion for Sally not 
 possessed of too much imagination; but of great good 
 sense. Now it was quite and horribly different. He begged 
 her dry her tears, which she obediently did, or rather he 
 did it for her. Then he asked her to come with him for 
 one moment. Obediently she followed him. He sat down 
 at his writing-table, and opening a drawer took from it a 
 photograph. "I don't think I have ever shown you this," 
 he said. "It is my wife as she was when I first met her. 
 Yes, Sally is very like her, isn't she? And Pamela too! 
 Yes, just there," he followed the wavering line of Janet's 
 finger; "I see the likeness very strongly." 
 
 "But neither quite ..." said Janet; her lip trembling, 
 her chin wobbling. 
 
 "No, not quite no one could ever be quite ..." 
 
 "I think I had better go," said Janet; and it was really 
 better she should, because there was nothing more to be 
 said. Yes, there was ; Mr. Lawrence again said she was a 
 dear, good, kind young woman. . . . She would have pre- 
 ferred "beautiful child/' but one doesn't hear that kind of
 
 198 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 thing more than once in a lifetime especially when it 
 isn't quite true. 
 
 Janet felt as well as she could feel under the rather 
 painful circumstances, and she did not love Mr. Lawrence 
 any the less for it all. She loved him differently. 
 
 Panslea, of course, knew nothing of all this not even 
 Jaunty, though what he chose to guess was his own affair. 
 
 "It had to come," he said to himself; "the sooner it's 
 over the better. But will he make it final?" 
 
 Then he added, "He would be quite capable of telling 
 her she was beautiful. ..."
 
 XIX 
 
 IT was not easy for Mademoiselle to lie on her sofa with 
 nothing to do and no one to teach. Jaunty suggested she 
 should give lessons. Mademoiselle asked, To whom? 
 
 Jaunty said to Miss Doe and her sister. Why not? 
 
 Mademoiselle said, Did they want lessons? And Jaunty 
 seemed to think that was not the question. It was Made- 
 moiselle who wanted an object in life. So he sallied forth 
 to arrange things. He went to Miss Doe's house and de- 
 manded an audience of Miss Eleanor, the weaker of the 
 two sisters. It was granted him, readily enough. Jaunty 
 amused the gentle sisters. "What is it?" asked Miss 
 Eleanor. 
 
 "The French lady at our house," said Jaunty, and he 
 vaguely touched his forehead. 
 
 Miss Eleanor shrank in alarm. "Not . . . ?" she said. 
 
 Jaunty nodded. "Too much of the French language 
 stored there can't get out. It doesn't do. It's an excit- 
 able language, it ferments." 
 
 Miss Eleanor asked what she could do. 
 
 "Well, miss, what about your accent? Is it rusty at all? 
 Because Mademoiselle has plenty of time and could rub it 
 up in no time. There's nothing like practice." 
 
 "I could come and talk for an hour in the morning?" 
 
 "And read, n'est-ce-pas ?" said Jaunty. 
 
 Miss Eleanor hesitated ; she had never read French books 
 on principle. Jaunty guessed that, and he met her ob- 
 jection by assuring her that Miss Sally's books each one 
 of them above suspicion were bound in brown cloth. 
 Would Miss Eleanor come? and Miss Eleanor said she 
 would just for an hour in the morning. 
 
 "That's one," said Jaunty, as he shut the garden door 
 
 199
 
 200 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 with a click, "and she's too good to hurry away and too 
 timorous." 
 
 To Anne's cottage he went next. He met her coming 
 out. "Well, Jaunty?" she said, "any news?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle is moping, miss." 
 
 "Poor Mademoiselle! I must come and see her." 
 
 "It's the language that is doing it. She must talk 
 French or she frets." 
 
 Anne said she would come and talk. 
 
 "She would rather teach," said Jaunty. "It's that that's 
 worrying her. She thinks she's doing nothing for her 
 living. Your French is too good, I suppose?" 
 
 Anne said it was far from too good. Mademoiselle 
 should teach her. Jaunty suggested it should be easy 
 enough to forget what you knew if you wanted to from 
 motives of Christianity or expediency. 
 
 "When shall I come?" asked Anne, prepared to forget 
 everything in a good cause. 
 
 "Say eleven in the morning?" 
 
 Anne agreed; she liked the gentle little Mademoiselle. 
 
 "That's two," said Jaunty. 
 
 The next person he met was Miss Mason. 
 
 "There will be French instruction at Mr. Lawrence's 
 house every morning at eleven o'clock, until further no- 
 tice," he announced. 
 
 Janet said she thought she knew French fairly 
 well . . . 
 
 "Well, miss, that's a matter of opinion, of course. If 
 you will excuse me saying so didn't you speak of gants 
 de suede gloves the other day? It's mistakes of that kind 
 that hurt Mademoiselle. At eleven o'clock, every morn- 
 ing. Good-morning." 
 
 The class was growing. It was enough to begin with, 
 at all events, and a few mornings later Jaunty had shown 
 up to Mademoiselle's room the two Miss Does, Miss Mason, 
 and Miss Beech. Jaunty listened at the door, as innocent 
 of curiosity as the roses that peeped in at the window. He
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 201 
 
 wanted only to discover by the sound of her voice whether 
 Mademoiselle was happy or not. The first words tri- 
 umphantly proclaimed her a satisfied Frenchwoman. 
 
 He stepped on tiptoe down the passage. At the top of 
 the stairs he paused. He looked to the right, then to the 
 left. Desolation on all sides empty rooms no echoes. 
 Then he went downstairs into the library. Mr. Lawrence 
 was there. Jaunty asked him when Miss Sally was re- 
 turning. He learned with joy that she was coming back 
 almost at once. Was she better? Mr. Lawrence thought 
 so; she didn't say; she seemed more taken up with the 
 sunsets than anything. Their beauty, he meant. Jaunty 
 pursed his lips. He was sorry to hear that. There was 
 poetry in sunsets, and in poetry there lay sadness. Poetry 
 meant brooding. He had hoped Miss Sally was beyond 
 sunsets by now. Sunsets came early in the convalescent 
 stage. 
 
 "Don't let that disturb you, Jaunty," said Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 "And Mrs. Monk?" asked Jaunty. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence smiled. "Come here," he said; and 
 Jaunty, wondering, followed him out of the room into 
 the hall. It couldn't be dust on the stairs, because Mr. 
 Lawrence never noticed that. Nor could it be a bird's 
 nest in a strange place nesting days were over, so why 
 this mystery? 
 
 Mr. Lawrence put his foot on the loose rug at the bottom 
 of the stairs. "Do you remember how the children used to 
 slip on that?" 
 
 Jaunty remembered. They were quite accustomed to it 
 now. 
 
 "But when they weren't accustomed to it? What did 
 you do?" 
 
 "Do? Why, I nailed it down, of course." What were 
 oak floors compared to children? 
 
 "Well, Jaunty, you must see to it there's no hurry, but 
 begin to look for the hammer and nails. I can't have my 
 grandchild tumbling about ..."
 
 202 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "Grand child?" said Jaunty faintly. 
 
 "Now, now, Jaunty be a man be a man! I shall 
 want your help; I can't bring up a grandchild without it." 
 
 Jaunty put his hand to his heart and found it beating 
 quickly, then he said he doubted if Mr. Lawrence could. 
 
 "I'm glad of it for more reasons than one, sir," he said 
 when he had sufficiently recovered; "that poor thing up- 
 stairs. I've done what I can for her I've collected a 
 class. That'll do to go on with. Now there's a grand- 
 child to come she can teach that French." 
 
 Mr. Lawrence said it seemed a long way to look ahead. 
 And Jaunty said with children you couldn't begin too 
 young. 
 
 Then he went to his room, and sitting down at a table 
 pulled out a drawer in which he kept his treasures and 
 secrets, and out of the drawer he took a letter. He drew 
 the letter from its envelope and, spreading it before him, 
 he read these words: "With care there is no reason you 
 should not live some years." A doctor had written them. 
 
 "With care" murmured Jaunty, "with care. I must 
 live to see that child. I wish it had been another with 
 care the greatest care in the world, could I live to see that 
 other? O God, it's all I ask, and for the good of the child 
 only well, partly I ask it. Mr. Lawrence would spoil 
 it." 
 
 Mademoiselle's class grew. Michael Mason joined it. 
 He came down every week-end, and Jaunty noticed that 
 Anne's mourning was relieved by a white scarf, a light in 
 her eyes and a smile on her lips. 
 
 They were signs, and Jaunty read them, and read them 
 aright. 
 
 Anne was finding happiness. What of Miss Sally? 
 Jaunty was only waiting his time. The moment Miss 
 Beech was happy enough to bear the shock of hearing it, he 
 was going to tell her that Miss Sally was going to be happy 
 too ... or would be if God willed it to come right, and 
 the young man proposed. It was only fair, and Jaunty
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 80S 
 
 watched Anne's face from day to day. And as it grew in 
 the beauty of happiness Jaunty's grew happy in the 
 thought of the happiness that awaited his Miss Sally. He 
 didn't know what the happiness was, nor from whence it 
 should come, but it had to come.
 
 XX 
 
 MRS. LOMBARD wrote to her brother: 
 
 "JOHK DEAEEST, Seeing you has made me hungry to see 
 more of you. I didn't know how much of my heart was left in 
 those long ago days when we were so happy together. I have 
 drifted away from you and have been cast up on the shallows 
 of society. It's not worth it. I can see that now. You with 
 your extraordinarily different life are to be envied; but come 
 and see something of our life, judge for yourself. Come and 
 see what poor Tom used to call 'the young entry.' You will 
 see some very pretty girls. Of course, you think everything of 
 your own, but come and see what other parents can do without 
 the intervention of an extraordinary butler. 
 
 "Douglas Bentleigh is going to be married next week to 
 quite a beauty, in her own rather peculiar line. When we were 
 young, dear, a beauty was a beauty and nothing more. I want 
 you to see what constitutes beauty nowadays. You probably, 
 dear old thing, will think her the ugliest thing you ever saw, 
 but you will be wrong. She's not pretty or lovely she's beau- 
 tiful. Do come ! It will be great fun. You don't look like a 
 poet or anything of that kind, do you? Heaven knows what 
 your clothes will be like. Your aifec. sister, V. L. 
 
 "I want to talk to you about Sally. I am afraid she is be- 
 having foolishly." 
 
 "Jaunty, shall I go and stay with Mrs. Lombard?" 
 
 "Why not, sir?" 
 
 And Mr. Lawrence had no good reason to offer against 
 going, but he didn't say anything about the wedding to 
 Jaunty. He had an idea Jaunty would insist on unearthing 
 a certain pair of mauve striped trousers that lay in cam- 
 phor in a bottom drawer. Let mauve troupers lie. 
 
 "I, too, sir," said Jaunty, "would like to go up to Lon- 
 don if you have no objection," and Mr. Lawrence, of 
 
 204
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 205 
 
 course, had none. Why shouldn't Jaunty do as he did? It 
 was better they should do something; they were getting 
 into a groove. 
 
 "Go by all means, Jaunty, and look before you cross." 
 
 And Jaunty went, promising to look before he crossed, 
 and to return on the same day and by the same train as 
 Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 "We had better be independent, Jaunty," said Mr. Law- 
 rence, and Jaunty wondered if it lay within their power. 
 "Yes, sir, we must try." 
 
 So Mr. Lawrence to his sister; Jaunty to his. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence arrived at Mrs. Lombard's house, and the 
 butler almost betrayed himself by the warmth of his man- 
 ner. He had the greatest respect for this tall gentleman 
 who was so unlike the sister he served. He would gladly 
 have opened the door oftener to him, or have taught a 
 footman to do it, swinging it to its widest. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence followed him upstairs, remembering to 
 ask as they went for the man's wife. She proved to be 
 very much as usual. That her health was always much as 
 usual Mr. Lawrence had learned from Sally; but what the 
 usual was he had forgotten. A little knowledge had proved 
 a dangerous thing had they not reached the drawing-room 
 door. 
 
 "My dear, dear John," said Mrs. Lombard, "you suit 
 London better than I thought. I shall be proud of you. 
 Now tell me about Sally. What's to be done about Captain 
 Wentford?" She drew John down on to the sofa beside 
 her. 
 
 "Who is he? I don't know," said Mr. Lawrence, laying 
 his hand on his sister's and looking into her face, seeing in 
 it what no one else looked for the simplicity that had been 
 hers years ago. To John Lawrence it was there, but "dried 
 up," he said gently. 
 
 "My skin, John? How cruel you are!" 
 
 "Did I say skin ? I didn't mean it. I was thinking."
 
 206 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "Why, John, have we seen so little of each other 
 lately?" 
 
 "Why, oh why? It seems a pity, doesn't it? But some- 
 how or other children make one selfish. My interests have 
 become so child-centred. You don't blame me?" 
 
 "My dear, I wish I could in a way. I can only blame 
 myself. . . . But Neil Wentford of course you know?" 
 
 John Lawrence said he knew nothing. 
 
 "But, my dear John, we all know." 
 
 "I don't; what is it?" 
 
 "Why, he's head over ears in love with Sally and he's 
 such a dear, and has a nice place in Scotland. O John, 
 surely you won't do anything to prevent so excellent a 
 marriage for her? He's everything one could wish that 
 you could wish. So well thought of in his profession so 
 charming, so sympathetic. ..." 
 
 "But, my dear V., poor little Sally is broken-hearted 
 over the death of young Beeeh." 
 
 "Nothing of the sort, my dear John. I was there when 
 your letter came. She was upset, of course, because she's 
 a loving, loyal-hearted creature; but she was no more 
 grieving for the man she loved than I was. Of course she 
 was upset. There was romance in it the poor boy dying 
 away from home and so suddenly; but, my dear John, Sally 
 was much more up"et when Neil Wentford couldn't come 
 to dinner much more. Although I am bound to say she 
 did her best to hide it. But, John, they can't hide it from 
 one who remembers. Do you remember do you remem- 
 ber how the joy of the whole world lay in sitting next to 
 some particular person? Do you remember the desolation 
 of the day when at some picnic you did not sit next the 
 particular person? Ridiculous John, you have no right to 
 be the father of two girls unless you remember that and 
 much, much more." 
 
 "Not quite dried up," said John, looking at her with a 
 smile in his eyes. "I see it all now. ..."
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 207 
 
 'Don't be ridiculous. What is not quite dried up?" 
 
 "Your love, your sympathy. ..." 
 
 "Can nothing make you listen to me? What am I to do? 
 Here is Neil Wentford pouring out his soul to me really 
 every man in love is a poet. What am I to say?" 
 
 "You must say what is true that Sally has cared for 
 some one else. It can't be helped. I am very sorry for 
 this man. . . ." 
 
 "Don't speak of him as 'this man'; it maddens me." 
 
 "I am very sorry. Sally has gone away to recover, poor 
 child if there is such a thing as recovery." 
 
 "Recovery? Of course there is. Sally never cared. 
 Who suggested it to her?" 
 
 Luncheon was announced, and John Lawrence and Mrs. 
 Lombard lunched hurriedly John for the moment made a 
 mental note to go out afterwards and congratulate Serena; 
 then he remembered. 
 
 "We mustn't be late, John," said his sister. 
 
 John said it sounded as though they were going to an 
 entertainment, and she said they were. He asked who the 
 bride was. 
 
 "Her name is Marr. She is very tall, very thin, very 
 pale, with very red lips." 
 
 "I hate the type," said John, honest John. 
 
 "My dear, good man, you've never seen it. It's the 
 very latest thing." 
 
 Mr. Lawrence found plenty to interest him at the wed- 
 ding. It was years since he had been to anything of the 
 kind. His mauve trousers had seen much service; but 
 they had bent the knee at Panslea weddings only. All 
 fashionable London was congregated here. The clothes 
 were strange to him, the people who wore them stranger; 
 strangest of all their manners. He forgot he was in church, 
 and he wasn't the only one. He rose with the congrega- 
 tion when the bride walked up the aisle. She swayed as 
 she walked. Her hair was dark, her face was white, her 
 lips were red, and her eyes matched the long jade earrings
 
 208 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 she wore. It was very clever of her, he thought, to have 
 made herself into what passed as a beauty passed every 
 one, and not one denied her claim. 
 
 Douglas Bentleigh, of course, interested him immensely. 
 He had liked him that day at Panslea. He had found him 
 fresh and ingenuous. He was probably neither the one 
 nor the other, but it was clever of him to pass as both, and 
 no one would have denied him those qualifications, least of 
 all John Lawrence. 
 
 The service was beautifully read, and the music was soul- 
 stirring to one who had heard nothing of the kind for 
 years. But it made him unhappy; made him think of days 
 gone by; of Sally and Pamela as children; of things be- 
 fore that. Jaunty should have been there too to share 
 this discomfort. It would have done him good to see these 
 people. He would have been shocked; but he had got into 
 a groove; he should come out of it. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence was on the point of asking his sister the 
 name of a girl who sat just in front of them whose fine 
 beauty appealed to him, when she nudged him. "The 
 Wedding March, John," she said; "here they are!" 
 
 As if he didn't know the Wedding March as if he 
 hadn't played it dozens of times at the weddings of Sally's 
 dolls. The bride and bridegroom passed down the aisle, 
 the bride quite close to Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 She was certainly a type new to him a disquieting type. 
 Not the kind of friend he would choose for Pamela and 
 Sally. Sally he knew wouldn't like her Pamela, he 
 thought, would. 
 
 Douglas Bentleigh looked . . . 
 
 Mr. Lawrence hadn't time to see how or what, for down 
 the aisle came a tall woman who had once been beautiful 
 and couldn't forget it. She dressed the part. John no- 
 ticed her, of course, but his eyes were riveted upon the 
 little man who walked beside her a little man with a 
 certain air of quiet distinction. John Lawrence knew his 
 face. He must be a member of Parliament, or some one
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 209 
 
 well known to the public. Then the little man looked to- 
 wards Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Lawrence met the eyes of 
 Jaunty. Jaunty with a yellow carnation in his buttonhole 
 and on his arm the hand of the faded beauty. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence looked at Jaunty; Jaunty at Mr. Law- 
 rence, very gently inclining his head, remembering where 
 he was, and looking as though he bowed from a sense of 
 politeness to some one he didn't recognise. 
 
 "Do you want to go to the house?" whispered Mrs. Lom- 
 bard to John. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "Don't you?" 
 
 Mrs. Lombard said she did, naturally. The young peo- 
 ple were going off in a caravan, but she thought men . . . 
 
 John persisted that he would like to go to the house. 
 
 When he got there he hid himself as well as he could 
 and watched Jaunty. He saw him cowering in a corner. 
 He in one, Mr. Lawrence in another. Both in hiding. In 
 time Jaunty was discovered. He was to take the faded 
 beauty down to the dining-room. He did it. At least Mr. 
 Lawrence supposed so, for he disappeared. After a few 
 minutes he returned and whispered something to the bride- 
 groom's mother. Did Jaunty imagine it was Serena who 
 presided over the kitchen? 
 
 That John Lawrence was puzzled doesn't in the least 
 describe his feelings on leaving the house with his sister. 
 His mind was in a state of chaos and down the back of 
 his collar he suffered a handful of rice at the hand of 
 Jaunty. 
 
 "Did you see that old man who had such a ridiculous 
 look of your absurd Jaunty?" she asked. 
 
 "A look?" said John Lawrence. 
 
 "Well, I thought so. Did the wedding impress you?" 
 
 Mr. Lawrence said, More than anything in his life had 
 ever impressed him. 
 
 "What surprised you most?"
 
 210 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "The guests." 
 
 "Yes, my dear John, a London crowd is an education. 
 Do you now see how Panslea stands still?" 
 
 He said nothing. He was off at once to see if Panslea 
 still stood where it did. He could hardly believe it possi- 
 ble. Nothing could keep him. No entreaty on the part 
 of his sister no nothing ! He must go, and he went. 
 
 At half-past seven o'clock the next morning Jaunty 
 brought him a cup of tea, as usual. 
 
 Jaunty pulled up the blind. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence lay in bed and looked at him. "Jaunty," 
 he said, "did you admire the bride?" 
 
 "Not my style, sir not what I have been accustomed 
 to." 
 
 Mr. Lawrence hadn't expected this. He had thought 
 Jaunty would hesitate, would ask what Mr. Lawrence 
 meant. Not at all ! With his hand on the blind-cord, di- 
 recting its wayward course, he calmly said the bride wasn't 
 what he was accustomed to. He might have made up his 
 mind to make himself accustomed, so calm was his manner. 
 
 "Have you no explanation to offer, Jaunty?" 
 
 "Have you none, sir?" 
 
 "My part is easily explained. I went to the wedding 
 with Mrs. Lombard at her invitation." 
 
 "I went to the wedding, sir, at the request of Mrs. Bent- 
 leigh." 
 
 "Mrs. Lombard is my sister." 
 
 "And Mrs. Bentleigh mine," said Jaunty, not to be 
 beaten. 
 
 "Jaunty !" 
 
 Jaunty stepped to the foot of the bed. There was gentle 
 supplication in his manner. It said: Would Mr. Law- 
 rence deal gently with the matter whatever the matter 
 was? 
 
 "That explains nothing," said Mr. Lawrence. "Mrs. 
 Bentleigh, that beautifully dressed . . ."
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 211 
 
 "My sister, sir overdressed, I thought. It is the mis- 
 take women make. She's risen well, but she makes mis- 
 takes in colours. Need we pursue the subject further, 
 sir?" 
 
 "Of course we must. Come to the library after break- 
 fast." 
 
 And after breakfast Jaunty went to the library. 
 
 Outside the door he stood one moment, and in his heart 
 he prayed these words: 
 
 "Let not the simplicity of years suspect."
 
 XXI 
 
 "WHAT was your father?" asked Mr. Lawrence as Jaunty 
 closed the door. 
 
 "A doctor, sir." 
 
 "Of divinity?" 
 
 "Of medicine." 
 
 "A successful doctor?" 
 
 "No, sir clever; but he didn't believe in medicine." 
 
 "That need not have made him unsuccessful." 
 
 "He confided his unbelief to his patients." 
 
 "Did they believe in him?" 
 
 "They believed in his good faith." 
 
 "Did their faith save them?" 
 
 "Sometimes." 
 
 "If they died did your father hold himself responsible?" 
 
 "He took no money." 
 
 "And you are the son of your father ?" 
 
 "In not taking money?" 
 
 "Forgive me, Jaunty sit down." He preferred to 
 stand. 
 
 "Now, Jaunty, what does it all mean?" 
 
 "It means, sir, this, and only this. Years ago I was 
 broken in spirit suspected and unhappy." 
 
 "And innocent?" 
 
 "And innocent, sir; you guessed that?" 
 
 Mr. Lawrence said he knew it. 
 
 "Then you didn't forgive me? I shall miss that sense 
 of forgiveness. It's a good bed-fellow." 
 
 "I have forgiven you much since your face gave you 
 away then as it does now. Go on." 
 
 "Well, sir, you took me in you gave me your confidence. 
 She," he pointed to the picture of Mrs. Lawrence, "gave 
 
 212
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 313 
 
 me the care of her children, your children. My sister 
 loved her husband, I loved her. I shielded him to spare 
 her. He died ; too soon, in one sense. He was clever about 
 money; if he had lived longer that money would have been 
 repaid. He died with irons in the fire, but the fire was 
 hardly kindled. A friend of his he had very few chose 
 to call him unfortunate believed in him, and promised to 
 look after my sister's affairs. So well did he look after 
 them that my sister became a rich woman. He invested at 
 the right moment. He got in on the ground floor and sold 
 from the chimney pots business terms, sir. My sister 
 wasn't a clever enough woman to question her right to the 
 money, in the first instance. She and I had been much to 
 each other in the old days. But her husband became more. 
 She grew accustomed to do without me. She was content 
 to hear I was alive and well. She didn't know I was a bad 
 butler; she only knew I was a bad man. Well, that's all, 
 sir, except that by some curious chance her son came to 
 Panslea, after Miss Sally, I thought so I disclosed myself 
 the furious uncle and sent him about his business, and 
 that's all. About the wedding, I went because it eased my 
 sister's mind. She asked me to the wedding, because in a 
 sense she thought it made up. It would have been snob- 
 bish not to have asked me; a wedding is the place where 
 queer relatives may be expected are countenanced even. 
 Were you invited, sir forgive the question?" 
 
 Mr. Lawrence looked at Jaunty; the familiar figure 
 seemed somehow or other to have assumed heroic propor- 
 tions. 
 
 "You old scoundrel! I knew you weren't a butler." 
 
 "No one but you, sir, would have thought of calling me 
 one." 
 
 Mr. Lawrence wondered if they would have to make 
 changes wondered if they should part. . . . 
 
 "Where would you go, sir?" asked Jaunty, his old face 
 puckering as it was wont to do in moments of great anxiety 
 and perplexity.
 
 214 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Mr. Lawrence laughed. He told him to sit down. Jaunty 
 said he would rather not. Mr. Lawrence said it wouldn't 
 be the first time he had stayed to talk he had often talked 
 for hours at a time. Well, not hours perhaps . . . 
 
 "Yes, sir; but I was always on the point of going." 
 
 Mr. Lawrence asked if that made a difference, and 
 Jaunty said all the difference in the world. The most re- 
 spectful servant might stand at the door so to speak. 
 
 "It's an impossible situation, Jaunty." 
 
 "I have never thought of it as a situation," he answered, 
 "but if you wish it so . . ." 
 
 "The children what shall we tell them?" 
 
 Jaunty said what was there to tell? Nothing! It 
 would be impossible to tell Miss Sally that she had liked 
 the nephew of her father's butler. . . . "One thing while 
 we are on the subject, sir that money? It was repaid a 
 few days after I entered your service. ..." 
 
 "My dear Jaunty, we have never worried about money, 
 have we?" 
 
 "Well, sir, / have. What else have I worried about?" 
 
 "We never will again. Now, let's talk of something else. 
 I wonder how Miss Sally is getting on?" 
 
 That was a subject on which Jaunty could talk for 
 ever. He talked so much that he made Mr. Lawrence 
 talk, and Mr. Lawrence told him that some one was in 
 love with Miss Sally. Jaunty was not to be put off with a 
 little information. He had to understand the question thor- 
 oughly. Well, then, according to Mrs. Lombard, some one 
 was in love with Miss Sally, and Miss Sally was mourning 
 for some one else so her father said. 
 
 Jaunty knew she wasn't. He saw light in darkness. 
 Miss Sally was unhappy because that some one she loved 
 thought she was mourning for some one else. Here was 
 work for Jaunty no butler's work this nor was the 
 work cut out for him; but he was going to cut it out to his 
 own measure. The young man, whoever he was, should 
 hear the true story, or Jaunty's name wasn't Jaunty. As 
 a matter of fact, it wasn't.
 
 XXII 
 
 SALLY in Scotland began to forget her troubles. She found 
 she could loosen the cloak of sorrow, and having loosened 
 it she had only to let it drop from her. She let it drop. 
 Then ashamed that she should have done so, she picked it 
 up and reverently folding it in her mind laid it away in 
 her heart. It had been given by Anne and worn for Anne's 
 sake, and as a memory she prized it. 
 
 Lord Bridlington watched her growing happiness as he 
 might have watched that of his own child. He gloried in 
 the radiance of her beauty. The spark of happiness glow- 
 ing in her eyes set light to and burned in his heart. Even 
 his wife couldn't laugh at him, for she too felt with him 
 a great relief. It would have been to the everlasting shame 
 of Panslea if it couldn't have made Sally happy. 
 
 It was all new to Sally the yacht, the gulls, the hills, 
 the sunsets, the wind-ruffled waters of the lochs, the driving 
 mists. She loved the rainy days no less than the sunny 
 days, and Lord Bridlington taught her to fish, and the old 
 ghillie untaught her all she had learnt from his lordship, 
 who knew nothing and taught her all over again. But it 
 was the Captain who would be teaching her himself, and 
 Sally asked who the Captain was? 
 
 It was a frightful risk ; but the old man was to be trusted. 
 He said it was just the owner of the place the laird 
 from whom the lord had taken the fishing. There was 
 fishing for both, and Sally practised casting diligently so 
 that she should not be disgraced in the eyes of the laird. 
 She asked the old man how she did it. And he said, "It 
 couldna be worrrse," and no doubt he was right, for he was 
 learned in such matters. 
 
 Lord Bridlington prayed night and day that the name 
 
 215
 
 216 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 of the owner might not be disclosed, for it was to be his 
 surprise. His love for Sally had overridden all desires of 
 his own for his son Jack. He had been told that Sally 
 could have cared for Captain Wentford, and she was to be 
 given her chance. And the sun shone upon the plans of 
 Lord Bridlington and upon the hair of Sally as she sat 
 on the bank of the river, and all would have been well 
 if Lord Bridlington had confided in his wife, which all wise 
 men should do sometimes, at all events ; and the sometimes 
 with him should have been this time, for Lady Bridlington 
 had other plans of her own, all innocently made for the 
 pleasing of her dear Thomas, whom she had hitherto op- 
 posed with regard to the marriage of Jack and Sally. Now 
 she would withdraw her opposition and work hard to bring 
 it about. 
 
 So Captain Wentford walking along the bank of the 
 river on that August afternoon bad for fishing, but good 
 for everything else in God's beautiful world was against 
 all she had prayed for and planned since she had set sail 
 in the yacht. Her maternal heart went out not only to 
 Jack in the future but to Jimmy in the past. Sally mustn't 
 forget Jimmy until she could forget him in remembering 
 Jack. 
 
 Captain Wentford shouldn't have come into the picture 
 at all; but he stepped right into the very middle of it, and 
 throwing himself down in the foreground found himself 
 sitting beside Sally of whom he had been thinking for 
 weeks. Sally, looking up from examining a beautiful piece 
 of purple heather, each little flower of which was wonder- 
 ful in its perfection, found that the world was no less 
 wonderful in its larger and more perfect way. "You?" 
 she said, and he said "You?" And in the English language 
 there can be no word more tender, if said as Neil Went- 
 ford said it, and as Sally would have said it had she dared. 
 But women so seldom say anything quite so tenderly as 
 they would like to say it, because well, they are women, 
 and cannot. But Neil Wentford had no such scruples, and
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 217 
 
 he put his whole soul into the word. He was surprised 
 into it partly. He had been thinking of Sally as he 
 walked along the river-side, because he was always think- 
 ing of her, and he had come upon her sitting on the bank 
 of the river he had loved as a boy had loved all his life. 
 The river a man loves and the woman he loves what more 
 can he want? 
 
 And when the river runs at his feet and the woman sits 
 at his side he is hard to please if he isn't happy. This too 
 was the Sally he had met in London. She had been so 
 friendly so adorable. Then she had left London sud- 
 denly, and to a letter he had written her she had answered 
 coldly, had begged him never to write again. But this 
 Sally sitting on the bank beside him was the one he had 
 first met, not the one who had written. He asked her how 
 she had come there. It seemed unlikely that she had fallen 
 from Heaven, although it seemed the only explanation. 
 She said she had come with the Bridlingtons, that Lord 
 Bridlington had taken a "beat" on the river. Ought she 
 to have fished? She hadn't caught anything, she explained 
 hurriedly. Then she remembered that old Donald had said 
 the Captain would teach her. Would he? And Captain 
 Wentford gave her a lesson then and there. 
 
 The deliciousness of it all his hand on hers. That was 
 necessary to the good teaching! Yes, really and truly. 
 She was a pupil just quick enough; not too quick. She 
 couldn't do without a guiding hand. She thought she could. 
 He knew she couldn't. She didn't argue; and Lord Brid- 
 lington coming to find her saw what was going on and tip- 
 toed away over the heather, and behaved as absurdly as 
 Jaunty would have behaved could he have seen his Miss 
 Sally with the hand of the man she loved on hers. 
 
 It was the happiest day in Sally's life; just as Scotland 
 was the loveliest country in the world, and fishing the most 
 wonderful of occupations. 
 
 The old ghillie had withdrawn to a distance, and as he 
 drew at his pipe his old face wrinkled up, and his eyes
 
 218 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 blinked to the sun. His thoughts may have been something 
 of the same kind as Neil Wentford's who knows? Any- 
 how he remembered enough to prevent him making any 
 suggestions as to what flies the foolish young things should 
 use. Let the Captain fish with what he liked, or with none, 
 which he most likely was doing at that very moment. That 
 a fisherman should come to this was grievous; but a fisher- 
 man was a man for all that they must all come to it 
 sooner or later. It was best to get it over before the spring 
 fishing, when all a man's attention must be given to the 
 fish. Many a spring fish had been caught and lost since 
 he had got it well over. . . . 
 
 Neil asked Sally if she were tired, and she said her arm 
 ached a little, and for a second he held her wrist and was 
 surprised at its slenderness. He laid the rod on the bank 
 and they sat down, and a little bunch of heather fell from 
 Sally's belt. He picked it up and put it in his buttonhole. 
 "May I keep it?" he asked. 
 
 And Sally laughed. % "Who do you want it for?" she 
 asked, knowing quite well. 
 
 "For the woman I love best in the world," he answered, 
 which was unexpected. "I shall never give it to any one 
 but the woman I have loved best in the world if I give it 
 to any one." 
 
 "Is she very charming?" asked Sally, tugging at a root 
 of heather. 
 
 "Very charming." 
 
 "And beautiful, I suppose?" she ventured she was ter- 
 ribly unmodern. 
 
 "And beautiful," admitted Neil. He looked at Sally. 
 She bent her head and stretching out her hand picked an- 
 other bit of heather. "Here's another bit just as beauti- 
 ful," she said. 
 
 "Another bit of heather is very easy to get but I doubt 
 that it's as beautiful." 
 
 "And clever?" asked Sally. 
 
 "The heather?"
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 219 
 
 "No who we were talking about." 
 
 "Very clever in understanding, and in everything that 
 most matters." 
 
 "Young?" asked Sally, stripping the stalk of its little 
 flowers. 
 
 "You funny child. . . . What does age matter?" 
 
 To Sally it mattered enormously more than anything 
 at the moment in the wide world. 
 
 "My mother/' said Neil, "couldn't be very young not 
 very young." And the evening became of a sudden all 
 purple and gold and Sally laughed. Neil asked if it 
 wasn't beautiful the golden light? And Sally said it 
 was always like that in Scotland ; and he said he had never 
 seen it quite so beautiful, and he looked at her and she 
 understood in a way that would have puzzled Jaunty. He 
 would have said, How could she understand that the man 
 meant she was beautiful when he most certainly referred 
 to the scenery? Sally turned her head away so that Neil 
 should not see how well she understood, and she thought 
 she could hide the blush that burnt her cheek. But she 
 was not quick enough ; she couldn't have been quick enough, 
 however quick she had been, because he knew it was there 
 he had meant it to be there. 
 
 "Look at me," he said, and she turned her face to his, 
 and in one moment he would have known the truth and 
 nothing could have shaken his belief; but before that mo- 
 ment came Lord Bridlington appeared to ask Wentford to 
 dine on the yacht, and both Neil and Sally forgave him 
 because of the message he bore. Lord Bridlington had 
 great faith in moonlight and water. He was old-fashioned 
 enough to believe few men could stand against it. Sally 
 went back to the yacht in a dream of bewildered happiness 
 the launch cutting the golden waters and she waved to 
 the man standing on the shore. 
 
 He came to dinner; and after dinner Lady Bridlington 
 asked Sally to fetch her a lace scarf, it was chilly. And 
 when Sally was gone Lady Bridlington took the opportunity
 
 220 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 of telling Neil Wentford that Sally was so wonderfully 
 better that her engagement to Mr. Beech, and his death 
 so tragically sudden had been a terrible thing for the poor 
 child but she was better much better. . . . "Don't you 
 think she is looking very well?" she asked. 
 
 And Neil said she seemed to him to be looking very 
 well. 
 
 "And so pretty?" said Lady Bridlington. 
 
 "And so pretty/' he agreed. 
 
 Sally came back with the scarf. Neil Wentford looked 
 at her long and earnestly. If he had but seen the look 
 she would have given him by the river, he need never have 
 looked again to learn what he wanted to know. Now it was 
 a bewildered Sally who met his stern gaze, and she told him 
 nothing of what he wanted to know. She looked from him 
 to Lady Bridlington from Lady Bridlington to him. Lord 
 Bridlington called to his wife and she went, and Sally was 
 left with Neil Wentford. "May I smoke?" he asked. 
 
 "Of course," she said. "Why not?" 
 
 "Why not that as well as anything else?" and he smoked 
 and said nothing. 
 
 "How dark the hills look," said Sally, feeling that some 
 one must speak and it is always the woman who speaks. 
 
 "Very dark a storm coming, I think. They come up 
 suddenly in this part of the world." 
 
 And again they sat in silence. At last he said he must 
 be going. "I only came north to-day, and I have so much 
 to do. Will you say good-night to the Bridlingtons for 
 me?" 
 
 Sally nodded. 
 
 "Perhaps you may wonder," he hesitated; "I'm not 
 very good at expressing myself. I'm so sorry you have 
 had such a sorrow. I didn't know or of course I 
 wouldn't . . ." 
 
 "Don't, please don't!" cried Sally, and imploringly she 
 held out her hand.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 221 
 
 He took it and held it. "You understand?" he asked, 
 releasing it. "I didn't know." 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "And the heather, may I keep it?" 
 
 She nodded again. 
 
 "I will send it to the woman I love best in the world. 
 Good-night good-bye," and he stepped down into the 
 launch and away he went down the pathway of silver 
 into the darkness, and was lost to sight. Sally went to 
 bed. 
 
 Two hours later Lord Bridlington, thinking the young 
 people had been alone long enough for even the modern 
 man to make up his mind, came to find them, and he found 
 no one; but he was told Captain Wentford had gone two 
 hours back, soon after dinner. Lord Bridlington went to 
 his wife a sad and perplexed man. She could offer him no 
 comfort, and was afraid to offer an explanation.
 
 XXIII 
 
 SALLY went back to Panslea, and she looked no happier 
 than she had looked when she went away. Jaunty watched 
 her, and he knew things were wrong. He must wait. He 
 had faith to his faith he must add patience. 
 
 If he waited long enough he must find out. He waited, 
 and Sally got a letter. Now was his chance. He watched 
 her. She hid the letter instead of reading it. That was 
 significant. Jaunty must know who the letter was from, 
 and when he knew who it was from, he must know what it 
 said. It was the clue he wanted. 
 
 A few hours later Sally's eyes were red with crying, 
 which was more than he could stand. His moral sense 
 ceased to exist. He determined to do what no one has any 
 right to do neither father nor mother, nor brother nor 
 sister, and certainly no butler however bad a butler he 
 may chance to be. He determined to read that letter. The 
 intention was his; but he was saved committing the actual 
 sin by the puppy taking it upon himself. He came to 
 Jaunty, and lying down at his feet, lifted pathetic, loving 
 eyes, and swallowed as best he could, but the paper in his 
 mouth made it difficult. 
 
 "Drop it," said Jaunty, and the puppy dropped it. It 
 was a letter; that Jaunty saw at once. And as any letter 
 might at such a time as this be the one he was looking 
 for, he read it. Having read it, he sat down. The beating 
 of his heart frightened him. He had never read such a 
 letter, nor had he credited any man with the power to 
 write it. He had underrated the force of love. That his 
 Miss Sally should receive such a letter . . . ! 
 
 Hearing her coming he replaced the letter between the 
 paws of the puppy, dared him to move, and when she came 
 
 222
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 223 
 
 into the room he said quite calmly, "Will you take that 
 paper, miss? It's bad for the puppy bad for his diges- 
 tion, bad for his morals he takes things out of the waste- 
 paper basket." Jaunty knew the puppy hadn't taken this 
 letter from there. Sally pounced upon the puppy and 
 seized the letter she had lost, and had been looking for, 
 and was thankful Jaunty hadn't seen it. 
 
 But Jaunty had read it, and it was the first love-letter 
 he had ever read, and if had opened to him the gates of a 
 new world. He had let Miss Pamela marry, when he hadn't 
 even known of the existence of a love like this. He had 
 robbed her of her right. This was a love of which poets 
 wrote, except that it sacrificed nothing to rhyme and it 
 was reasonable. What could his Miss Sally say to such a 
 letter? How would she answer it? She couldn't refuse a 
 love like this, and yet she wouldn't know what to say and 
 he couldn't help her. He couldn't consult Mr. Lawrence 
 because love was a subject on which he would not have 
 Mr. Lawrence dwell, because of the memories it must 
 arouse in his heart. 
 
 If the letter had made Miss Sally happy she would not 
 have cried. She must have cried because she could not 
 answer the letter as she would like to answer it. Jaunty 
 would see that the answer was what it ought to be. He 
 waited until she wrote it. Then when she went to post it 
 herself, he followed her. 
 
 "Miss," he said, "the grass is wet. I will post . . ." and 
 when she answered, "No, thank you, Jaunty, I will post 
 it myself," he said "Miss Sally!" in such a voice that the 
 past years were as nothing, and she was in a pinafore 
 again, with socks and bare legs and bruised knees, and 
 obediently she handed the letter to him. 
 
 "It's very important," she faltered. 
 
 He said he would see to it. He walked to the post office, 
 read all about the recruits His Majesty wanted; all the 
 advantages offered; then slipped the letter into his pocket,
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 and went back and asked Mr. Lawrence if he might go up 
 to London to see his sister. 
 
 "Don't ask me, Jaunty; of course. I have told you over 
 and over again you are perfectly independent. Please 
 don't do it again." 
 
 There was one thing that had rankled in Jaunty's mind 
 since the reading of the illuminating letter, and that was 
 his attitude towards Matilda. Had he misjudged her? 
 Had such a letter as this deceived her ? Was it in response 
 to such a letter as this that she had yielded? Jaunty was 
 distressed. He had despised Matilda, and Matilda per- 
 haps had inspired poetry. Before he went to London he 
 went upstairs to what was called "the workroom" (he had 
 always thought it was little work that was done there). He 
 knocked at the door a voice said "Come in," and he went 
 in. At a table in the window sat Matilda. The outline 
 of her figure was austere. On the table before her were 
 three photographs. One she held out at arm's length, and 
 she was gazing at it as Jaunty came in. 
 
 "What are you looking at?" he asked. 
 
 "I am looking to see which I like best this one of Miss 
 Pamela, or this one of Miss Sally." 
 
 "Or this one of ?" said Jaunty. 
 
 Matilda turned the third photograph face downwards 
 and put her hand over it. "That's mine, Mr. Jaunty." 
 
 "Ah, Matilda, Matilda, the years are passing, and we 
 might have been better friends." 
 
 Matilda looked at Jaunty, then said gruffly, "I'm willing, 
 enough," and she turned the photograph face up and with- 
 drew her hand. Jaunty saw the likeness of a very ugly 
 baby, improperly clothed. 
 
 "Poor Matilda," he said gently, "the grandchild will be 
 a solace to us both in our old age." 
 
 Then he went to London; but not to see his sister, 
 because he had only time to drive across London and catch 
 a train from Paddington. Sally's letter lay next his heart, 
 which was beating very unevenly.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 225 
 
 In a garden which must be the embodiment of the dreams 
 of most of us walked an elderly woman with her son. 
 Jaunty was making for that garden. The mother and son 
 walked on a grass path between borders of autumn flowers 
 old-fashioned flowers and they talked softly of some- 
 thing very near to the hearts of both. The son was careful 
 to walk as slowly as his mother wished to walk; she was 
 anxious to walk as quickly as he could walk, and they both 
 laughed over it. She at his gentleness because she loved 
 it; he at her impetuosity because he loved her. But they 
 grew serious as they walked, and they talked earnestly. 
 
 "You thought she cared?" asked his mother, suiting her 
 steps to his. 
 
 "I was quite certain of it, at first; then things went 
 wrong. But afterwards . , ." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 "You have heard what I was told." 
 
 "You heard it on good authority?" 
 
 "From one who knows her intimately." 
 
 "You think she cannot be grieving perhaps from a sense 
 of remorse?" 
 
 "How could she?" 
 
 "Ah, my dear, my dear, girls young girls do strange 
 things from a sense of imagined duty. You have the gift 
 of spoiling women," she pressed his arm gently, "but I 
 doubt that you understand them." 
 
 "There can hardly be room for misunderstanding here 
 she was engaged, or she was not engaged. If I am certain 
 she "was . . .?" 
 
 "I should still be certain she wasn't." 
 
 "Because you think, dearest, that all women must feel 
 for me as you do . . ." 
 
 "One woman must, dear. It is said there is jealousy 
 in the hearts of most women in their love for their sons; 
 but mine is a jealousy that would gain for you the woman 
 you love not keep her from you. Tell me, what kind of 
 a woman is she?"
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 And the son spoke as foolishly perhaps as ever son spoke 
 to any mother, and the mother's eyes filled with tears at 
 his words, so tender was his folly. Could any woman live 
 up to this ideal? Could Sally be all this all he demanded 
 of her? She must indeed be a wonderful child-woman, 
 which, of course, she was. 
 
 "She would love you, mother." Tenderest of all flatter- 
 ies, this ! 
 
 "I hope so, my son. I love her already, both for her 
 own sake and for the sake of that dear mother who had to 
 leave such a child." 
 
 "They say she was wonderful." 
 
 "And the father?" 
 
 "He is very unlike other people." 
 
 "Not too much unlike, I hope?" said the mother, not 
 without worldly wisdom. 
 
 "Well, the world would be a better place if there were 
 more like him." 
 
 "Ah, that's all I wanted to know. And you have written 
 to the child, as I asked you to do?" 
 
 "As you asked me to I did." 
 
 "You wrote very kindly, tenderly ready to believe and 
 to understand?" 
 
 "I am ready to believe." 
 
 "Then some day Sally will walk in this garden and she 
 will love it." 
 
 "Mother, why do you say that?" 
 
 "Because, I see her, that's why. I see her quite plainly. 
 Tall and straight divinely fair tell me if I am wrong. 
 Fair, and she holds me up in her arms her strong, young 
 arms as I grow old and feeble, and she humours me so 
 sweetly. She begs me to tell her all about you, Neil, when 
 you were a boy, and I tell her everything I can remember, 
 and much more; and I talk on and on, Sally listening with 
 bent head and a smile on her lips till the shadows grow 
 long in the garden, and the yew hedges are black in the 
 twilight, and the birds go to rest, and your old mother
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 227 
 
 falls asleep, and you and Sally bid me good-night a ten- 
 der good-night ..." 
 
 "My dear, darling mother!" 
 
 And his mother laughed. "Who is that, Neil?" 
 
 Over the grass towards them walked an old man. "See 
 what he wants, dear," she said, resenting the intrusion. 
 And Neil went across the grass towards Jaunty. 
 
 "Captain Wentford?" asked Jaunty, baring his head and 
 standing among the flowers as old-fashioned as himself. 
 
 "Yes, I'm Captain Wentford. I don't think I know 
 you." 
 
 "Not yet, sir but I would like to speak to you." 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 Jaunty said he must ask to see him alone he was 
 sorry. 
 
 "Dear Neil, I will go," and Mrs. Wentford left them. 
 
 Captain Wentford asked Jaunty to sit down; but he pre- 
 ferred to stand. "I am Jaunty, sir," he said, "butler not 
 exactly butler in the family of Mr. Lawrence." 
 
 "Jaunty!" exclaimed Captain Wentford, "I'm delighted 
 to see you of course I have heard of you," and Jaunty 
 found his hand clasped fast in the hand of this tall, bronzed 
 soldier; in the hand that had held the pen in the hand 
 that had written that stupendous love-letter in the hand 
 of Miss Sally's lover. 
 
 "Sir, sir I am overcome by your kindness. I have 
 brought you a letter from Miss Sally." 
 
 "She sent you?" 
 
 "No, sir, I came. I ask you to read this letter in my 
 presence I ask you when you have read it to tell me . . ." 
 
 "What right have you to ask this?" 
 
 "The right love gives. Sir, I demand the right. I am 
 old you cannot disappoint me." 
 
 Captain Wentford took Sally's letter, and walking away 
 left Jaunty alone. He stood there in the midst of the 
 flowers. He had dared much. Was he to have dared in 
 vain?
 
 228 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 A gentle voice said, "Have you brought good or bad 
 news ?" 
 
 Jaunty turned and found Mrs. Wentford beside him. 
 He reverenced her beauty and goodness. He recognised it 
 the same goodness that had been his lady's, the same 
 gentleness. "I cannot say, ma'am. I have brought a letter 
 from my young lady." 
 
 "You do not know what it says?" 
 
 "I do not, ma'am; but I have good reason to think that 
 what it says is not the truth and I have come to enforce 
 right." 
 
 "She cares, then?" asked Mrs. Wentford, wondering 
 greatly that she could ask the question of a stranger; but 
 the stranger was so simple an old man, he spoke with such 
 conviction. "She cares?" she repeated. 
 
 "She most certainly cares, ma'am; she was grieving for 
 another, from a sense of duty . . ." 
 
 "Ah !" said Mrs. Wentford, "I said so." 
 
 "It takes the old I beg your pardon, ma'am, the older 
 to understand the young. From a sense of loving duty, 
 she grieved. It is Miss Sally's way to share a sorrow 
 and all the while she has a sorrow of her own greater than 
 she can bear." 
 
 Mrs. Wentford asked in what relationship Jaunty stood 
 to Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 "Butler, ma'am; not butler exactly confidential but- 
 ler . . ." 
 
 "Most confidential." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am;" and Jaunty heard Mrs. Lawrence's voice 
 saying those very words. "She gave the children into my 
 care," he added. 
 
 "And you have cared for them devotedly?" 
 
 "I have done what I could," he said simply. 
 
 "My son is coming," said Mrs. Wentford. She left the 
 two together. 
 
 "There is nothing to wait for," said Captain Wentford. 
 
 "There is everything to wait for. The letter says . . ."
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 229 
 
 "It is quite impossible I should tell you what the letter 
 says." 
 
 "Then it becomes my duty to tell you. Miss Sally says 
 she was engaged to another; she was not. For the sake of 
 one she loved she allowed her to think so that one was the 
 sister of the poor young man. It was the only way she 
 thought she could show her sympathy. It was not a wise 
 way; but where love is concerned Miss Sally is not wise. 
 Now, sir, it lies with you. If you choose to resent the in- 
 terference of an old man, you can go your way and forget 
 all about Miss Sally that she loved you and, please God, 
 in time she too will forget it. If, on the other hand, you 
 forgive the old man for the love he bears the child, then 
 when Panslea thinks it right that she should be better, you 
 will come back. But you must remember that Panslea is 
 old-fashioned. Panslea has given its heart to Miss Sally; 
 its heart has been wounded by her sorrow, it must be al- 
 lowed to heal, from the inside. Miss Anne must be con- 
 sidered the memory of Mr. Beech must be considered. 
 But, sir, the child can wait with hope but you must say 
 nothing for she is no actress, and Panslea would know 
 by the very joy in her face." 
 
 "But how will she know if I say nothing?" 
 
 "By my face, sir ! She will look at me and she will say, 
 'Jaunty could not look so happy if I were not happy.' 
 She has looked to me all her life for happiness." 
 
 "Then when shall I come?" 
 
 "June, sir, is her happiest time she is at her best in 
 June. She is a little freckled later. The winter will be 
 dark, sir, but there is Panslea to be thought of. Panslea 
 is behind the times and we must keep pace with Panslea." 
 
 "And shall I not write?" 
 
 "Would you naturally answer the letter?" 
 
 Captain Wentford said there was no answer to the let- 
 ter in ordinary circumstances. 
 
 And Neil Wentford went back to his mother, and they
 
 230 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 walked in the garden till the shadows grew long at their 
 feet, and the yew hedges rose black in the twilight, and 
 the birds went to their rest in the branches of the trees. 
 "It will be difficult to wait, dear," said Mrs. Wentford.
 
 XXIV 
 
 Now all this will be said to be very unnatural that it 
 could never have happened. But how does any one know 
 what might happen if they had a Jaunty of their own to 
 deal with? I am willing to admit that no nurse would 
 have done all he did; she would have known her place 
 better. No aunt would have done it, because she couldn't 
 have made her niece cheap. But with a Jaunty it was 
 different. He had promised Mrs. Lawrence or he thought 
 she had exacted the promise from him in that dying look 
 she gave him to take care of her children, and nothing 
 would stop him; certainly no idle convention. 
 
 So back to Panslea he went with a lighter heart than 
 he had known for months, and Sally meeting him said, 
 "Why, Jaunty, what is it?" 
 
 "Till June, miss; till June!" 
 
 "You haven't said anything, Jaunty not told any one?" 
 
 "Is it likely, miss? Till June; you can be brave till 
 then?" 
 
 And she promised to be brave. June, anyway, was worth 
 waiting for, and every day she looked braver and in 
 Jaunty's eyes more beautiful. And Panslea approved her 
 brave spirit, and one said to the other, "Perhaps some day 
 she will learn to love another," and the suggestion was not 
 resented; and in time from a suggestion it grew into a 
 prayer a prayer that was answered before it was 
 breathed. 
 
 Jaunty found the hammer and nails and put them inside 
 the case of the grandfather clock, so that he could find 
 them at any time. He hesitated to nail down the rug be- 
 cause Panslea might wonder why it never slipped, which 
 would entail explanations, and that would never do. Jaunty 
 
 231
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 was as old-fashioned in some things as he was in others. 
 His mind and Miss Eleanor's mind were of the same think- 
 ing with regard to our advent into this strange world of 
 ours. It was a thing no nice-minded person would mention 
 until it was a fact accomplished. Once there, Jaunty ap- 
 proved of the fact, and Miss Eleanor was ready to paint 
 it especially if it chose hurriedly to leave the world into 
 which it had so mysteriously entered. 
 
 Anne Beech lived from Monday morning till Saturday 
 afternoon, and Jaunty knew why. He was glad of it. He 
 liked Miss Beech and he had nothing to say against Mr. 
 Mason except that he was Miss Mason's brother, but he 
 was just enough to know that wasn't his fault. 
 
 Lord and Lady Bridlington made much of Sally. Lady 
 Bridlington could not do enough. She was quite as foolish 
 as he had been. Sally had now two armchairs in every 
 cottage whether they were deserved or not. 
 
 Lord Bridlington couldn't refuse her anything because 
 her eyes had grown so large. Lady Bridlington said they 
 had always been that. She couldn't forget Sally's eyes 
 that night on the yacht when Neil Wentford had looked at 
 her. They haunted Lady Bridlington. And at last she 
 summoned up her courage and wrote to Neil Wentford, and 
 told him she wasn't quite sure she had been right about 
 a certain person's engagement. But nothing happened, and 
 she grew more and more unhappy and thinner; that was 
 the bright lining to her cloud. And she went on being 
 unhappy slightly unhappy. 
 
 Mr. Masters, once the desire for stained-glass windows 
 and screens had possessed him and seeing them almost 
 within sight began to strike out in other lines so as to be 
 worthy of the stained-glass windows and carven screens. 
 Panslea was alarmed. He ventured to suggest Choral Com- 
 munion and Panslea was terrified, shaken to its founda- 
 tions. Old Summers who had sung in the choir for fifty 
 years had never heard tell of it he for one was against 
 it, and would rather resign than consent, and all of his
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 233 
 
 age and standing followed him; and they and his children 
 and grandchildren made a goodly following. 
 
 In a very short time Panslea was in a state of revolution. 
 Anne Beech did all she could to soothe and pacify. Mr. 
 Lawrence talked to Mr. Masters, putting it to him gently 
 yet forcibly, that it wasn't whether there was harm or not 
 in a thing; it was rather whether a thing perfectly right 
 and good in itself did harm by keeping people away from 
 church. Mr. Masters said it was a matter of teaching 
 those who rebelled must stay away until they had learned. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence suggested that old Summers was too old 
 to learn. Old Summers sang out of tune. "Ah, that is 
 another thing/' admitted Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 "Another reason/' said Mr. Masters, "why we should be 
 glad to get rid of him." There was much talking and little 
 doing. Mr. Masters went one day to see Mrs. Hill. He 
 thought very highly of Mrs. Hill. Although they might 
 not see alike in all things, there was no denying she was a 
 very good and spiritual woman. He foresaw little diffi- 
 culty; she was just. He felt he could convince her. He 
 went up the steep hill to the farm with hope high in his 
 heart. She welcomed him, she bade him enter, she asked 
 him to sit down; he begged her to sit down, and they both 
 sat down. 
 
 "Now, Mrs. Hill/' he said, "I am going to appeal to you 
 to your good sense to your sense of justice," and he laid 
 the whole matter before her. 
 
 She sat with her hands folded and she listened, her head 
 bent. "Admirably submissive," thought Mr. Masters, and 
 when he had finished he asked her what she thought. Was 
 he right or was old Summers right about the Choral 
 Service? 
 
 Mrs. Hill thought a moment, then said very gently, "If 
 one of your children came to you, sir, to ask you for some- 
 thing he wanted very much would he sing?" and Mr. 
 Masters went his way not nearly as vexed and disappointed 
 as he felt he ought to have been; and peace descended on
 
 234 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Panslea, and Summers went on singing in the choir, and he 
 sang no more in tune than he had done before; but, as he 
 said, he sang to God not to the congregation. It did not 
 make the pain of the musical proportion of the congrega- 
 tion any the less; but they had this to console them, Sum- 
 mers grew no younger as the days went by. When his 
 grandchildren are grown up they may have learned differ- 
 ently and Panslea with them. It is perhaps a matter of 
 teaching. The question is, From whom does Mrs. Hill 
 learn? 
 
 Panslea knew full well that if God willed it so, old 
 Summers would sing in tune in the next world. Janet went 
 so far as to say it could have been done in this one, because 
 she had heard of some girl who had been taught to sing in 
 tune by suggestion who naturally could not sing one note 
 in tune. Panslea shook its head. It was no use suggesting 
 anything to old Summers.
 
 XXV 
 
 IT was a proud day for Jaunty when he was bidden to 
 London to see Pamela's baby. He resented a little the fact 
 that it was Pamela's, and not some one else's, which was a 
 little hard on Pamela. Jaunty put his hand to his heart to 
 see how it bore the excitement. If his heart stood this one, 
 wouldn't it perhaps stand another greater? So often did 
 he put his hand to his heart during the journey to London 
 that a kind old lady sitting opposite him leant forward and 
 asked him if he were suffering. Jaunty said not suffering 
 from anything more than a very natural excitement. 
 
 "But that shouldn't hurt," she said. Jaunty said it 
 didn't. 
 
 Finding the old lady kind and seeing her interested, he 
 told her the whole story of his life since he had lived with 
 Mr. Lawrence at least, he meant to tell her all, but the 
 train went too fast and the miles were too few, and by the 
 time London was reached the old lady knew only half the 
 charm and beauty of Sally and nothing of Mademoiselle. 
 So when she went to look after her luggage Jaunty fol- 
 lowed her with offer of help, and said, "I forgot to mention 
 the partially paralysed French lady Mr. Lawrence fetched 
 from London to teach Miss Sally French a most excellent 
 and good woman." 
 
 "Thank you, thank you; I am so glad to know not 
 wholly paralysed," said the old lady. "I hope your good 
 brave heart will keep going well and strong for many a 
 long day. Yes, dear, it's all here, thank you." 
 
 The "dear" was a slip, and it came as a shock to Jaunty, 
 but it meant of course that the old lady belonged to a large 
 family, and he felt that if he had lacked restraint she 
 had gone a step further in calling him "dear." 
 
 235
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Arrived at Mr. Monk's house Jaunty detected signs of 
 excitement in the butler's manner. "All well?" he asked, 
 his heart playing him tricks all the time. 
 
 "All well," answered the butler with the grave reas- 
 surance of one who has been through it and knows. 
 
 "Why didn't you say so," said Jaunty snappily, "instead 
 of standing there?" and the butler was offended and 
 handed him over to the footman, who murmured something 
 about "as well as could be expected under the circum- 
 stances." Then he rang a bell and said unnecessary things 
 up a speaking-tube. As if Mrs. Monk wouldn't let Jaunty 
 see the baby without all this trouble ! Had she ever caught 
 a trout that she hadn't brought straight to him knowing 
 that it would lose nothing in the weighing? . . . 
 
 Jaunty saw the baby and he didn't see the baby because 
 of the mist of tears that was in his eyes. He straightway 
 forgave Pamela all things remembering no more the sins 
 of her youth they were all forgotten as a dream. All that 
 mattered was this scrap of masculine humanity. "Miss 
 Sally's nephew," he murmured; "Her grandchild, and She 
 so young herself . . ." 
 
 "The mother? Yes," said the nurse, anxious to please. 
 
 "No, no," said Jaunty; "She was." 
 
 The nurse nodded. He was strange, this funny old man. 
 She asked if he were suffering, and he said no, it was 
 excitement. 
 
 "When you've seen as many as I have," she said, "they 
 won't excite you;" and she tickled the baby's chin to make 
 him laugh when there was nothing to laugh at. He hadn't 
 lived long enough to see a joke. Jaunty sniffed. What 
 were numbers ? He supposed he couldn't see her? 
 
 "Who the mother?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "Well, I don't know are you a relation?" 
 
 "Do I look it?" he asked indignantly. 
 
 "I see a likeness a strong likeness in the baby," said 
 the nurse, leaning over the bassinette; and a likeness there
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 237 
 
 certainly was in the colour of the two faces one young 
 and wrinkled and red, the other old and wrinkled and 
 red. 
 
 Mr. Monk was very kind to Jaunty. He said Mrs. Monk 
 was tired, but if Jaunty would stay the night he should 
 see her the next day, and Jaunty stayed. This entailed the 
 writing of a letter ... a French letter. It must be done, 
 and he sat down at the nursery table to do it. 
 
 "MADEMOISELLE," he wrote, "Le petit garon est beau comme 
 un ange; il est tres like Miss Pamela was at that age mais 
 plus rouge. I bear the excitement well we all do. Yours 
 faithfully, 
 
 "JAUHTY." 
 
 Jaunty followed his letter, and arrived in Panslea a few 
 hours after it had been read. When Mademoiselle asked 
 if the baby was all right, he said it was. What about his 
 letter, the French part? Mademoiselle said it was excel- 
 lent, what there was of it. 
 
 "Same with the baby," he said. 
 
 "But tell me more," begged Mademoiselle; and Jaunty 
 told her everything that had happened to him, everything 
 that had been said to him, from the moment he had set 
 foot in Mr. Monk's house. With awed reverence he de- 
 scribed Pamela. Never in her life had she looked so good, 
 or so like her mother. 
 
 She really seemed pleased with the baby, which he had 
 never expected she would be. At that Mademoiselle raised 
 her eyes heavenwards. "Mon cher, is she not a woman, the 
 adorable Pamela first of all things a woman that was 
 the trouble. Did I not say always that she was at heart 
 the child of truth and goodness ?" 
 
 "They must have been of the French variety," said 
 Jaunty. 
 
 "And Mr. Monk?" asked Mademoiselle, ignoring Jaun- 
 ty's last speech. 
 
 "Mr. Monk?" asked Jaunty, raising his hands in mock
 
 238 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 horror. "When he has had to do with two, as I have, he 
 won't be so excited." 
 
 At that moment Mr. Lawrence came in to say Miss Ma- 
 son would like to see Jaunty, and Jaunty went down to 
 see Miss Mason, wondering what right she had to know 
 about babies, and he found not only Miss Mason, but Miss 
 Beech, and Miss Doe and Miss Eleanor Doe, and Mrs. 
 Masters, all gathered together. He told them all about 
 the baby. The baby was small; but there was much to 
 tell, and in what he told there was much of truth and much 
 more of imagination, pure and simple. After he was done 
 and his audience dispersed, Anne Beech said to him, "And 
 I have something to tell you, Jaunty." 
 
 And Jaunty said he knew what it was. 
 
 "How?" she asked, with the thing written so plainly on 
 her face that any one might have read it who had learned 
 his letters. 
 
 Jaunty couldn't say; he knew it, that was all. 
 
 "And you wish me happiness." 
 
 "As I would wish it for my Miss Sally," and more he 
 couldn't say. Then he added: 
 
 "If she my Miss Sally came to care some day for 
 some one else, miss what would you say?" 
 
 "I should say 'Thank God,' " said Anne. 
 
 Jaunty looked at her, saw that she spoke the very truth, 
 saw the tears in her eyes, and said: 
 
 "She does, miss." 
 
 "Thank God," said Anne, true to her word. "What are 
 you looking for, Jaunty?" for Jaunty was looking around. 
 
 "I remember," he said; and he went to the clock, opened 
 the case and took out the hammer and nails. 
 
 "The rug slips, miss; the baby we must be careful." 
 
 "You dear, funny old Jaunty." 
 
 Jaunty/ stooped to tack down the rug; as he did it he 
 staggered. Anne steadied him and he caught hold of the 
 banister. 
 
 "Jaunty, what is it?"
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 239 
 
 "It's only excitement, miss. With care, the doctor says 
 I shall live till . . ." 
 
 "Jaunty, dear Jaunty." 
 
 "Doctors don't know, miss don't be alarmed. They 
 make far too much fuss about babies; it's money to them, 
 of course. But it gives women an undue sense of their own 
 importance it makes fools of men. I forgot all the trou- 
 ble Miss Pamela ever was when I saw her lying there 
 she was so like her mother. If a baby can do that there 
 should be more of them."
 
 XXVI 
 
 PANSLEA settled down into winter, quiet winter days. 
 Jaunty was going to have a Christmas tree for the baby. 
 You couldn't begin too young with children besides it 
 would amuse Miss Sally. She was happier, there was no 
 doubt about that. "It will be all right, Jaunty? You are 
 sure it will?" she asked. 
 
 "All in God's good time," he answered. 
 
 "Not in your good time? Are you sure it's not yours?" 
 
 And he didn't deny it didn't seek to deny it. 
 
 Matilda knitted woollen boots by the dozen. There was 
 a stack of them on the workroom table, and into every 
 stitch she knitted was woven joy and happiness, and 
 Jaunty put his fingers into the boots and smiled at their 
 smallness. "Do you do them out of your head, Matilda?" 
 he asked. Matilda said she had directions. She pointed to 
 a sheet of notepaper, yellow with age and broken at the 
 folds. Jaunty sniffed. He knew the date of those direc- 
 tions. He would rather she had worked from others. 
 These would open wounds. He suggested a variety in 
 sizes, and Matilda said he was encroaching on her depart- 
 ment ; and he begged her not to go back into her old ways 
 contrary ways and she, knowing the ways had been 
 Jaunty's, not hers, was generous enough not to say so, and 
 she added more stitches and used finer needles, and so de- 
 ceived, and at the same time satisfied Jaunty mere man 
 that he was. 
 
 Pamela, Mr. Monk, Master Monk or the baby monkey, 
 as Pamela called him two nurses and a maid, all came 
 for Christmas, and those that couldn't put up at Mr. Law- 
 rence's went to the farm, and the glories of Mrs. Monk's 
 home in London were told in the village. But Panslea 
 
 240
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 241 
 
 laid claim to the beauty of Mrs. Monk. Panslea had 
 brought her up. 
 
 The Christmas tree was decorated by Jaunty, and he 
 gave the baby a trumpet, and no one blamed him for it, 
 because the baby bubbled down it and didn't blow, so it was 
 as good a present as any other. 
 
 The mouthpiece was china. Jaunty pointed that out 
 with pride, and was furious when it was sterilised every 
 day. He had brought up two children without nonsense 
 of that kind. 
 
 Mademoiselle was busy translating French nursery 
 rhymes into English for the baby, and English nursery 
 rhymes into French also for the baby and a happy 
 humming came from her room as she worked. 
 
 Miss Eleanor would have loved to paint the child, but 
 
 refrained even from thinking about it, for fear She 
 
 would rather never paint it than that it should . . . 
 
 Her sister, seeing the light of painting in her eyes, said, 
 "My dear Eleanor, in your love for your art, you for- 
 get . . ." 
 
 "Never, dear, never; children come first art follows." 
 
 In time winter gave way to the promise of spring; then 
 spring fulfilled her promise, loyally, to the very last word 
 in buds ; and she laid carpets of purple and blue, and hung 
 curtains of white and rose embroidered in gold; wreathed 
 the trees in garlands of blossom ; painted the heavens azure 
 by day, saffron by night; starred the sward with jewels; 
 set light to the gorse-bushes on the hill; rained showers of 
 diamonds, set in the pure gold of sunshine; made the birds 
 to sing from the very joy of living, building and nesting 
 and yet Sally looked for more. Even though she found a 
 little of Heaven imprisoned in the speedwell she counted 
 her world lost, and she watched Jaunty. His good spirits 
 persisted. He never looked depressed or despondent, and 
 she didn't dare give up the hope that burned in his brav 
 old eyes.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "Is it coming soon, Jaunty must it be June? June 
 comes so slowly/' she said one day. 
 
 "Soon? What is soon? Does the spring come soon to 
 the withered branches of the tree does the sap seem 
 long in rising? Does release come soon to the prisoner 
 who knows relief is on its way? Does happiness ever come 
 flying? Doesn't it come slowly that it may leave its foot- 
 marks on the path so that others may find the way? I am 
 no poet, miss, but do you understand?" 
 
 And she had to say she understood.
 
 XXVII 
 
 IT was to come sooner than Jaunty thought. 
 
 "If a beautiful young creature can spare a few minutes 
 to an old woman, the old woman will be very grateful, and 
 the young one she hopes may not repent of her kindness. 
 The name of the old woman is Wentford." In such a 
 manner it came. 
 
 The writer went on to say if Sally would send a message 
 by the bearer the writer of the note would be with her in 
 a very short time; in fact, she was waiting outside. Sally 
 read the note over and over again, and when she had read 
 it her heart felt suffocating with joy. 
 
 Jaunty waited to know what the note was about. 
 
 Sally asked him if he had any business papers for her 
 father, and he said he could always find some if neces- 
 sary. 
 
 "Well, for twenty minutes, Jaunty; please, will you 
 keep him? just for twenty minutes. Every other moment 
 of my life I shall want him and you !" Jaunty shook his 
 head; he knew better. 
 
 "It's good news, miss ?" he asked. 
 
 "Jaunty dear, I am going to feel something of what it 
 must be to have a mother. . . ." 
 
 Jaunty looked jealously at the picture that hung on the 
 wall. Sally saw the look, understood it, and said, "She 
 would be glad she is glad, Jaunty." 
 
 "Twenty minutes? The income-tax paper will just do 
 it," he said, and he went away. Now that happiness was 
 within reach of his young lady, he would withhold it from 
 her, from feelings of mean and petty jealousy. He knew 
 himself mean and petty, and therein lay his salvation. He 
 tried to announce Mrs. Wentford, but couldn't because of 
 the tears that were in his voice. 
 
 243
 
 244 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 Mrs. Wentford walked into the room, looked round, and 
 seeing Sally standing in the window held out her arms. 
 It was all the invitation Sally needed. 
 
 "My beautiful child," said Mrs. Wentford; then she held 
 her at arm's length and said, "I'm not surprised now 
 I couldn't believe all my Neil told me. Now tell me: am 
 I wrong in coming, or am I right?" 
 
 "Oh, right," said Sally, blushing exquisitely, with her 
 soul in her eyes. "How did you know?" 
 
 "Need you know that so long as I do know? And as I 
 do know, ought I to stand back when perhaps I might help 
 him? Now, my child, I'm not going to deprive Neil of any 
 of his rights. I am not going to make love to you in any 
 kind of way, but I want to know if I may tell him he has 
 waited long enough ?" 
 
 "Has he been waiting?" asked Sally. 
 
 "Do you know him so little?" 
 
 "No, no; but . . ." 
 
 "But you must have your sacred things that you can't 
 talk about, of course; but I may tell him he has waited 
 long enough, and you know it will bring him here as 
 quickly as car can bring him you don't mind that?" 
 
 "I shall be waiting," said Sally. 
 
 "I shall not tell him I have seen you. I shall only say 
 I have heard that he has waited long enough." 
 
 "What he heard about another was never true but I 
 could not say so. Dear mother of Neil, there is one thing 
 I must say. I wanted him to be the only one and the 
 world will think . . ." 
 
 "My child, the world will soon forget; and, after all, 
 the love of a dear boy could do you no harm in the eyes 
 of the world, and if you had loved him it would have 
 been natural enough, wouldn't it?" 
 
 Sally couldn't say; in fact, she found it very difficult to 
 say anything. Nothing seemed natural. Mrs. Wentford 
 saw that ; knew it was the most natural thing in the world ; 
 knew that no mother has a right to intrude where sons fear
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 245 
 
 to tread, so she said, "It is only that I am a jealous mother 
 and wanted to see what kind of a child-woman she was 
 whom my son loved. He's been everything to me; let me 
 gain a daughter and not lose a son. Is this your beautiful 
 mother ?" 
 
 She went and stood before the portrait of Mrs. Law- 
 rence, and the girl looked out from the canvas on to the 
 other girl her child and on to the much older woman, 
 and there was the smile in her eyes that Sally knew so 
 well. It seemed to deepen, her lips seemed to move. "She 
 might be a child," said Mrs. Wentford. 
 
 "She's older now," said Sally, "that's what she was 
 when . . ." 
 
 "May I see him?" 
 
 Sally went to fetch her father. She brought him back. 
 She opened the door saw him hold out his hand saw 
 Mrs. Wentford take it then she closed the door on them 
 the unfortunate parents each demanding of the other what 
 they most loved in the world. 
 
 "I have not been quite honest, Mr. Lawrence," said Mrs. 
 Wentford; "I could not wait the full time. I had to see 
 your child." 
 
 "What time ?" asked Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 "That wonderful old man who calls himself a butler said 
 it must be June ; that Neil must wait till June and I came 
 to see. Must he wait? He arrives home from abroad to- 
 morrow must he wait ? It has been long as it is." 
 
 Then seeing that Mr. Lawrence was puzzled she asked if 
 he didn't know; and Mr. Lawrence said he had, of course, 
 heard of her son, but he had not known what Sally's feel- 
 ings were; he had imagined . . . 
 
 "And now that you know?" 
 
 Mr. Lawrence said he would rather have heard it from 
 Sally herself. "Forgive me; I am a jealous father," he 
 pleaded. 
 
 "It's what I said of myself a moment ago, as a mother.
 
 246 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 It is what we parents must feel if we really love but for 
 a moment only; then real love must triumph." 
 
 "Sally is more to me than anything in the world." 
 
 "And Neil to me." 
 
 "How did Jaunty know?" asked Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 "Does it matter how he knew so long as he did know?" 
 
 Mr. Lawrence supposed not; but Jaunty was uncanny in 
 the way he always knew everything. 
 
 Mrs. Wentford had not come to talk about Jaunty. She 
 had seen Sally; it was enough. Mr. Lawrence had not 
 mentioned money matters, which was curious; then she 
 remembered he was unlike other people; but as he said 
 good-bye to her he promised her Sally. He did not say so 
 in words, but Mrs. Wentford read it in his eyes. 
 
 "He will be good to her?" he asked. 
 
 "What a question to ask a mother !" murmured Jaunty 
 who overheard. "Will he never learn?" 
 
 Mrs. Wentford went without seeing Sally again, and Mr. 
 Lawrence, having seen her off, went back to the library and 
 stood before the portrait of Sally's mother. As he was 
 standing there Sally came into the room, and putting her 
 arms round him buried her face in his coat. He held her. 
 Then gently he raised her face, and looking at her tenderly 
 saw softly shining in her eyes the light that had shone in 
 the eyes of her mother. 
 
 "What did he say?" said Jaunty as Sally came out of 
 the room. 
 
 "Nothing!" 
 
 "He wouldn't," said Jaunty, "he wouldn't trust himself. 
 Does the young man know, I wonder, what he is asking 
 for? How can we give it?" 
 
 Jaunty knew that at this moment Mr. Lawrence must 
 have gone back in thoughts to those happy long-ago days, 
 so it became his duty to disturb him. He went into the 
 library. 
 
 "How did you know, Jaunty?" Mr. Lawrence asked, 
 looking up as Jaunty came into the room.
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 47 
 
 "Must you know, sir?" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I would ask you to spare me, sir." 
 
 "No, tell me;" and if Mr. Lawrence had but known he 
 would not have pressed the question. 
 
 "It's the only thing I have ever done of which I shall 
 be eternally ashamed. I determined to read Miss Sally's 
 love-letter. I should have read it it seemed to me the 
 only way of getting to the bottom of a bad business I 
 should have read it even had not the puppy delivered it 
 into my hands. I read it knowing it was Miss Sally's let- 
 ter the puppy saved me the humiliation of looking for it. 
 I make no excuses for myself. I read the letter on pur- 
 pose because I saw she was unhappy I knew she was." 
 
 "It was no excuse, Jaunty," said Mr. Lawrence, a little 
 jealous perhaps. 
 
 "None, sir; but now it is done, and it has brought hap- 
 piness to Her child, am I bound to grieve till the end of 
 my days?" 
 
 "It was the only way?" asked Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 "The only way." 
 
 "She wouldn't have told you?" 
 
 "What she wouldn't tell her father? Never, sir." 
 
 That was clever of Jaunty. He healed a wound he did 
 not know he had made. 
 
 "Well, Jaunty, all you've been all your life must be 
 taken in extenuation," and Jaunty went from his master 
 sorrowful and sore at heart. 
 
 The sight of Sally, radiant, beaming, blessing him, re- 
 stored his faith in the world and in himself. "You forgive 
 me, miss?" he asked. 
 
 "Jaunty, Jaunty, I don't know what you have done, but 
 you shall be numbered among the saints. Nobody under- 
 stands as you do, Jaunty. You always did do you re- 
 member? I seem to be a child again nobody understands 
 as you do." 
 
 And for this moment and others Jaunty had lived. It
 
 248 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 was not an entirely happy moment; but the joy out- 
 weighed the unhappiness. He went back to the library and, 
 opening the door, he said: 
 
 "Sir, there's no reason any one should know how I 
 gained my knowledge?" 
 
 "No, Jaunty, no reason that I can see. Here, Jaunty! 
 I forgive you, you understand that?" 
 
 "It's all the forgiveness I want. I wouldn't disappoint 
 you for anything in the world." 
 
 "Not even for . . .?" Mr. Lawrence pointed to the 
 door. 
 
 "Not even for Miss Sally now that she is happy."
 
 XXVIII 
 
 THE next morning at the same hour that Mrs. Wentford 
 had come, Neil came. Jaunty announced him, then closing 
 the door he went to Mr. Lawrence and said, "He's come 
 you won't go in?" and Mr. Lawrence, pretending to be 
 indignant, said, "You take too much upon yourself." Then 
 he saw Jaunty 's face, saw what a burden of sorrow he was 
 bearing now that the time had come, and said, "As bad 
 as that, Jaunty?" 
 
 "I shall soon give up my charge, sir." 
 
 "No, you mustn't do that; we can't do without you." 
 
 Jaunty smiled. He was glad to hear it, in a way. 
 
 He smiled as he trudged upstairs; Matilda must not be 
 left out of this. He stopped every now and then on the 
 stairs; he was out of breath from excitement. He went to 
 the workroom. 
 
 "It's all right, Matilda," he said. 
 
 "It's kind of you to tell me so, Mr. Jaunty. You are 
 out of breath." 
 
 "What else should I be at my age ? Will you tell Serena ? 
 and tell her her cooking will pass muster to-day. Tell her 
 it's all right, I haven't time. Tell her pancakes will do 
 anything will do he won't know what he eats to-day." 
 
 And Matilda's heart swelled within her. Serena's 
 wooden leg had won her confidences in the past. Now 
 Matilda had been told and not Serena. Serena had stood 
 too long on the merits of her wooden leg. 
 
 Jaunty went downstairs into the pantry that was not 
 really a pantry and he sat down at his table. He turned 
 the key in the drawer and opened it. He took out a packet 
 of letters. From several he drew out one. It was addressed 
 to "My Sally, to be given to her the day of her engage- 
 
 249
 
 250 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 ment." The rest he tied up again and closed the drawer. 
 The one letter he had taken from the others he put in his 
 breast coat pocket. Then he took up a pen. . . . The pen 
 dropped from his fingers. 
 
 And Sally, not knowing that Jaunty had relinquished 
 his charge, talked to Neil. "But you should have known," 
 she insisted, "that day by the river." 
 
 And Neil said that for two glorious hours he had known 
 that he had been told . . . 
 
 "You should have known I did it to save Anne from 
 sorrow. It seemed the only way." 
 
 "And why didn't you tell me to save me from sorrow? 
 What should I know of Anne?" 
 
 "Could I have told? If I had, it would have made it 
 useless." 
 
 "You left me much to guess." 
 
 "I thought you would have known by the river. It 
 seemed then that everything was explained." 
 
 "Yet we said nothing." 
 
 "It was what you didn't say that was so wonderful." 
 
 "You understood?" 
 
 "Everything you didn't say. Then on the yacht you 
 looked . . ." Sally put her hands over her eyes to shut 
 out the memory of that look. 
 
 Neil drew them away gently. "Darling, I was so un- 
 happy." 
 
 "If only you had asked me to explain had forced me 
 to . . ." 
 
 "I wrote . . ." 
 
 "But by then I had begun not to understand . . ." 
 
 "If it hadn't been for Jaunty . . ." 
 
 "Dear, wonderful Jaunty. Let's go and tell him." 
 
 "One moment, Sally; look at me!" 
 
 And she looked at him after that there could be no 
 doubts. 
 
 "Are you happy?"
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 "All but for one thing." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 She told him. "You don't mind?" she asked. 
 
 "Poor old Jimmy !" Neil looked at her tenderly. "Sally, 
 have you realised it is a soldier you have promised to 
 marry ?" 
 
 She realised it. 
 
 "And if I must go way . . . without you?" 
 
 "I shall wait." 
 
 "And if I come home . . . wounded?" 
 
 "I shall bind your wounds." 
 
 "And if ... I don't come home?" 
 
 "I shall join you on what Pamela calls the farthest of 
 all frontiers where she says I shall wait for . . ." 
 
 "Who?" asked Neil jealously. 
 
 "Oh, nobody!" 
 
 "I must know. Tell me!" he pleaded. Jimmy he didn't 
 mind poor Jimmy; but another . . . "Tell me!" he in- 
 sisted. "Do I know him?" 
 
 Sally shook her head. 
 
 "Have I ever heard of him?" 
 
 "Never, never," said Sally. Of that she was certain. 
 
 "Are you fond of him?" 
 
 "Not yet; I shall be some day very." 
 
 "I will try to like him, for your sake; but do tell me. 
 Sally, I'm horribly jealous. Tell me!" 
 
 "If you must know my grandson! Let's go to Jaunty 
 he will be so happy." 
 
 But Mr. Lawrence had been before them. He had gone 
 into the pantry; he had called Jaunty. There was no 
 answer. Jaunty was sitting at his table, his head bent 
 low. 
 
 "Jaunty, the child is so happy, so radiant; and she owjps 
 it to you. Jaunty!" 
 
 There was no answer, and Mr. Lawrence knew why. 
 What he did not know was what Matilda would have known 
 at once. Which was that Jaunty had probably already
 
 JAUNTY IN CHARGE 
 
 taken charge of two angel babies, and was putting their 
 wings straight and tidying them up all round, so that when 
 their mother joined them she should say, "Why, this must 
 be Jaunty 's doing; I have heard all about him he brought 
 up the Lawrence children. You will be a great comfort 
 to me, Jaunty!" 
 
 Sally came to the door. "Jaunty!" she called; and for 
 the first time in her life he did not answer. 
 
 "He is not there," said her father. 
 
 "Then we must find him," she said; "he hates not to 
 know things." 
 
 And for that very reason, if for no other, I must say 
 nothing more of Mr. Lawrence, Pamela, Sally, or Panslea, 
 because Jaunty would hate not to know. Of Mrs. Hill 
 just one word more.
 
 XXIX 
 
 JANET MASON said to Mrs. Hill, "Did Mrs. Lawrence 
 really give Jaunty charge of her children?" 
 
 Mrs. Hill did not answer at once; then she said, very 
 gently, "Panslea never questioned it. ... Shall we do as 
 Panslea did?" 
 
 253
 
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