JAN 
 
 BY 
 
 M. MORGAN GIBBON 
 
 TORONTO . . . S. B. GUNDY 
 
 Publisher in Canada for Humphrey MUford
 
 PRINTED IN GARDEN CITY, N, Y., U. S. A. 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
 INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
 
 2135791
 
 JAN
 
 JAN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 JAN OWEN died in giving birth to her first 
 child. 
 "But perhaps it's all for the best," Mrs. 
 Henry Owen, Jan's sister-in-law, would sigh when 
 the matter came under discussion, and then she 
 and her companion would purse up their lips and 
 shake their heads with an assumption of wisdom; 
 for as the wife of one of the most influential men in 
 Brynavon, Mrs. Owen was tolerably certain of a 
 sympathetic hearing. 
 
 She never troubled to explain even to herself 
 exactly for whom it was best, nor why she thought 
 so. 
 
 It hadn't seemed good, much less best, to the 
 girl who, with flaming cheeks and eyes burning 
 like live coals, had fought against Death so gal- 
 lantly, yielding her ground of Life grudgingly 
 inch by inch, until all her strength was spent. 
 
 Nor had it seemed best to John Owen when he 
 knelt by his dead wife's bedside, quite sober, al- 
 though the kisses he pressed on her cold hands were 
 
 8
 
 4 JAN 
 
 hot with the fumes of drink. But since Jan in her 
 lifetime had gloried in his caresses, however rough, 
 it is to be presumed that in death she still under- 
 stood and was content. Her understanding had 
 been the key to their marriage; her grand, unvary- 
 ing love the light which had ennobled the sordid 
 passages in their life. Decidedly it was not best 
 that that light should be extinguished. 
 
 It did not seem best either for the baby 
 destined to run the race handicapped from the 
 start, unless it could be counted a benefit to 
 be removed from a mother's influence, since 
 as all the town knew John Owen had married 
 beneath him. But modern sociology has 
 settled that a bad mother is better than none, 
 and no one had ever hinted that poor little Jan 
 was bad, only "not quite quite well, you 
 know." 
 
 Jan's death, if best for any one (which is doubt- 
 ful) benefitted Mrs. Henry Owen in her smart 
 house on the Parade, since it is easy to understand 
 how difficult it would have been for her to be on 
 terms of intimacy with her sister-in-law Jan, 
 daughter of old Thomas Jones, the farmer at 
 Pentre Fawr. 
 
 At the time of Jan's death and the child's birth 
 John Owen was living in the dilapidated old house 
 "The Plas" which he had inherited from his 
 father. There was just enough money to live on 
 without being enough either to live well or to
 
 JAN 5 
 
 keep the place in decent repair. But a roof, a 
 pipe, rough shooting, riding, whiskey, and Jan, 
 were all that John Owen asked of life. 
 
 Henry Owen, his younger brother, was a solici- 
 tor in Brynavon "the family success" as John 
 said. His house on the Parade was a marvel of 
 provincial achievement with its bay windows, 
 befrilled lace curtain, and every modern contriv-' 
 ance in the use of gas. Mrs. J. H. Rhys, the Vet's 
 wife, had remarked in Mrs. Owen's hearing that 
 she preferred electricity, but Mrs. Owen had very 
 firmly put her in her place by remarking, "With 
 gas, one knows where one is; but with electricity 
 well, there!" 
 
 She had not finished her sentence, but Mrs. 
 Rhys was due to feel crushed, though perhaps the 
 secret of all the gas in the Owens' house lay not in 
 the dangers of electricity, but in the fact that 
 Henry Owen was President of the Gas Light & 
 Coke Company in Brynavon. 
 
 All their lives the brothers had been as different 
 as only near-relatives can be. 
 
 There was only a year between them, but all 
 through his serious boyhood and middle-aged 
 youth Henry Owen had been his brother's senior 
 in everything but age. He had been in a higher 
 Form at school; he had worked hard and had 
 gained prizes and the respect of everyone with 
 whom he came into contact. 
 
 John was born lazy and only retrieved his
 
 6 JAN 
 
 reputation from the stain of stupidity by rare and 
 unexpected flashes of brilliance. 
 
 "Could do well if he would work," ran one of his 
 reports, but John explained gravely to his father 
 that if the "would" and "could" were transposed, 
 the report would be nearer the truth. 
 
 Everybody liked the tall, big-boned boy, partly 
 because his own taste was so catholic. He liked 
 the sons of the big houses round about; he liked 
 the sharp boy from the "Welsh Dragon" Public 
 House, who came into the school on a county 
 scholarship. He liked, too, the farmers' sons, the 
 town-boys, sons of small shopkeepers, and the 
 hulking young miner who had started work in the 
 pit at ten years of age, and had, by sixteen, saved 
 enough to have a year's schooling. 
 
 In their attitude to their father, old John Owen, 
 the boys were true to type. Henry was submis- 
 sive, obedient, and respectful; John was affec- 
 tionate but often ribald: had more than once 
 defied parental authority, and taken the conse- 
 quences. And old Owen respected his younger 
 son, and had no wish for his company; but John, 
 the first-born, he loved. 
 
 "So you've left school," he growled at the boys 
 one night in July, when John was eighteen and 
 Henry seventeen. They were in the old dining- 
 room, and a log-fire was burning in the hearth as 
 it did every night winter and summer. 
 
 "Yes, sir," Henry answered, looking up at his
 
 JAN 7 
 
 father respectfully through his spectacles. John 
 did not answer, but stirred the fire with his heel, 
 a habit which always annoyed his brother. 
 
 "Well, what next?" asked the old man, glower- 
 ing from beneath his bushy eyebrows. 
 
 "I should like to go to Cambridge, sir," Henry 
 suggested. "I spoke to the Head and he advised 
 it." 
 
 "Cambridge!" ejaculated John Owen. "What 
 the devil for?" 
 
 "I should like to read Law, sir," the boy an- 
 swered. 
 
 "Umph!" grunted the old man. "And what 
 about you, John? Come here, boy, where I can 
 see you, and for God's sake don't stand fidgeting 
 behind my chair." 
 
 John gave a little shrug, as if his father's ques- 
 tion was too obvious to need a serious answer. 
 "Oh," he said with a lazy smile, "I'll stay here 
 and look after the place with you." 
 
 No one could have accused old John Owen of 
 sentiment, but the last words touched him as only 
 the younger John's words could. 
 
 "You don't seem to have done much good with 
 your precious schooling," he answered, sharply. 
 "Henry took all the prizes," 
 
 The elder boy laughed. "Yes," he admitted 
 "good old Henry. But I had a lot of friends," he 
 added as an afterthought. 
 
 As a rule, the Squire's jokes were broad, and his
 
 8 JAN 
 
 sense of humour primitive, but something in the 
 boy's reply tickled him, and he leant back in his 
 chair and laughed with a hearty bellow till the 
 tears rolled down his cheeks. 
 
 Henry laughed, too, in a perfunctory way be- 
 cause his father was amused; John saw no joke 
 and watched gravely. 
 
 Suddenly the Squire pulled himself together and 
 sat up. 
 
 "By God," he said, banging on the table with 
 one hand till the glasses clinked, "you both go to 
 Cambridge or neither of you goes." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Henry. 
 
 "As you like, Father," said John. 
 
 John Owen, senior, had not much belief in educa- 
 tion, because he had not been educated, but if 
 it were a good thing, if Henry were going to have 
 it well, John should have it, too, whether he liked 
 it or not. 
 
 Their life at Cambridge was very much a repe- 
 tition of what had happened at school. 
 
 Henry read hard, had few enemies and fewer 
 friends. Cambridge the University his work 
 were all means to an end, and after his Tripos, in 
 which he took a good second, he went back to 
 Brynavon and was articled to a firm of solicitors 
 in the High Street. 
 
 For John, Cambridge was an end in itself. 
 He loved the town with its narrow twisting streets 
 and running water gutters the one-horse tram,
 
 JAN 9 
 
 the bookshops at which he gazed but never bought 
 a book. The sense of the University filled him 
 with awe; he felt that he was living among men of 
 European reputation, and brushing shoulders 
 with those who in future days would mould the 
 destinies of nations. 
 
 Incidentally, he never did a stroke of work, and 
 came down at the end of three years without hav- 
 ing been placed in the Ordinary examination. But 
 he had a large following of friends, was a member 
 of half a dozen clubs, spoke at the Union, and 
 rowed stroke for his boat the year his college 
 was head of the river. Then he drifted home 
 and fulfilled his first intention of looking after the 
 place with his father. 
 
 Henry prospered as all Henrys should and 
 by a series of deaths among the partners in the 
 firm ("So lucky," his wife would have said if he 
 had then been married to her "Well, you know 
 what I mean") he had risen to be a partner 
 and the firm now stood in the name of Griffiths, 
 Son & Owen. With a sense of the fitness of things, 
 so lamentably lacking in John, Henry began de- 
 liberately to look about for a wife. There were 
 plenty of girls in Brynavon who would have been 
 willing to marry an Owen of "The Plas" red- 
 cheeked, healthy, stout girls, who laughed loudly, 
 and said "Oh, Mr. Owen!" But Henry wanted 
 fresh blood. It wasn't exactly a question of 
 eugenics with him, because he married before
 
 10 JAN 
 
 the time when busy-bodies wanted the State to 
 play nursemaid to its citizens, but his father had 
 always drunk heavily and now John was following 
 suit and 
 
 To clinch matters, Henry took the pledge and 
 became Secretary of the Local Temperance Asso- 
 ciation, and married a Miss Annie Morgan, a 
 young lady from Birmingham, who did good 
 works, taught in the Sunday School, and said she 
 had thoughts of becoming a missionary. This 
 was strictly true, because when the minister of 
 the Chapel she attended was ill, an almost inde- 
 cently good-looking young missionary had "sup- 
 plied." 
 
 But he married the red-haired girl in the choir, 
 and Henry Owen proposed to Annie, and she ac- 
 cepted him. "You know, dear," she said to her 
 most intimate friends, which included her whole 
 acquaintance, "he is devoted to me I feel it is a 
 kind of call." And her intimate friends told one 
 another that Annie Morgan was a wonderful girl, 
 which she was not at least not in the way they 
 meant. 
 
 Annie had also told her friends that Henry's 
 people were " County " and had a fine old place in 
 Wales, and had conjured up a pleasant picture of 
 dogs and hunting, and plenty of eggs and butter. 
 
 So the shabby old "Plas" with its broken gate 
 and leaf-strewn drive came as rather a shock to 
 her.
 
 JAN 11 
 
 Henry tried to prepare her during the walk 
 from their little house in the High Street to the 
 "Plas" for what was in store for her but his 
 loyalty to his father and John made it hard. 
 
 "You mustn't be astonished, Annie/* he said, 
 
 "if Father is sometimes rather rather " He 
 
 wanted to say drunk and didn't like to. 
 
 "I understand, dear," Annie answered, brightly, 
 "you mean difficult." 
 
 Henry had not meant difficult, and he knew she 
 did not understand, but he let both statements 
 pass unchallenged. 
 
 "Was your Father in Chapel this morning?" she 
 asked. 
 
 Henry was assailed by a sudden inclination to 
 laugh at the idea of his father listening from a 
 hard wooden seat to the kind of sermon they had 
 heard that morning. But since the joke would 
 have been inexplicable to any one else he re- 
 frained. 
 
 "No," he said, "he wasn't there." 
 
 "Oh?" Annie's tone was a query. 
 
 "He never comes and never will," Henry said 
 with conviction, quashing before birth any idea 
 his wife might be going to have as to missionary 
 effort. 
 
 "Nor John?" she asked. 
 
 "Nor John," he answered. 
 
 John was out when they reached the "Plas." 
 He always inspected the pig-sties on Sunday after-
 
 12 JAN 
 
 noon, and the fact that his brother and sister- 
 in-law were coming to tea seemed no reason for his 
 altering his habits. 
 
 So Henry led his wife into the dark old dining- 
 room. 
 
 "Father," he said, proudly, albeit he was rather 
 nervous, "this is Annie my wife." 
 
 Annie went forward, smiling and confident, and, 
 taking the old man's hand, murmured a few 
 well-chosen words about being a daughter to him. 
 At which the Squire was so astonished that he 
 ejaculated: "God bless my soul," and offered her a 
 whiskey and soda on the spot, and when she re- 
 fused coldly, drank one himself. 
 
 Conversation was stilted until John arrived. 
 Under the Squire's eyes Annie did not feel capable 
 of offering to be a sister to John, but she did man- 
 age to say that she hoped he would look upon 
 their house in the High Street as a second home. 
 
 John thanked her courteously with his slow, 
 charming smile, but Henry suddenly felt hot 
 and cold all over, and drew the visit to an abrupt 
 conclusion. 
 
 "Why did you hurry away, Henry?" Annie 
 asked on the way home, clinging to her husband's 
 arm. "I think John is charming." i 
 
 And John's comment to his father when the 
 married couple had gone, had been "Good old 
 Henry! but he needn't have gone to Birmingham 
 for that!"
 
 JAN IS 
 
 The years did not fulfil Annie's hope of intimacy 
 between the two houses. It was only twenty 
 minutes' walk between them, but they were im- 
 measurably far apart. Time brought the Henry 
 Owens prosperity and they moved to a house on 
 the Parade, which is the fashion-ground of Bryn- 
 avon. And it was here that their son was born 
 " To Annie (nee Morgan) the wife of Henry Owen 
 the gift of a son." The eldest son of John Owen 
 had been John Owen for generations past, but as 
 Annie said to her husband in privacy 
 
 "Supposing John doesn't marry, and he is so 
 queer. Well, I mean " 
 
 So Henry tackled John on the subject, and John 
 stared at him in an owlish way for a minute or 
 two before he said solemnly: "Call him John 
 man call the boy, John." 
 
 Old John Owen died soon after his grandson's 
 birth, and John, his son, astonished the countyside, 
 who thought they had been hardened to whatever 
 he might do, by an exhibition of uncontrolled 
 emotion at the graveside. 
 
 Henry regarded the whole affair as a regrettable 
 necessity; John felt it as a bitter grief. 
 
 "We must try and draw John out of himself 
 now a little," Annie suggested to her husband the 
 night of the funeral. 
 
 "Leave him alone," Henry advised, shortly, 
 "the man will be blind drunk for the next couple 
 of days."
 
 14 JAN 
 
 Annie thought that her husband's outspokenness 
 was a little coarse. Even if poor John did drink 
 and unfortunately that was an established fact 
 still there are some things best not admitted even 
 to one's wife. 
 
 Nevertheless, she followed her husband's ruling 
 and left John alone. 
 
 It was not till her son was a sturdy little fellow 
 of five that the blow fell. 
 
 Mrs. Owen had slipped down town early on a 
 Saturday to speak to Mr. Thomas, the butcher, 
 about the Sunday joint, which for the last two 
 Sundays had not been well, there not quite 
 when she met Mrs. Rhys the same one who had 
 preferred electricity to gas, and her story drove the 
 Sunday dinner, nay even the Sabbath day itself, 
 completely out of Mrs. Owen's head. 
 
 "John married?" poor Mrs. Owen cried. "Wher 
 to whom who says so?" 
 
 Mrs. Rhys, of course, could only say what she 
 had heard; in fact, she was really asking Mrs. 
 Owen for information, naturally; but they did 
 say it was to Jan, the girl at Pentre Fawr old 
 Thomas Jones's daughter. 
 
 "And if he must marry a person like that," 
 wept Mrs. Owen to her husband later, "why not 
 do it openly, instead of letting a total stranger 
 tell me in the public street? It's an affront to 
 both of us and I'm ashamed of your brother 
 John."
 
 JAN 15 
 
 She was a little distant to her husband for the 
 rest of the day, as though his relationship with 
 his erring brother made him in some way responsi- 
 ble for the marriage. 
 
 And when she met Jan in the High Street, she 
 bowed but did not stop to speak, though the 
 chemist's wife and Mrs. Rhys were both watching 
 to see if she would. So Jan held her head high, 
 and John talked of "damned Birmingham airs," 
 and the rift between the house on the Parade and 
 the "Plas" grew wider than before. 
 
 And then news spread round the town, in the 
 way news does, that Jan's baby was on its way. 
 
 "I never believe gossip," said Mrs. Owen to 
 her husband. "I'm sure I don't know how people 
 can talk as they do. It's not nice." 
 
 But John Owen put an end to any doubt when 
 he met his brother one morning, and came crudely 
 to the point. 
 
 "Jan's with child," he announced without any 
 preliminary. "God! how I pray it's a boy! Tell 
 your wife." 
 
 Without another word he was gone, swinging 
 down to the hill, back home to where Jan sat stitch- 
 ing tiny garments, 
 
 "For our son," she said, holding up her face to 
 be kissed, "but, mind you, I shall love him even if 
 he is a girl," she warned. 
 
 "It will be a boy," he said. "John, son of 
 John."
 
 16 JAN 
 
 "But if not,*' she pleaded "you'll love her just 
 as much." 
 
 "As much as you?" he cried, mistaking her on 
 purpose. "No, never not half so much." 
 
 "Silly boy," she cooed, running her fingers 
 through his hair. "No, love her as well as if she 
 were John." 
 
 A fortnight later Jan's baby was born before 
 all the little clothes were finished, but in his 
 anxiety for the mother John did not care as to the 
 sex of the child. 
 
 All the long night Jan tried to live, but when 
 the day dawned over the hills she smiled up at 
 John. 
 
 "I'm too tired, sonny," she whispered. And 
 then she died, leaving behind her a baby girl.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 JOHN took his trouble like a man badly. 
 He made no open display of grief as he had 
 done at his father's death, but he brooded 
 in dumb, sullen resentment against a world where 
 things like Jan's death could happen. "Why? 
 Why?" he kept demanding, "and why Jan any- 
 how? Jan, who never harmed a soul?" He was 
 tortured by thoughts of her somewhere beyond 
 his reach, all alone in a strange land. God! how 
 she had hated strangers. Home and John had 
 been good enough for her. She had asked so 
 little of life, and even that had been denied her. 
 And, perhaps, she'd be lonely! That hurt John 
 even more than his grief her loneliness and his. 
 John's friendliness had built up around him a bar- 
 rier more impenetrable than any reserve could 
 have created. For a reserved man is inaccessible 
 except to a very few, but they have access to 
 the "holy of holies." 
 
 Whereas John knew everyone that is, he re- 
 membered their names, and stopped them on the 
 road and asked after their wives, herds, and cattle. 
 So everyone knew "Mr. John, bless him," and 
 that was where the trouble lay. For no one knew 
 
 17
 
 18 JAN 
 
 John Owen, no one except Jan, and already the 
 daisies were sprouting on her grave. 
 
 John refused to see the baby Jan. "Take the 
 damned brat away," he shouted to the nurse, 
 who brought the child for him to see the day 
 after Jan's funeral. 
 
 "Never in all my life, mum, have I been spoken 
 to like that," the nurse confided to Mrs. Owen, 
 preening herself like an angry bird. "It's not the 
 way any gentleman would speak." 
 
 Mrs. Owen made a clicking noise with her 
 tongue, which she thought was soothing. 
 
 "Mr. John is so so," she began, but words 
 failing her to describe exactly what John was, she 
 resorted to her favourite "Well, there!" 
 
 They were sitting in the room which had been 
 Jan's bedroom, but which was now being used as 
 the child's nursery. The room below was the 
 dining-room where John sat reading, smoking, 
 drinking, and brooding. 
 
 The nurse felt rather better for Mrs. Owen's 
 moral support. 
 
 "Never once asked to see the child," she went 
 on, nodding her head. "It isn't natural, is it 
 now, Mrs. Owen, mum?" 
 
 Annie Owen looked down at the baby who lay 
 asleep on her arms, and remembered the fuss 
 and excitement hi the house when her baby John 
 had been born. Henry had been quite foolish 
 about him, and her baby had had a mother, too.
 
 JAN 19 
 
 Whereas this poor little speck of humanity was 
 stranded. 
 
 Nothing big ever happens slowly. Big re- 
 solves, like waves, rise and break quickly. And 
 before she was aware, Annie Owen knew that she 
 meant to offer to take the child and bring it up 
 with her own boy. She saw as in a review the 
 picture of herself bending over the cradle of the 
 infant saw herself guiding Jan's tottering foot- 
 steps saw her own struggle to be impartial to 
 her son and the little stranger. It was not her 
 fault, either, that she heard the comments of Bryn- 
 avon on her conduct. "That is something like 
 it," they would say. "Mrs. Owen, the solici- 
 tor's wife, you know oh, a very good woman 
 yes she took the child. Indeed, she's like a 
 mother to it, poor thing." 
 
 The nurse gave a deprecating little cough, and 
 Mrs. Owen started. 
 
 "No one could have done more than you have, 
 Mrs. Hughes," she said, handing over the baby 
 to the nurse. "And now I must be going." 
 
 The nurse laid the sleeping child back in the 
 cot. "I'll let you out, mum," she said. "These 
 old stairs are dark and that girl Sarah so 
 nighty." 
 
 John Owen heard then* voices on the stairs 
 grow louder as they approached, and then sud- 
 denly drop to a whisper, and he sat bolt upright, 
 quite still, like an animal scenting danger.
 
 20 JAN 
 
 "If she thinks she's coming here," he thought, 
 "she's damn well mistaken." 
 
 A few steps took him to the window; he opened 
 it noiselessly at the bottom, and jumped out on 
 the flower-bed beneath. Then having closed the 
 window again, he went round the house, and in by 
 the back door, and crept up the kitchen staircase 
 like a boy trying to escape detection. 
 
 At the same minute Mrs. Owen and the nurse 
 were standing in the hall outside the dining-room 
 door. 
 
 "Is he in?" whispered Mrs. Owen. 
 
 "I haven't heard him go out," the nurse an- 
 swered. 
 
 "Then I'll go in and see him," Mrs. Owen said. 
 "It's my duty," she added, firmly, much in the 
 tone of a martyr going to the stake. 
 
 Annie knew exactly what she would say to 
 John. She must, of course, first consult formally 
 with Henry, etc., etc., but for her own part blood 
 thicker than water, etc. the call of duty, etc. 
 and finally the offer to take the baby. 
 
 So it was disconcerting to find the dining-room 
 empty, and to have to postpone the speech. 
 
 "He will be so sorry to have missed me," she 
 said, turning on the nurse with that fine spirit 
 which never knows when it is beaten. 
 
 "And last time, too, mum," murmured the 
 nurse. 
 
 John, standing on the landing, could hear the
 
 JAN 21 
 
 murmur of their voices and a Puck-like gleam of 
 amusement shot across his tired face. 
 
 Then, from the next room Jan's room came 
 the sound of a baby's wail. 
 
 His first impulse was to charge down the stairs, 
 and fetch the nurse, bring her back "with a flea 
 in her ear" to the care of the child. His next 
 was one of curiosity to see this bit of Jan and 
 himself. 
 
 He opened the door softly and tiptoed across 
 the room. 
 
 "God!" he murmured, as he looked down 
 through the drapings of the bassinet "it's 
 Jan." 
 
 The baby moved her head and screwed up her 
 face in distress as if already weary of life. 
 
 John put out a rough and not over-clean hand 
 to smooth the coverlet, and the baby, waving 
 one arm, touched him, and instantly the little 
 hand closed round his finger. 
 
 John shivered with delight. Since Jan died, 
 no one had touched him except the Methodist 
 minister who shook hands after the funeral, and 
 Dio, the Russian poodle, who would nuzzle up 
 against him, and poke his cold nose into his hands. 
 
 Then the baby shifted in sleep, opened her hand, 
 and closed it again on his finger, and John's fate 
 was sealed. For the rest of his life he was first 
 and foremost a father. He often bitterly re- 
 sented his paternal responsibilities, ignored and
 
 22 JAN 
 
 refused to accept them, but he never forgot them. 
 The baby's touch wakened in him a sense of 
 fatherhood which never slept again. 
 
 The nurse's month was up at the end of the 
 week, and, to her astonishment, Jolin Owen did 
 not ask her to stay. 
 
 "But has he made arrangements?" inquired 
 Mrs. Owen, to whom the nurse told her troubles. 
 
 "I can't say no further, Mrs. Owen, mum," she 
 protested. "He says to me he says, 'Damned 
 brat,' when I showed him the child, and now I 
 can't be rid of him from the room. Fussing he is, 
 worse than any old woman." 
 
 Mrs. Owen digested this in silence. "Please 
 tell Mr. Owen," she said at length, "that I shall 
 come down to see him this afternoon." 
 
 "All right," said John, when the message was 
 delivered to him, "and give me the baby while 
 you get off your things." 
 
 "Jan," he whispered to the sleeping child 
 "it's up to us, Jan girl, to you and me. We won't 
 stand any of their damned nonsense, eh, Jan?" 
 
 He said much the same, only in more suitable 
 language, to his sister-in-law. 
 
 "When, exactly, does Mrs. Hughes go?" she 
 asked, by way of opening fire. 
 
 "Friday," John drawled. He was sitting back 
 in his chair, his face well in the shadow, otherwise 
 Annie might have seen the malicious amusement 
 in his eyes.
 
 JAN 23 
 
 "But, John," she said, bending forward and 
 speaking earnestly, "have you made arrange- 
 ments?" 
 
 John's proper answer should have been, "No, 
 Annie," and then would have been the time for 
 Annie's well-prepared offer. But since John had 
 no intimation of the stage arrangements, he failed 
 to answer to his cue. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "Do you mind if I smoke?" 
 
 Annie's next move was unpremeditated and 
 very effective she burst into tears. 
 
 "I meant to help you," she sobbed, "and you 
 won't let me." 
 
 John watched her for a moment in horrified 
 amazement. "If Henry had seen her cry before 
 he married, he'd never have married her," he re- 
 flected. And then a sudden sense of shame over- 
 came him as it did when he had kicked Dio, and he 
 crossed over to the sofa where she was sitting, 
 and sat beside her. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Annie," he said, gently patting her 
 arm, as he would have done Dio's head. "Don't 
 take on, old girl, I meant no harm." 
 
 Annie dried her eyes. "Oh, John," she quav- 
 ered, "I was going to say, I'd take the baby, if 
 you like." 
 
 It was not the way she had meant to make her 
 offer, but even in its abridged form, it staggered 
 John. 
 
 "Good God, no," he cried. Then, quickly,
 
 24 JAN 
 
 "But it's good of you, Annie better than I ever 
 dreamed or deserved." 
 
 "I'm quite willing, John," she went on, "and 
 so is Henry. I spoke to him in bed this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 John flung back his head and laughed. The 
 idea of Henry and Annie hammering out Jan's 
 future in the best four-poster bed amused him. 
 
 There was a slight stiffness in Annie's manner 
 as she straightened herself. 
 
 "I laughed," said John, with a well-intentioned 
 lie, "because I'm so much happier. I've been 
 feeling," he went on, slowly, "as if Jan mattered 
 to no one but me. And now you and old Henry 
 care about her. Hurray!" 
 
 " But what will you do about her? " Mrs. Owen's 
 voice recalled him to the point. 
 
 John stood up and looked Annie full in the face, 
 but it was a minute or two before he spoke. 
 
 "I'd like to explain to you, Annie," he said at 
 last, "if I can, because you've been so kind." 
 
 "No, no," murmured Annie, bridling, while 
 John reflected that it came easy enough to say 
 things to please once you started. 
 
 "Jan," he went on, "is mine now all mine. 
 That woman" with an impatient jerk of his 
 head to where the nursery was "would manage 
 us out of body and soul. I'll often want your 
 advice, Annie, and I'll always want your kindness, 
 but I must have Jan."
 
 JAN 25 
 
 "But, John," said Mrs. Owen, "you must have 
 someone to look after the child." 
 
 "I've arranged that with Sarah," John an- 
 nounced. 
 
 This was so much worse than Mrs. Owen had 
 expected that she said nothing for a minute or two, 
 but fixed upon him two horrified eyes. 
 
 Sarah was a red-headed maid-of-all-work, whom 
 Jan had engaged from the Infirmary. The char- 
 acter which the matron gave Sarah was such that 
 none would have been better, for though her man- 
 ners were very engaging when she pleased, her 
 morals were undoubtedly casual. 
 
 "But, John," Annie protested, breathlessly, 
 rather pink at broaching such a subject to a man 
 "the girl's not even respectable." 
 
 It was the last word of condemnation accord- 
 ing to the standard of Brynavon. The mildness 
 and understatement of the verdict damned more 
 effectually than any tirade could have done. 
 
 Not respectable! Poor Sarah, lacking that one 
 asset, you lose all. 
 
 John puffed away at his pipe, considering the 
 indictment against his plan, and just as Annie 
 thought she had brought him to his senses, he 
 said: 
 
 "Yes, I know all about her, but she ought to 
 be able to look after a baby all the better now." 
 
 And as the years went by, even Mrs. Owen had 
 to admit that on the surface only, mind you,
 
 26 JAN 
 
 John had been right. For Sarah had accepted 
 the charge lightly enough, but like St. Christo- 
 pher's burden, it grew heavier as time passed, and 
 however lax she might have been with herself 
 she became a martinet on all questions of be- 
 haviour where Jan was concerned. The number 
 of things "little ladies didn't ought to do" would 
 have filled a book. Even John didn't know half 
 of them, and Jan thought he knew everything. 
 But it turned out that Sarah knew more, so John 
 was pushed from his pedestal, and the curious 
 thing was that because of his lack of prestige, Jan 
 loved him all the better, though she didn't love 
 Sarah less. 
 
 "Look at your shoes, Miss Jan," Sarah would 
 say, pointing with an accusing finger at the mud- 
 stains. "Little ladies didn't ought to walk in 
 puddles." 
 
 "Are her feet wet?" John would ask. 
 
 Sarah ignored him. "Dirty," she continued, 
 "ugly." 
 
 It appeared that little ladies did not eat with 
 open mouths, nor drink loudly (Sarah did both); 
 nor did they dirty their pinnies nor touch the fire. 
 But they answered when spoken to, remembered 
 "Please" and "Thank you," and said their prayers 
 every night. 
 
 John came under the general scheme of disci- 
 pline. If he drank too heavily, he couldn't hold 
 the child; unless he changed his wet coat, he gave
 
 JAN 27 
 
 her a cold, and his clumping boots would have 
 soiled the nursery floor. Even his language 
 had to be curbed, because Jan came back from him 
 one day, shouting "Damn, damn," and Sarah 
 slapped her twice hard, and John was so furious 
 that he nearly slapped Sarah. But he stopped 
 swearing; that is, when Jan was about. 
 
 In another life, Sarah must have been a philos- 
 opher with a tendency to aesthetics. Her stand- 
 ards of right and wrong were expressed in terms 
 of beauty and ugliness, so that Jan came to associ- 
 ate beauty with law and order ugliness, with all 
 that was not permitted. But she allowed herself the 
 mental reservation that certain "ugly" deeds, such 
 as burrowing in the damp earth with your hands, 
 must be very nice indeed. 
 
 Jan's nursery was a beautiful room (John saw 
 to that), her pram the smartest in Brynavon, 
 saucy Sarah an immaculate nursemaid, and be- 
 tween them Jan should have been spoiled and 
 cosseted. 
 
 But she was saved partly by her disposition 
 (her mother's) and partly by the visits of her cousin 
 John, who by the time Jan was four had reached 
 the noble age of ten. Jan and John were friends; 
 he spoilt her, teased her, made her cry, but he 
 fought Willie Griffiths who called her a baby, and 
 even gave her an old watch of his father's, with 
 no works, so you can see to what lengths affairs 
 had gone between them.
 
 28 JAN 
 
 It was from John that Jan first learnt the word 
 "free." He had been reading books of the cow- 
 boys on the prairies and the wild, free life, and he 
 told them to little Jan, who listened with open 
 mouth and eyes. 
 
 "Let me free,'* she said later, pulling from 
 Sarah's hand "let me free." 
 
 One day John appeared at the "Plas." 
 
 "May Jan come back to tea, please, Uncle 
 John, and may I take her?" 
 
 It was very galling for a fellow to have to walk 
 through the streets with Jan and Sarah. Chaps 
 from school saw one and said things in spite of 
 Willie Griffiths' two black eyes. 
 
 "She can go, but Sarah takes her, of course," 
 John answered, and the trouble was there was 
 nothing more to be said. 
 
 John often argued at home and sometimes got 
 his own way; he never argued with his uncle. 
 
 The road from the "Plas" to the Parade rims 
 straight through Brynavon and there are pave- 
 ments all the way. But there is a path through 
 the fields and by the stream, and sometimes 
 Sarah could be prevailed upon to go that way. 
 
 The stream was one of the joys of Jan's life. 
 The right bank was higher than the left, and John 
 could run and jump across it, and land on the 
 gravel the other side. Of course, he was a boy, 
 and Sarah said little ladies didn't ought even to 
 want to do such things, but but ! In a word,
 
 JAN 29 
 
 to jump that stream had always been the height of 
 Jan's ambition. 
 
 This afternoon, when they came to the field 
 before the stream, Sarah met a friend, and Jan 
 tugged at her hand. "Let me free, Sarah," she 
 coaxed. 
 
 "Mind you, Miss Jan, don't fall,*' cried Sarah. 
 
 John was already ahead, and Jan followed with 
 the good pace of a four-year-old. 
 
 "I'm going to jump the stream," John cried, 
 and he ran, leapt, and landed. 
 
 "Lovely, John," cried Jan. 
 
 "I'm Broncho Bill," he shouted, dancing about, 
 "free as the air." 
 
 "Me, too," chanted Jan, "free as the air." 
 
 "You can't be a cowboy," John objected, 
 "you're a girl. You can't even jump the 
 stream." 
 
 It was an unkind thrust and Jan's lips 
 drooped. 
 
 "Not a girl," she said, and then suddenly with 
 a shout: "Can jump the stream." 
 
 She went back and took a little run as she had 
 seen John do, her fat baby legs twinkling across 
 the ground. 
 
 At the crucial moment Sarah looked up. "Miss 
 Jan," she screamed "Miss Jan." 
 
 But Jan was tasting freedom and it had gone 
 to her head. She ran on jumped missed the 
 landing, and fell into the water.
 
 30 JAN 
 
 So she didn't go to tea with Aunt Annie, but 
 caught a cold and spent the next day in bed. 
 
 But eggs have to be broken in making an omelet, 
 and when all was said and done, Jan had been for a 
 few minutes "free as the air" and Cousin John 
 thought her "a sport."
 
 CHAPTER HI 
 
 HENRY OWEN sat gazing into the fire late 
 one afternoon, his feet on the fender and a 
 deep frown on his forehead. 
 
 To any one who knew him, such an attitude at 
 such a time proved that there was something amiss 
 in Henry's well-balanced life. 
 
 To begin with, he always had his tea at the 
 Office except on Saturdays and to-day was Fri- 
 day. Further, Annie didn't like boots on the 
 fender rail, because they scratched it, and, lastly, 
 Henry's face with the deep frowning line between 
 the brows square jaw and anxious eyes betrayed 
 the fact that their owner was seriously upset. 
 
 The sound of feet moving to and fro and the 
 tinkle of china reminded him that tea was being 
 laid in the drawing-room that afternoon. Henry 
 hated tea in the drawing-room. He hated leaping 
 up and offering visitors bread and butter and 
 cake, balanced on an article his wife called a"curik" 
 and his son John a "curate." He hated the sense 
 of unrest at what was supposed to be a meal, the 
 unreality and discomfort of it. A meal should be a 
 meal, he thought with a wave of irritation, with a 
 table and cloth and knives, plates, and cups prop- 
 si
 
 32 JAN 
 
 erly laid, not a travesty, a balancing of cups and 
 plates on insecure places. Everything was com- 
 bining to annoy him to-day. 
 
 And yet there was not much cause for him to 
 cavil at his life. The years had brought him pros- 
 perity, civic honours, and domestic happiness. 
 The firm, Griffiths, Son & Owen (Henry had been 
 a partner now for many years) was a safe, respected 
 business, the partners known by all the Southern 
 Circuit to be upright, righteous, and scrupulously 
 honest. 
 
 But it was dawning on Henry's mind with a 
 bitter certainty that neither he nor his firm would 
 ever set the Thames on fire. He didn't want to, 
 but he wanted to be able to do so. They would 
 pass through life at a pleasant jog-trot, dealing 
 with small affairs and petty issues. And when 
 he died, Annie would wear crape and widow's 
 weeds and talk of "my poor dear husband" and 
 Willie Griffiths would become a partner, instead of 
 being Superintending Clerk, and all would go 
 on as before. 
 
 It's not worth your consideration, Henry Owen. 
 Every ambitious young man means great things- 
 very few achieve. And the many who do not 
 achieve what they intended have one day to face 
 the fact that they are not, nor ever will be, the 
 wonders that they thought themselves, but ordi- 
 nary, e very-day men not much better not much 
 worse, not much different (there's the sting),
 
 JAN 33 
 
 from any other man in any town in any country 
 in the world. 
 
 Socrates would have told them that at the psy- 
 chological moment they realized their limitations 
 they reached the highest level of their lives. But 
 through Henry's mind there kept recurring, with a 
 sickening iteration, last Sunday's text, "So Tibni 
 died and Omri reigned." 
 
 Tibni and Omri, too, had thought themselves 
 great men, mighty warriors, law-givers and kings. 
 Posterity put them in their right places men- 
 tioned their life, reign, and death then let the 
 veil of indifference fall, never to be raised again. 
 
 There was, however, an outlet for Henry's am- 
 bitions in his civic life. He was an Alderman 
 the youngest, by the way a J. P. He hoped in 
 time to represent the county in the House, and 
 toyed with the idea of one day being Mayor, and 
 then, perhaps, who knows ? there might follow a 
 knighthood, accepted only for Annie's sake. 
 
 Husband and wife never discussed Henry's 
 future, because though Annie cherished ambition 
 in her heart, she thought it sinful, and did her 
 best, when she remembered, to try and stifle it. 
 But since she was human and couldn't kill it, 
 she did the next best thing ignored and forgot 
 it. 
 
 Henry cheered up slightly at the brighter pros- 
 pects, then sank back into gloom. If he ever were 
 an M.P., he'd do nothing but vote, waste hard-
 
 34 JAN 
 
 earned money in going to London to listen to dry- 
 as-dust debates and to pass out through the right 
 turnstile. Any congenital idiot can be trained to 
 walk through a certain gate, deaf and dumb mutes 
 can vote in a Parliament which offers neither op- 
 position nor criticism and as for a knighthood, 
 very few decent men could be found to accept what 
 used to be one of the biggest honours of the day. 
 
 Leaving himself, Henry's thoughts turned to 
 his wife and dwelt on her with affectionate loyalty. 
 He never allowed himself to criticise her, partly 
 because she was his wife, and partly because she 
 was his wife. If she had been another man's 
 wife, Annie would have tried Henry sorely her 
 way of saying "I know," when the matter was ab- 
 solutely a closed door to her; her "soft-soap "piety, 
 and the resolute brightness with which she bore 
 the troubles of other people. But possession en- 
 hanced things in Henry's eyes, and so what Annie 
 did was right, and even if it wasn't quite right, 
 anyhow it wasn't wrong because Annie did it. 
 It wasn't an ideal marriage; husband and wife 
 called out in each largely an affectionate good na- 
 ture, the cheapest of all virtues. But in a word, 
 Henry loved his wife, though not well enough to 
 love her faults and all. 
 
 Then there was John, his brother. Henry 
 avoided his son like a horse shying at some object 
 in the road, which, however, he must pass in the 
 long run.
 
 JAN 35 
 
 How could any man hold up his head with a 
 brother like John Owen about? 
 
 Only last Monday, Henry had addressed a 
 large and successful meeting of the local Temper- 
 ance Association, and had spoken to them in earn- 
 est, moving terms. But on the way home the 
 young people could see John Owen staggering 
 down the hill from the "Blue Boar" singing a ques- 
 tionable song with more verve than they had put 
 into their hymns. 
 
 On Wednesday old Danny Bellows the town 
 reprobate had been up before the Bench for 
 being drunk and disorderly. P. C. Daniels 
 charged him, but while the Mayor was speaking, 
 Henry kept thinking that if P. C. Daniels had done 
 his duty, John would have been standing there 
 beside Danny, instead of having gone off on a day's 
 rabbiting. 
 
 Or had the constable done his duty in charging 
 Danny and ignoring John? The question was too 
 subtle, and Henry is not the first nor last to be 
 floored. 
 
 And then John, the boy, he had to be faced at 
 last. The frown on Henry's face deepened into a 
 scowl, for the boy was a bitter disappointment, a 
 constant source of anxiety, and, incidentally, 
 the joy of his parents' life. He was tall and slim, 
 with dark hair which crinkled in spite of brushing 
 with water, a complexion like a girl's, and soft, 
 dreamy eyes. He had the prettiest, most caressing
 
 36 JAN 
 
 ways with old people, babies, and animals (this 
 category included his parents); he was athletic 
 and truthful. To counterbalance his virtues, he 
 had an uncertain temper, violent, too, when roused. 
 He fought on very little provocation, with "he 
 made me angry," as his reason. 
 
 In addition, he was lazy the learning to be 
 acquired in school was distasteful to him, so he 
 let it slide, doing just barely enough to keep him- 
 self out of trouble. He was a wide reader for a 
 boy of twelve and, his father had to admit, a 
 solid thinker. 
 
 But, worst of all, he was disobedient. Henry 
 felt he could have put up with everything else. 
 
 "Disobedience, John, I will not stand," he im- 
 pressed on the boy; but the humiliating part of it 
 was he did stand it; he had to. 
 
 It had begun so early, too, but then Henry had 
 fought against it from the start. 
 
 "John, put your blocks away now," Annie 
 had said when John was little more than a baby. 
 
 John was building a road to reach from home to the 
 
 station and and His mother's voice reached 
 
 him but conveyed no meaning to his little brain. 
 Even in those days she talked to him too much. 
 
 "John," she repeated a minute later, "put your 
 blocks away like a good boy." 
 
 "No," said John. 
 
 Henry looked over his paper at the boy on the 
 floor. It was a shame to disturb him, he was
 
 JAN 37 
 
 flushed and earnest. Still, discipline, you know 
 he must learn to obey. 
 
 "John!" he commanded in a voice meant to 
 inspire awe, "put your blocks away." 
 
 "No! no!" shouted John, drumming with his 
 little heels on the floor. 
 
 Annie laid aside her needlework and got up. 
 There was a look in Henry's eye which frightened 
 her. 
 
 "Let me manage him, dear," she said, kneeling 
 down by the child. "I'll do it. Come on, John. 
 John, Mother will help. John's a good boy." 
 
 John took not the faintest notice. 
 
 "John," called his father, "do as your mother 
 tells you." 
 
 "No, no!" screamed John, fighting without 
 knowing why, against he knew not what. 
 
 But after John had been carried from the room 
 under his father's arm, kicking and struggling, 
 Annie gathered up the bricks, and then locked 
 herself in her bedroom with her fingers in her ears. 
 
 That scene with variations had been repeated 
 all through the years. It seemed as though noth- 
 ing could teach the boy the duty, the necessity of 
 obedience. John agreed with all the platitudes 
 about obedience. 
 
 "You must obey before you can teach," his 
 father said. 
 
 John nodded his head. "Yes, Father,'* he 
 said; then added suddenly, "Why?"
 
 38 JAN 
 
 Henry felt annoyed. "Because," he answered, 
 " this world is governed by rules 
 
 "Father," John interrupted with glowing eyes, 
 "why doesn't someone learn to break the rules 
 and be free." 
 
 Free! That was the word most in evidence in 
 John's vocabulary. 
 
 Take last Sunday, for instance. "Need I go 
 to Sunday School, please, Mother?" he asked 
 Annie in the middle of dinner. 
 
 "Why, yes, John," Annie answered a little 
 shocked, "you must go to Sunday School, dear. 
 It's Sunday, you know." 
 
 John turned to his father. He didn't speak, but 
 his look showed that he expected one man to under- 
 stand and sympathize with the feelings of another. 
 
 Henry quite understood. "Certainly you must 
 go, John," he said. "What would happen if 
 everyone were like you?" 
 
 "It's a fine day," murmured John, following his 
 own line of thought. 
 
 "Perhaps it will be fine to-morrow," soothed 
 his mother. " Another potato, dear? " 
 
 John passed up his plate. "There's school to- 
 morrow, too," he said. 
 
 " That will do, John," interrupted Henry. " Let 
 once telling do." 
 
 John didn't go to Sunday School; he spent the 
 afternoon in the woods, and brought his mother 
 back a glorious bunch of early primroses.
 
 JAN 39 
 
 He didn't hide the fact that he had played 
 truant, nor did he mention it. The flowers gave 
 him away. He handed them to Annie half shyly 
 and said, "For you, Mother, dear." 
 
 "It's hard to tell you, Father," he said later, 
 facing Henry in the library (there were two book- 
 shelves). 
 
 "I forbade it," Henry answered, "and you dis- 
 obeyed me." 
 
 "Yes, Father," John agreed, readily, "but 
 
 but " He fingered with his coat-button, a 
 
 flush on his face, and a reminiscent gleam of pleas- 
 ure in his eyes. 
 
 Henry would have given much to know what was 
 in the boy's mind. 
 
 "But what?" he asked, gently. 
 
 "It's Easter Sunday, Father," said John, "and 
 and it's fine," he finished, lamely. 
 
 It was an attempt to explain the something in- 
 side him stirred to life by the day and the sun- 
 shine. 
 
 Years ago Christ rose from the dead, and that 
 day in the woods nature was rising like a soul on 
 the Resurrection morning. 
 
 He meant so much and could express so little. 
 
 Henry looked at his son in angry surprise. 
 
 "Go," he said at last, pointing to the door 
 "I can do nothing with you. Go." 
 
 John went to his mother, but Henry sat think- 
 ing, not of John, but of that day twenty-five
 
 40 JAN 
 
 years or so ago when another John had coaxed 
 him into playing truant. They had gone to the 
 wood and there had been primroses then and sun- 
 light and 
 
 "It's time to get ready for Chapel, dear," inter- 
 rupted his wife, putting her head round the door. 
 
 During the service John slipped his hand in his 
 mother's and gave her a few minutes of such in- 
 tense bliss that the pleasure was mixed with pain. 
 
 He was very punctual for breakfast next morn- 
 ing, and during the week Annie became almost 
 anxious about such preternatural goodness. 
 
 "You do seem to have impressed him, dear," 
 she said to Henry on Wednesday night after John 
 had done his lesson, eaten his supper, and gone to 
 bed. 
 
 Henry, remembering the interview, gave a short 
 laugh. "I wonder," he said. "Anyhow, these 
 things are at the knees of the gods." 
 
 "Of God you mean, dear," corrected Annie, in 
 blissful ignorance of the ancients and their prov- 
 erbs. 
 
 Henry gulped twice, looked furtively at his 
 wife, whose head was bent over the heel of a stock- 
 ing she was knitting for John, and said hastily 
 "Yes, dear, of course, yes." 
 
 Next day John stayed to dinner at school to 
 be ready for football in the afternoon, because his 
 mother did not think it good for him to rush about 
 immediately after a heavy meal.
 
 JAN 41 
 
 About half-past three Mrs. Griffiths called. 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Owen," she began with a gush, 
 "I won't keep you more than a minute or two, 
 but I felt I must just run in to see you." 
 
 Mrs. Griffiths was always "just running in" to 
 people, but considering she turned the scale at 
 fourteen stone and took several minutes to recover 
 her breath after any exercise, her remarks had not 
 to be taken literally. 
 
 When with Mrs. Griffiths Annie was pleasur- 
 ably conscious of her own trim figure and springing 
 walk. "And yet there can't be so much difference 
 in our ages," she used to say, pleasantly, "your 
 Willie is only six months older than John." 
 
 Annie rang the bell for tea. 
 
 "It's very good of you to come, Mrs. Griffiths," 
 she answered. "I'm sure I haven't seen you for 
 I don't know how long." 
 
 Later, when she heard the object of Mrs. Grif- 
 fiths' call, she hoped double the time might elapse 
 before their next meeting, for her first words shat- 
 tered Annie's hopes of her son's budding reforma- 
 tion. 
 
 "I never like to complain of other people's 
 children, Mrs. Owen," began Mrs. Griffiths, "but 
 really well, I don't know what to say." 
 
 Annie stiffened with annoyance. John, dear 
 boy, was sometimes trying, very trying, but she 
 could not forgive any outsider for noticing it. 
 
 "What's the matter now?" she enquired with an
 
 42 JAN 
 
 effort at brightness; "nothing very dreadful, I 
 hope." 
 
 At that moment the maid brought in the tea 
 on a tray, and the conversation was switched on to 
 subjects like the weather, Mr. Griffiths' rheuma- 
 tism, and the view across the river from Mrs. 
 Owen's best bedroom. 
 
 When the maid closed the door behind her, Mrs. 
 Griffiths told her tale. John and Willie had been 
 fighting again. Far be it from her to shield her 
 own child but really if Mrs. Owen would forgive 
 her saying so, John was just a little perhaps just 
 a little quarrelsome. And the fight had taken 
 place in the High Street, and it wasn't nice, was it? 
 And if Mrs. Owen could only see poor Willie's 
 face well they'd had to send for Doctor Harris. 
 
 "You mustn't worry, Mrs. Owen," said her 
 friend. "John's an only child and it's so hard not 
 to spoil them." 
 
 "So naughty of him to fight," said John's 
 mother, "and six months younger than Willie." 
 
 "Ah!" Mrs. Griffiths sighed, "poor little Wil- 
 lie's always been so delicate. I sometimes fear- 
 Mrs. Owen had heard the story of Mrs. Grif- 
 fiths' fears before, and at present was more occu- 
 pied by her own. 
 
 "If you must go, dear," she interpolated, skil- 
 fully misinterpreting a movement of Mrs. Grif- 
 fiths, "I'll speak to John." 
 
 "He said I lied," said John later to his father,
 
 JAN 43 
 
 and by dint of question it transpired that the 
 fight had been about Jan. 
 
 John had seen her from the school gate, with 
 Sarah, while he was waiting for the dinner-bell. 
 And while he talked to her (Willie Griffiths stand- 
 ing near by), a man passed driving some cows 
 down to the cattle market. Since Jan was afraid 
 of cows, John and Sarah stood in front of her. 
 
 "Fancy being afraid of cows," remarked Willie 
 the bold. 
 
 "She doesn't like them, but she's not afraid," 
 lied John. 
 
 "Story-teller!" chanted Willie, "story-teller, she 
 is." 
 
 Whereupon John fought him, not with a sane 
 sporting spirit, but with a mad desire to hurt the 
 white-faced creature who dared to speak to Jan 
 and him. 
 
 Henry and Annie listened to the tale. 
 
 "But, John, dear!" said Annie, with a worried 
 little frown on her brow, "Jan is afraid of cows, 
 though you didn't know it." 
 
 "Yes, I did, Mother," John answered, quickly. 
 
 Henry kept his temper with difficulty. 
 
 "Then you lied?" he questioned, accusingly, 
 because he was so proud of John's uncompro- 
 mising truthfulness. 
 
 "Yes." John faltered for the first time. 
 
 "Then why fight about it?" Henry asked, 
 quickly.
 
 44 JAN 
 
 "Willie mustn't say so even if I did," John 
 defended himself, "besides, Father, it wouldn't 
 have been a lie really, not in the end. I meant to 
 teach her not to be afraid." 
 
 John spoke jerkily and something glistened on 
 his dark lashes. He could stand punishment, 
 but this baring of his soul was intolerable. If only 
 they'd understand and let him go, he'd be able to 
 save the remnants of his self-respect. But, by 
 an error of judgment, Henry thought this a 
 good time to speak seriously to his son, touching 
 like a heavy hand on a wound, his lapse from 
 truth and his chivalry for Jan until John's quiv- 
 ering nerves found relief in hysterical tears. 
 
 In a moment Annie's arms were round him, and 
 with the tears streaming down her own cheeks, 
 she kissed and fondled him as she had done when 
 he was nothing but a baby-boy. 
 
 But for all that, John went to bed with some- 
 thing like hatred in his heart for his parents. 
 They'd stormed the bulwarks of his privacy, held 
 up to the blazing light of common-sense his 
 thoughts and motives and called it understanding 
 him. 
 
 Downstairs, Henry and Annie sat on the sofa 
 discussing him. 
 
 "I don't know what to do with him," sobbed 
 Annie. 
 
 "He's very fond of you," Henry replied, touch- 
 ing his wife's hand.
 
 JAN 45 
 
 "And you, dear," she comforted in return. 
 "Henry," she said, suddenly, "let's talk to John, 
 your brother, I mean." 
 
 "Yes we might do that," Henry agreed. John 
 had a knack of coming straight to the point, cut- 
 ting any knot, and solving a difficulty by a frontal 
 attack. Besides, John, his son, took after his 
 uncle; that, in a word, was the trouble. 
 
 John, as son of John, would have been no oddity, 
 but the natural thing. John, as son of Henry, 
 was the worry. And it was as Sarah sometimes 
 said, "no joke of a worry" which occupied 
 Henry's thoughts this Friday afternoon as he sat 
 waiting for his brother. 
 
 "He's come, dear," said Annie. "I asked him 
 into the next room." 
 
 Henry followed his wife into the drawing-room, 
 ruined by too much furniture, and a wealth of 
 photographs and china ornaments. There was 
 not one comfortable chair, not one secure, service- 
 able table there. The gas-fire leaked and the 
 atmosphere was both cold and stuffy but since 
 it was the guest chamber, three sane people left 
 the warmth and comfort of their living rooms and 
 gathered there. 
 
 "Hallo, Henry, old man!" John greeted him, 
 "family council, eh, what!" 
 
 "Shall we have tea first?" suggested Annie. 
 "Sugar, John? Henry, pass John the bread and 
 butter."
 
 46 JAN 
 
 "It's about John," said Henry. 
 
 "We're worried about him," added Annie. 
 "Tea, dear," this to Henry. 
 
 John looked from one to the other as they told 
 their tale. It was preposterous, but he was al- 
 ways sorry for Henry, and the more prosperous 
 Henry grew, the more he pitied him. "Chasing 
 the shadows on the moon," was the way he de- 
 scribed Henry's life. 
 
 "You can understand, can't you," said Annie 
 at the close, "that we're troubled?" 
 
 "Yes, I'm sure you are," John answered, turning 
 to his sister-in-law with the same gentle courtesy 
 that the other John always showed her. "But 
 I don't think you need be." 
 
 "How why what do you mean?" Henry 
 asked, quickly. 
 
 John put down his cup on a rickety little table 
 and leant back in his chair, which threatened to 
 give way beneath the strain, so he stood up and 
 leant against the mantelpiece. 
 
 "John is true to type," he said, "he's an 
 Owen." 
 
 "But, John," urged Annie, "he always thinks 
 he can do as he likes that he's different from 
 other people." 
 
 "We all do," John Owen answered. "Jan's 
 the same." 
 
 "Oh, Jan!" Henry could not keep the impatient 
 irritation out of his voice. Everyone knew John
 
 JAN 47 
 
 was ridiculous about the child but hateful 
 thought so was the other John. 
 
 "Let's leave Jan then and look at you, my 
 friend," John said, turning to his brother. 
 
 "Me?" stammered Henry, his colour rising. 
 "Thank God I'm different." 
 
 John Owen roared with appreciative laughter. 
 "There you are," he said, "different, of course. 
 You're an Owen like the rest of us, fighting for 
 freedom." 
 
 Annie made a dissentient movement, but John 
 swept her aside. 
 
 "The Owens of the *Plas* have been for genera- 
 tions countrymen, old Henry's a townsman, a 
 lawyer. We've always gone to their mouldy old 
 Church (God knows I don't) but you," point- 
 ing to Henry, "what are you? Methodist 
 Baptist or something fancy!" 
 
 " Congregational," supplied Annie with dignity. 
 
 "Didn't I say so?" went on John. "Did you 
 ever hear of an Owen being a teetotaler before? 
 And you with blue ribbons and Temperance Bands. 
 You're just the same as the rest of us, old man. 
 We all want to be ourselves and John's the same. 
 You want John to be your son John wants to 
 be himself." 
 
 "But, John! surely we must try to guide him?" 
 Annie asked. 
 
 "I suppose you must try," John admitted, "but 
 it will hurt you and won't move the lad."
 
 48 JAN 
 
 "Nonsense, John, you don't know what you're 
 talking about." Henry stood up with such energy 
 that the gold wood chair fell over backward and 
 in his emotion he did not notice nor care. 
 
 "No perhaps not. But you asked me my 
 opinion and you've had it. Good-bye, Annie 
 cheer up." 
 
 Annie made one more desperate attempt. 
 Somehow she had great faith in John he seemed 
 to be so sure. 
 
 "John," she said, blocking his way to the door, 
 "what would you do if John were your son?" 
 
 "I hope I'd recognize my limitations," John 
 answered, "and pack the lad off to boarding- 
 school." 
 
 Annie stood aside and let him pass. "Thank 
 you, John," she said with dignity, "but I think a 
 mother's instinct knows better how to deal with a 
 difficult boy like John than strangers." 
 
 "I agree with you, Annie," chimed in her hus- 
 band. " It's a critical time, and to send John away 
 now is a confession of defeat.'* 
 
 But the curious part of the whole affair was that 
 John went to boarding-school next term.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 rWAS a pouring day about a week after John's 
 leparture and Jan was feeling at a loose end. 
 She was now six years old a tall, slim child 
 with black glossy hair cut in a straight fringe 
 across her forehead. She had very little colour 
 in her cheeks, and her paleness was accentuated 
 by the fact that she always wore white frocks. 
 
 "A woman shouldn't wear colours," was one of 
 her father's beliefs. 
 
 "A clean frock every day, and not even a pina- 
 fore; such a lot of washing," said Mrs. Henry 
 Owen in confidence to Mrs. Griffiths. 
 
 Jan stood by the window, breathing on the 
 pane, and then drawing patterns with her 
 fingers. 
 
 "Daddy," she said, suddenly, "where's John?" 
 
 "John's gone to school, old darling," her father 
 answered. "Come away from the window, by 
 the fire." 
 
 "What's school, Daddy?" enquired the child. 
 
 John laid down his paper and lifted Jan on to 
 his knee. 
 
 "It's a place where they teach you things 
 reading and writing, sums and French and " 
 
 49
 
 50 JAN 
 
 He hesitated In his effort to remember exactly 
 what they had tried to teach him at school. 
 
 "What for, Daddy?'* demanded Jan, playing 
 with the guinea-piece which hung on her father's 
 watch-chain. 
 
 It was a difficult question. Why did people 
 learn a mass of facts at school which were totally 
 irrelevant to the issues of life? What was the use 
 of amassing a store of information, only to forget 
 it again as soon as school days were over? 
 
 It disciplined the mind, of course, but discipline 
 was Greek to Jan. 
 
 "I think, darling," he said, "that at school 
 they teach you how to read and count your pennies, 
 so that you can do things for yourself and be free 
 of other people.'* 
 
 "Free," echoed Jan, picking out her favourite 
 word. Then, "Jan wants to write to John, 
 Daddy." 
 
 "Righto!" said John, "I'll help you." 
 
 He had guided her hand as far as "Dear John," 
 when she dropped the pencil. 
 
 "Do they learn you to write at school?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes," John answered. "Come along. I've 
 got to go out soon." 
 
 "Can I go to school, Daddy?" she said. 
 
 "Some day," said her father. 
 
 "When?" cried Jan, thoroughly interested. 
 
 "When you're bigger," he replied.
 
 JAN 51 
 
 "How big, Daddy?" coaxed the child. 
 
 "Look here, Jan," John promised, "if you want 
 to go to school, I'll think about it. Let's finish 
 the letter now." 
 
 But Jan climbed down from her father's knee. 
 "Sarah's baking buns," she said, "Jan will write 
 to John when they learn me how." 
 
 John puzzled his brain for days to come over 
 education, and Jan's education in particular. 
 Sitting smoking over the fire, after the child had 
 gone to bed, and with Dio snoring at his feet, he 
 hacked out of his mind some sort of scheme. 
 
 Education, he decided, must make men and 
 women free to live unhampered by sin, folly, 
 and prejudice. That was to be the foundation 
 stone of Jan's life. But how to begin, that was the 
 question. She must be taught, of course, but 
 where, how, and by whom? It was the first time 
 that John had ever felt the slightest doubt about 
 his capacity as an educator, and this uneasiness 
 was increased when next day he bought an armful 
 of books on education and found that someone 
 had said, " Give me a child for the first seven years 
 of its life, and I care not who has it afterward." 
 
 If that were really true, thought John savagely, 
 why the devil hadn't somebody told him so and 
 Jan was six already. Curse Henry for a fool! and 
 Annie! They ought to have warned him. He 
 threw the book aside and went on to another of his 
 purchases, Rousseau's "Emile," and followed that
 
 52 JAN 
 
 by Fenelon's "Education des jeunes Filles." He 
 then dipped into Machiavelli's "Prince," though 
 he would have been put to it to explain how that 
 could affect Jan. William James's "Talks to 
 Teachers" was his next effort, and then in despair 
 he read the article on "Education" in the Ency- 
 clopedia Britannica. 
 
 He stored all the books, except the Encyclo- 
 pedia, in a corner, and never touched them again, 
 but the next morning he took Jan out with him 
 and climbed the hill to the village school. 
 
 It was the play hour, and the yard was full of 
 shouting, scurrying children who stopped and 
 stared as John and Jan passed through the yard 
 into the building. 
 
 Mr. Samuels had been at school a year with 
 John. 
 
 "Hallo, Sammie!" John greeted him. "How 
 goes it?" 
 
 Samuels hurried forward, a thin, nervous young 
 man, with a deprecating manner, who moved his 
 hands about just as Sarah and Jan did when they 
 played "This is the way we wash our hands, on a 
 cold and frosty morning." 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. John," said Samuels, 
 "how's Miss Jan to-day?" 
 
 "Quite well, thank you," Jan answered. 
 "Daddy, is this school?" 
 
 "Yes," said her father. "Samuels, I've brought 
 you a new scholar."
 
 JAN 53 
 
 "Oh, no, "Mr. John, surely not." Samuels knew 
 his place there was nothing of the socialist about 
 him. "I shouldn't, no, really, Mr. John." 
 
 "Look here, Sammie," began John, "Jan dar- 
 ling," he said in parenthesis, "go out and play 
 with the little girls" "I want Jan to be taught 
 ordinary things. I want her to be free from snob- 
 bery and class prejudice." 
 
 "But, Mr. John," protested the little school- 
 master, "Miss Jan is different from my children. 
 She'll learn things here " 
 
 "It won't harm her," said John with decision; 
 "she'll find her level, and cut her own way. Start- 
 ing here, she'll avoid in later life Toryism you'll 
 teach her that by the atmosphere. But your 
 children unconsciously will settle in her mind once 
 and for all the question of Socialism, too see 
 eh?" 
 
 Mr. Samuels didn't see; but he couldn't refuse 
 John. 
 
 So Jan stayed on that morning in Standard I, 
 and came home, her arm linked with that of Bessie 
 Richards, whose red hair troubled the medical in- 
 spector, and they came down the hill together, 
 singing: 
 
 Mr. Samuels Is a very good man, 
 He tries to teach us all he can 
 Reading, writing, and arithmetic, 
 But he never forgets to use the stick.
 
 54 JAN 
 
 John watched her from the gate with a sinking 
 heart. 
 
 "Good God!" he said. "It's up to me now 
 if she learns as quickly as that." 
 
 All through dinner Jan babbled about her won- 
 derful experience of the morning. "We did 
 copies, Daddy," she said, "on slates with a pencil 
 what squeaked." 
 
 "You didn't oughter speak with your mouth 
 full, Miss Jan," admonished Sarah, who was hand- 
 ing John vegetables. 
 
 " Good for you," said John. 
 
 "Teacher said you hold it like this." Jan dem- 
 onstrated on her fork and knocked over her glass of 
 water. 
 
 Sarah was sulky, because after all her teaching 
 Jan was to be thrown in company with "them 
 village children," and it wasn't until John lied 
 and said he had a throat and would Sarah please 
 put on a compress for him that night, that she 
 came round again. 
 
 He hoped she'd forget, because he loathed com- 
 presses, and Sarah had a way of bringing his shav- 
 ing water extra early to see if he had worn it all 
 night. 
 
 Jan went back to school in the afternoon, 
 marshalled there by Sarah, in spite of all her 
 protests. 
 
 John announced that he would not be in for 
 tea, went for a long walk with Dio at his heels,
 
 JAN 55 
 
 and entering the Town at the other end, knocked 
 at the door of the Rev. Gironwy Evans. John 
 had met the man twice before, once at his wedding, 
 for Jan had been a staunch Methodist and had 
 been married at Capel Seion, and once again at 
 Jan's funeral. 
 
 Neither before nor since had John troubled the 
 Methodist denomination nor any other for many a 
 long year, and as he stood waiting in the Evans's 
 drawing-room, he was conscious of a distinct feel- 
 ing of nervousness. 
 
 Mr. Evans was engaged for a few minutes, and 
 twice John decided to leave the house, and twice 
 changed his mind, because he'd come to talk about 
 Jan. 
 
 John moved to and fro restlessly about the little 
 room. The only object of interest was the silver 
 crown which had been presented to Mr. Evans 
 some years ago at the National Eisteddfod. For 
 the dowdy little minister who preached to the 
 small congregation at Capel Seion was a poet and 
 genius. His dining-room was furnished with the 
 bardic chairs won in the local Eisteddfods; his 
 poems were gems of lyric beauty. 
 
 In almost any part of Wales there can be found 
 men of high distinction and great ability spending 
 their lives in an uneventful obscurity. They write 
 in their mother tongue, which any translation 
 mars, and so their fame never travels beyond the 
 borders of the little principality whose main in-
 
 56 JAN 
 
 dustry is the breeding of poets, with politicians as a 
 side issue. 
 
 John was still examining the crown when Mr. 
 Evans came in. 
 
 "I'm sorry to keep you, Mr. Owen," he said. 
 
 "Not a bit/* John answered, curtly, because he 
 felt nervous. "Not a bit. The fact is," he went 
 on, coming straight to his point, "I want to speak 
 to you about Jan, my little girl." 
 
 "The study is warmer," said the minister, 
 showing John into a little room stacked with books. 
 "What is it I can do for you?" 
 
 Neither of the men sat down, but stood one on 
 each side of the fireplace, their elbows resting on 
 the mantelpiece. 
 
 Mr. Evans came of what newspapers call " hum- 
 ble parentage." To be exact, his father had been a 
 labourer earning 10/- a week, and his mother, 
 before the day of the steam laundry, had done a 
 little washing for the gentry. 
 
 John Owen belonged to the "County," with a 
 University education to his balance, but he could 
 not emulate the other's air of quiet composure, 
 and if an entire absence of self-consciousness is the 
 test of a gentleman, it was the minister who at- 
 tained the standard. 
 
 "You knew my wife," said John at last. 
 
 "Yes," agreed the other, "I baptized her as a 
 baby, and received her into my church. I mar- 
 ried and buried her."
 
 JAN 57 
 
 "Well, it's about her baby her little girl 
 she's Jan, too!" 
 
 John waited for Mr. Evans to make some re- 
 mark, but he was staring at the fire. 
 
 "I want her taught," said John. "She ought 
 to know something about religion. I don't go in 
 for that kind of thing myself." 
 
 Surely it was up to a professed Minister of Re- 
 ligion to challenge such a statement, and to make 
 some indication that he heard, and not to stand 
 like a statue in the game Jan called "Dumb 
 Crambo." 
 
 But Mr. Evans did not answer and John blund- 
 ered on. 
 
 "She's six and I want her taught religion." 
 
 "Ah!" murmured Mr. Evans. 
 
 "Praise the Lord," thought John. "He's go- 
 ing to speak at last." 
 
 The minister raised his head and looked John 
 full in the face. "Very interesting, Mr. Owen," he 
 said, pleasantly, "and where do I come in? Why 
 am I honoured by your confidence?" 
 
 "Curse the fool!" thought John, but out loud 
 he said: "I wanted you to teach her." 
 
 "Not I!" jerked out Mr. Evans, with decision, 
 "not I. You don't believe in religion, you say, 
 and you throw the onus of the child's education 
 on to me. Bear your own burdens, man; teach 
 her yourself or leave her untaught." 
 
 John Owen had never been spoken to like that
 
 58 JAN 
 
 before! It was preposterous, the fellow was an 
 outsider. Yet, somehow, John found himself 
 standing in the street, conscious of having shaken 
 hands with him, and in reply to Mr. Evans's 
 invitation to call again, of having said, "Thank 
 you." 
 
 As he walked home, John tried to analyze the 
 motives that had sent him to a Methodist minister 
 instead of to the vicar, Mr. Andrews. 
 
 Of course it was absurd to connect the old vicar 
 with religion. He'd talk about politics rabid 
 old Tory; he'd advise you on dogs and horses; 
 he read the lessons hi Church, naturally, in a 
 dialect of his own, "Whun the wicked mun." 
 He was a most assiduous visitor, and the Bishop 
 was graciously pleased at the large number of 
 boys and girls he was invited to confirm till it 
 appeared that Mr. Andrews had taken practically 
 the whole of Standard Seven, and prepared it 
 for confirmation. So that the Sunday following 
 the confirmation service, the church was as 
 empty as usual, and all the boys and girls went 
 to their respective chapels. A good fellow, a 
 first-rate man, but not one of whom to ask 
 advice. 
 
 Besides, it would have been disloyal to Jan to 
 entrust any part of her child's education to a 
 church in which she did not believe. No, help 
 had to be asked of Jan's church and it had been 
 refused,
 
 JAN 59 
 
 " Curse him," muttered John as he turned in at 
 the "Plas" gate. There was a stir among the 
 bushes at the side and John stood still. 
 
 "Who's there?" he called. 
 
 A small figure slipped out from the shadows on 
 to the path. 
 
 "John!" exclaimed John Owen, "what in the 
 name of thunder " 
 
 "I've run away," said the boy. "I hate 
 school." 
 
 It was dusk, but something in the boy's face 
 made John say quickly: "Come along in, old 
 man." 
 
 The boy accepted his uncle's outstretched hand 
 and followed him to the house. 
 
 Jan was having a bath before the kitchen fire, so 
 John took his nephew straight upstairs, stripped 
 him of his dripping clothes, rubbed him down, and 
 put him to bed in a pair of pyjamas twice too big 
 for him. 
 
 "One minute, old man," he said, "I'll get you 
 some food." 
 
 Then, while John the younger ate, he volun- 
 teered information, and it was curious that John 
 the elder accepted what was told him, but asked no 
 questions. 
 
 "It was hateful there, Uncle John," he said, 
 drinking hot soup. "No they don't know at 
 home. I met Tommie Edwards taking up the 
 telegram and made him give it to me."
 
 60 JAN 
 
 John put his hand into a pocket of the wet coat 
 and pulled out a crumpled telegram 
 
 Is John with you? Left here yesterday 
 
 RICHARD JONES, Head Master. 
 
 "I'll answer it," said John, pulling out a pencil; 
 " I'll say, 'John here'. What else? " 
 
 "I'll not go back," said John. 
 
 "No?" inquired his uncle. "Listen here, old 
 man. If you don't, you'll feel an awful fool. All 
 the fellows will laugh at you for a bit of a sop. 
 And it will be pretty rotten for your father and 
 mother." 
 
 "I'll not go back," repeated John, though his 
 lips had quivered at the mention of his mother. 
 
 "If you go," went on the other John, speaking as 
 to an equal, "you'll probably get the hell of a time 
 at first, but you've grit, boy, and you'll win through 
 and come out top." 
 
 "They never leave a man alone," said John. 
 "I'm never free." 
 
 " It's rotten, I know," agreed John Owen, laying 
 his hand on the counterpane, "but you get free in 
 the end. I swear you do, old man." 
 
 "Honest?" asked the boy. 
 
 "Touch hands on it," said his uncle, falling back 
 to the oath of his boyhood. 
 
 "Say, I'll go then," said John at last. 
 
 "I'll come, too," said the elder John. "Now go 
 to sleep, old man, and we'll start early."
 
 JAN 61 
 
 "Can't I see Jan?" the boy asked. 
 
 "No," said John, "Jan wouldn't understand. 
 No one else shall know; it will be our secret 
 yours and mine." 
 
 So Sarah sent off a telegram, 
 
 Will bring boy back to-morrow OWEN". 
 
 And while she ran to the post-office, John took 
 Jan, and nursed her before the fire, and while the 
 child babbled on about school the wonders of 
 Bessie Richards and the omnipotence of Teacher 
 John's thoughts were wandering to John, poor lad, 
 his hand against the world, and to Henry and 
 Annie. Poor boy, but anyhow, he'd a mother. 
 Henry hadn't all the responsibility. 
 
 "Jan fach," he murmured. 
 
 "What you say, Daddy?" asked Jan. 
 
 "Nothing old darling," said John, hugging her 
 to him. "I didn't speak to you." 
 
 "Who you speak to Daddy?" asked Jan, looking 
 round the room. 
 
 "I was thinking of another little Jan," he ex- 
 plained, "your mother." 
 
 "Bessie Richards has a muvver," said Jan, 
 then, suddenly, "Where's my muvver, Daddy?" 
 
 "She's in Heaven," said John. 
 
 The reply sounded strange to his own ears, but 
 he couldn't bring himself to call Jan dead. 
 
 "Where's Heaven, Daddy?" went on Jan, pull- 
 ing the lapels of his coat.
 
 62 JAN 
 
 John's imagination outran his theology. 
 
 "It's far away," he said, "all flowers and birds 
 and sunshine. And it never rains there." 
 
 This sounded too tempting. "Jan wants to go 
 to Heaven," gurgled the child. 
 
 "No, no!" cried John, clasping the baby to him 
 almost roughly. "Jan mustn't go away. She 
 mustn't leave Daddy." 
 
 It was a good deal past her usual bedtime, and 
 Jan was very tired. In addition to that, her 
 father had startled her, and she wanted to get 
 away from the rain to see some person called 
 "Muvver," so she broke out into a loud wail and 
 all John's efforts to comfort her were fruitless. 
 So that when the door opened and Annie and 
 Henry came in followed by Sarah, John was hold- 
 ing a flushed, screaming child on his knee, who 
 wailed out at intervals, "I want to go to Heaven, 
 too I do want to go." 
 
 Sarah carried Jan off to bed and quieted her im- 
 mediately by saying: "You'll go one day, Miss 
 Jan. If you was to leave us now, who'd put milk 
 in the master's tea?" 
 
 "Jan put milk in Daddy's tea," echoed the child. 
 
 "If you're a good girl," said Sarah. "Little 
 ladies didn't ought to scream like that." 
 
 John, who had been listening outside the door, 
 tiptoed away. Outside his own bedroom he 
 stopped to listen, then gently pushed open the door 
 and went in. The boy was lying asleep, one grimy
 
 JAN 63 
 
 hand against his face, his lips curved into a little 
 smile. 
 
 "Good lad," said John and went back to his 
 visitors. 
 
 Annie had taken off her coat and was sitting on 
 one side of the fire, resplendent in a pink crepe- 
 de-chine blouse and taffeta skirt. Henry was on 
 the sofa, gazing moodily into the fire. 
 
 "She's come to give me advice," John realized, 
 "and dragged old Henry along." 
 
 "We haven't seen you for so long," said Annie. 
 "Henry thought we'd pop in." 
 
 Henry supported his wife to the extent of an 
 inarticulate noise in his throat. 
 
 "You haven't been down for ages, Annie," 
 said John; "too gay, eh?" 
 
 "No not exactly," replied Annie with a little 
 smirk; "but you know I'm always busy." 
 
 "Then it's jolly good of you to turn out on this 
 dam' dark night. Damp, Annie," he said, catch- 
 ing sight of her disapproving face. 
 
 "I really came," began Annie. "Henry thought 
 and so did I " she broke off, incoherently. 
 
 "John," she blurted out, "is it true that you've 
 sent Jan to the village school?" 
 
 "Yes," said John, "she began to-day." 
 
 "But, John," gasped his sister-in-law, "how 
 can you? Mrs. Griffiths told me her maid's 
 mother lives up the hill but I wouldn't believe it 
 never."
 
 64 JAN 
 
 John knew with whom he had to deal. "It's 
 like this, Annie," he said, "you told me Jan 
 needed companionship you said I'd spoil her 
 you suggested school- 
 She could never withstand John's subtle flat- 
 tery, and she unbent, while Henry felt a strong 
 desire to kick John for playing up to Annie. 
 
 "I didn't mean that kind of school," she said 
 in the same tone as she explained knotty points 
 to her Sunday-school class. "I meant a proper 
 school like the one we chose for John." 
 
 "John says he hates it," broke in Henry. "That 
 boy's going to give us trouble." 
 
 "No, no, Henry," Annie assured him. "He's 
 really a good boy, and he'll settle down. I've 
 written to him to-day. That will be all right." 
 
 Annie fell asleep that night happy in the convic- 
 tion that she was the guiding light, under Provi- 
 dence, in the lives of at least three men; Henry 
 that he'd been a fool to go, that Annie let John 
 foozle her, and that John was a bounder. While 
 John, with his arm round his brother's boy, under- 
 stood better than ever before "that marriage, 
 should not be entered upon lightly." Then he 
 thought of Jan of both Jans, in fact. 
 
 "It's been worth it," he sighed as he fell asleep.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WHEN Jan was ten years old Sarah gave a 
 month's notice. 
 She had often done so before, and for 
 a variety of reasons ranging from John's refusal to 
 stay in bed when he had a temperature of 102 to 
 the cat's depositing new-born kittens in her best 
 Sunday hat. 
 
 John was finishing his breakfast when the bomb 
 descended. 
 
 "Why, Sarah," he asked, "what's the matter?" 
 
 Sarah grew very red and tugged at the two cor- 
 ners of her apron. 
 
 "If you please, sir," she stammered, "I'm going 
 to get married." 
 
 "By Jove, Sarah, that's news," John said, "and 
 what am I going to do, and Jan, I'd like to know?" 
 
 Sarah immediately wept long and loudly. 
 "That's just what he said when I tell him about 
 you," she wailed. 
 
 "Of course he did," John soothed, shifting in his 
 chair uncomfortably. " He's a lucky fellow, Sarah, 
 and I hope he knows it." 
 
 "He drinks," Sarah volunteered. 
 
 John stood up and walked to the fireplace, not 
 
 65
 
 66 JAN 
 
 because there was a fire there, but because he 
 wanted to turn his back on Sarah. He felt rather 
 sheepish considering his own reputation, but at 
 the same tune it struck him as funny. 
 
 Yes, but not funny for Sarah she'd have to live 
 with him. After all, surely a man could be 
 broad-minded enough to see that the thing he did 
 and enjoyed doing was evil in another. 
 
 "That's bad, you know, Sarah," he said, facing 
 her. 
 
 "Yes, sir," she admitted. 
 
 "Perhaps if you help him, he'll get over it?" 
 he suggested. 
 
 Sarah shook her head. 
 
 "Perhaps," she said, doubtfully, in a tone that 
 implied that in her mind there was no shadow of 
 chance that he would. 
 
 "Will he make you a good husband, Sarah?" 
 John asked. 
 
 Sarah considered the question. "Maybe," she 
 answered, guardedly, "but anyways he'll make me 
 respectable." 
 
 John thought over her answer as he walked over 
 to a small farm he owned some miles away. 
 
 In her own way, Sarah had ruled the domestic 
 arrangements of the "Plas"; she had had charge 
 of Jan, and John had backed her authority when 
 Jan rebelled, and John had thought her happy 
 (if he ever thought about her). Yet all the time 
 she had been conscious of being an outcast, her
 
 JAN 67 
 
 sense of propriety had been outraged by her own 
 deed, and now she had the opportunity to reinstate 
 herself, so that she could hold up her flaming head 
 of hair with the rest, not toss it in scornful de- 
 fiance at the world, as before. 
 
 In this world things have to be paid for and 
 there is no "on credit system," and the price of 
 Sarah's honour was a drunken husband who might 
 be good to her but then might not. 
 
 It was a risk, of course, but the stakes were high 
 and Sarah chose to venture. 
 
 "You didn't tell me who your man is, Sarah," 
 John said to her after Jan had gone back to after- 
 noon school. 
 
 " Davy Jones, eldest son of Pentre Fawr," Sarah 
 blurted out. 
 
 John swore under his breath. The man, be- 
 sides being his brother-in-law, his wife's eldest 
 brother, was a stupid lout, obstinate and dull. 
 He was a bad farmer and an impossible tenant! 
 Nothing he touched prospered, and he was always 
 behindhand with his rent, and in debt all round. 
 John knew about him, because he was his landlord. 
 
 " I wish you'd found a better fellow, Sarah," he 
 said. 
 
 "Yes, sir," Sarah admitted, "so do I, sir." 
 
 "But perhaps you'll change him." 
 
 "Yes, sir I hope so, sir," and there John left 
 him. 
 
 Sarah broke the news to Jan after tea, when Jan
 
 68 JAN 
 
 was sitting before the kitchen fire drying her hair, 
 and reading "What Katy Did at School." 
 
 Sarah came to the hob to get a fresh iron spat 
 on it and said : 
 
 " I'm going to get married, Miss Jan." 
 
 "So am I," said Jan, "and live happy ever 
 afterward and have thirteen babies, all girls." 
 
 "That's silly, Miss Jan," said Sarah "girls, 
 indeed boys, I say." 
 
 "Oh, I hate boys," said Jan, "all except John, 
 and he's nearly a man now." 
 
 "I'll be leaving this day month to go to Pentre 
 Fawr," sniffed Sarah. 
 
 There was a dramatic pause. Jan was as as- 
 tonished as even Sarah could wish. Then she 
 turned on her with glowing eyes. "Oh, Sarah!" 
 she cried, "shall I be able to pour out tea when 
 you go?" 
 
 It wasn't much of a reward for ten years' devo- 
 tion to another woman's child, but Sarah was a 
 philosopher, though an unconscious one. 
 
 "You'll have to ask Master," she said, drily, 
 "and if you hold your hair so close, it'll catch 
 fire." 
 
 "We'll see," John answered when Jan asked him 
 about the tea. "I've another idea: how would 
 you like to go away to school?" 
 
 "I shouldn't," said Jan, decidedly. 
 
 "Good," said her father; "that settles it!" 
 
 "What sort of school, Daddy?" Jan asked her
 
 JAN 69 
 
 feet apart, her head on one side. She wore her hair 
 short as a safeguard against the proximity of Bes- 
 sie Richards and her kind. 
 
 "A nice big school," John answered, "and you 
 sleep there in little beds all in a row." 
 
 "I wouldn't like to sleep with the little girls in 
 school," said Jan with a little sniff, reminiscent 
 of some of her school companions. 
 
 "These would be as clean as you are," John re- 
 minded her. 
 
 "Where'd you be, Daddy?" was her next ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "I'd wait here till you came home." 
 
 "Alone?" Jan shot out the word with frightened 
 emphasis. 
 
 It was one of the fears of her life that her father 
 would be lonely when she was not with him. 
 
 "Dio will be with me," he made haste to comfort 
 her. 
 
 Jan's tense little face relaxed. 
 
 "Dear Dio," she said, patting the old dog's 
 head. " When do we go, Daddy? " 
 
 "Surely she can't want to go," thought John. 
 "Poor baby, she's frightened." 
 
 "Not till you want to go, darling," he said aloud, 
 kissing her. "Anyway, not till after Sarah's 
 gone." 
 
 "Oh, I do hope she'll be quick getting married," 
 cried Jan. 
 
 John's lower jaw dropped in amazement.
 
 70 JAN 
 
 "Jan," he said, "you've the makings of a fine 
 woman, my girl. Eh, Jan?" 
 
 He laughed and tossed her up to the ceiling be- 
 cause she looked so solemn. 
 
 The next month was a busy time for the house- 
 hold at the "Plas." John wrote innumerable 
 letters to secretaries and head mistresses of schools, 
 and swore at their answers and tossed their pros- 
 pectuses in the waste-paper basket. It was so dif- 
 ficult to say exactly what he wanted: he knew that 
 he didn't want a coddling home school, nor a co- 
 educational effort, nor a cramming establishment, 
 nor some freakish enterprise where the children 
 taught one another and had bare arms and legs. 
 He decided at last on a company boarding school 
 in Kent, run on high school lines. The pupils 
 were encouraged, but not forced, to take competi- 
 tive examinations for the sake of keeping up the 
 standard of work, and because many girls passed 
 on to the universities. There was for any elder 
 girl who wished it a year's training in domestic 
 economy. The prospectus also mentioned hockey 
 and tennis, gymnastics on Ling Swedish System, 
 and a swimming bath. The fees were 90 guineas 
 a year, "and they won't make much on Jan's 
 food," John reflected. 
 
 The name of the Head Mistress, Miss Blake- 
 borough, decided him. She signed herself "N. 
 Blakeborough, Classical Tripos M.A. (Dublin)," 
 and by raking in the recesses of his memory, John
 
 JAN 71 
 
 remembered very dimly a girl, Nesta Blakebor- 
 ough, who had been at Girton in his Cambridge 
 days. 
 
 She'd been fair and fluffy then, and he'd rather 
 liked her and meant to write to her only, only 
 the time passed and he'd forgotten. 
 
 So he wrote that very evening: 
 
 DEAR Miss BLAKEBOROUGH: 
 
 I can't expect nor even hope that you will remember me. 
 We met at Cambridge. 
 
 (He stopped writing and tried to think where he 
 had met her, but couldn't so he put a full stop 
 after Cambridge.) 
 
 I must congratulate you on the success you have achieved, 
 and I am writing to ask you whether there will be a vacancy 
 at your school next term for my little daughter Jan, aged 10. 
 With kindest regards, 
 I am, 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 JOHN OWEN. 
 
 Miss Blakeborough, strange to say, could re- 
 member where she had met John. She remem- 
 bered, too, with a smile, what he'd said, and with a 
 blush what she'd answered. 
 
 She had neglected her studies at Girton for 
 several days, mooning round Woodlands (the 
 curving garden path) and meeting the post. But 
 no letter had come, so she worked with tremendous
 
 72 JAN 
 
 zeal till the end of the term when she went up to 
 Scotland to her people, and John "went down" 
 from Cambridge for good, and forgot all about her 
 from that day to this. 
 
 Left to herself, Miss Blakeborough would have 
 written a charming personal note, but the con- 
 stant demands made upon teachers do not create 
 an atmosphere of romance. Miss Blakeborough 
 was interrupted by a girl who came to report the 
 loss of a brooch, the Matron followed with the 
 news that Jessie Whittaker had a sore throat, 
 temperature and rash, and a mother who was visit- 
 ing the school that afternoon just slipped in for a 
 chat about little Janet's last term's report which 
 had not been quite satisfactory. 
 
 So when Miss Blakeborough did write she sent 
 a short, businesslike note, telling Mr. Owen that 
 she remembered him perfectly, and would be 
 pleased to take Jan, and there was a vacancy five 
 weeks hence at the half-term. 
 
 It was then the beginning of May, but John re- 
 fused the offer and settled for Jan to go in Septem- 
 ber. 
 
 Jan was busy because she was happy. There 
 was school morning and afternoon, and playing 
 round the stream and on the road. There were 
 flowers in the garden, and the weather was fine 
 and growing warmer. 
 
 "Heavenly!" Jan called it, and it was not an 
 adjective of extravagant praise, but descriptive
 
 JAN 73 
 
 because she had never forgotten her father's de- 
 scription of Heaven. 
 
 Sarah grew quieter and very pale as the days 
 passed. She was up with the lark now, scrub- 
 bing the "Plas" upstairs and down till you could 
 have eaten your dinner from the floor, so to speak. 
 The afternoons were spent in sewing. There were 
 wonderful garments of coarse calico all hand- 
 made and adorned with feather-stitching. There 
 were others of flannelette thick and woolly, and 
 two petticoats of real Welsh flannel which, forty 
 years later, one of Sarah's nieces, who got on in 
 the world, cut into a golf skirt. 
 
 Only God knows the hopes and fears that were 
 stitched into those garments; the awful gnawing, 
 restless hope of respectable marriage with babies 
 she could be proud to own; and the tremulous, 
 sickening fear that something should arise and stop 
 the wedding. 
 
 And, anyway, what about that boy of hers 
 the first-born child of her shame? He'd been put 
 out to board, and she'd seen him once or twice. 
 
 Davy Jones had a girl of twelve, Elvira, by his 
 first wife. Would he take in her Harold along of 
 her? The question tortured Sarah day and night. 
 It was hardly more than curiosity that had driven 
 her to see the boy, so long as she stayed where she 
 was, but she could not bear to leave him when her 
 fortunes were on the mend. 
 
 When everything about Jan had been decided,
 
 74 JAN 
 
 John asked Annie's advice so skilfully that she 
 suggested the very school John had hit upon and 
 offered to write to Miss Blakeborough, on the 
 score that "a woman understands so much better, 
 you know." 
 
 "I think it is a good plan, Annie," said John, 
 "and when the time comes, perhaps you'll help me 
 with Jan's clothes, will you? " 
 
 "Why, of course I will, John," Annie answered. 
 "You know I'm rather a busy person. I often say 
 to Henry I don't know where the time goes to." 
 
 John nodded; he'd heard her say so a hundred 
 times, and every time thought it a futile remark. 
 
 "But if you can't help your own people, who 
 can you help, I'd like to know? I always do say 
 blood is thicker than water," she finished, bril- 
 liantly. 
 
 "Rather," agreed John. "Oh, yes I want to 
 see Henry." 
 
 "Why, now here he is, earlier than usual. Isn't 
 that a funny thing?" Annie's last words floated 
 back as she dived into the hall to open the door for 
 her husband. 
 
 "Good-day, John," said Henry, "do you want 
 me?" 
 
 "Hallo!" John answered. "Yes, some time or 
 other; I'm wanting to make a will." 
 
 "Oh, John," broke in Annie, "are you ill, then?" 
 
 Henry rose in John's estimation by not even 
 glancing at his wife.
 
 JAN 75 
 
 "I'm all right, thanks, Annie," he answered, 
 gravely, "only in case " 
 
 "Of course, it's well to be prepared. You never 
 know what may happen. But if you two are going 
 to talk business, I'll leave you." 
 
 And with this roguish threat, she bustled away. 
 
 "I'm sending Jan to school," John volunteered. 
 
 "Sarah's leaving?" said Henry in a questioning 
 voice. He didn't question whether she were 
 leaving or not, he knew she was, but whether her 
 leaving was the cause of Jan's going to school. 
 
 John understood. "Yes, partly. Don't change, 
 I say, until there's a push from behind or an open- 
 ing in front. Sarah's the push the opening 
 will come if it doesn't, I'll make it." 
 
 "I sometimes wish," began Henry; then 
 stopped at the entry of the housemaid. 
 
 "The mistress says, sir, will Mr. John stay to 
 supper?" 
 
 "Will you, John? You're welcome," Henry 
 asked. 
 
 "No, thanks," John answered, "I'll be getting 
 along. Busy place, the Tlas/ nowadays. Sarah's 
 wedding is the day after to-morrow eh, what! 
 She's a good girl, too. I wish she'd struck some- 
 thing better than that drunken lout." 
 
 "Will you look round at the office to-morrow 
 then?" asked Henry. 
 
 "Righto," John called. "Good-night." 
 
 But a sudden violent bilious attack kept Henry
 
 76 JAN 
 
 indoors for the next couple of days, and when 
 John presented himself at the office, Henry's part- 
 ner attended to him. John produced half a sheet 
 of paper. "It's my Will," he said. "I hate all 
 the usual muddle call hi another witness, will 
 you?" 
 
 "It's rather unusual, Mr. Owen," the lawyer 
 hummed and hawed. 
 
 "What's that to me," said John, "as long as it's 
 legal?" 
 
 He had his own way, and when the document 
 had been signed and sealed, John walked out into 
 the street, with a curious feeling that it was nearly 
 time for him to die, since he'd made arrangements 
 for after his death. 
 
 But the events of the evening drove all thoughts 
 of dying out of his head. 
 
 Sarah had been out, and she broke into the 
 dining-room about half -past eight, her face the 
 colour of whey, her eyes wild and tearless. 
 
 "He's gone back on me," she said in a hoarse, 
 cracked voice, "he won't do it." 
 
 "Where is he?" said John. 
 
 "Gone," muttered Sarah. "Gone back home, 
 he is. He's in drink. He says as he won't do it 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "Why?" John asked. Men like Davy Jones 
 have specious reasons for their sins. 
 
 "It's along of Harry," Sarah answered in a dull, 
 hopeless way. "Harry my boy."
 
 JAN 77 
 
 "Sarah!" John commanded her, "go upstairs to 
 bed and stay there. Now which way did he go? " 
 
 "You won't go for to hurt 'im, Master," Sarah 
 cried. 
 
 "No! but we won't take risks. Which way did 
 he go?" 
 
 "By 'Three Gates,'" said Sarah. 
 
 John was a good walker, and ten minutes later 
 he came upon Davy Jones lurching home. John 
 passed him, went on a hundred yards, then turned 
 and met him. 
 
 "Hallo, Davy," he cried "you out to-night!" 
 
 " 'Devening, Mis'er Owen," hiccoughed Davy. 
 
 "Look here, my lad," said John, "I'd better 
 see you home," and linking his arm through that 
 of the drunken man, he turned him round and 
 drew him along with him toward the "Plas." 
 
 "No, this way," protested Davy. 
 
 John's grasp tightened like a vise. "That's 
 all right, my friend, you're on the right road now," 
 was his answer. 
 
 Davy struggled, kicked, and wailed, but he was 
 powerless to resist. And within half-an-hour 
 John propelled him into the house, into the dining- 
 room and locked the door. 
 
 Only two people ever knew what went on at the 
 "Plas" that night, and neither of those ever 
 mentioned it. 
 
 But it was the talk of Brynavon that Sarah 
 came to her wedding looking like a corpse, and
 
 78 JAN 
 
 that John walked to the Chapel with his arm 
 linked through that of his brother-in-law and 
 stood beside him until the couple were declared 
 man and wife. Then he stepped back and Sarah 
 lurched forward and fell in a faint at the feet of her 
 husband. 
 
 That night, as a reward for his labours, John 
 went for an hour to the "Blue Boar" and was 
 found at eleven o'clock lying in the road. He was 
 unconscious with severe wounds on the head, and 
 the inference was that some vehicle had run him 
 down in the dark. 
 
 Doctor Harris was called and shook his head, 
 after a very short examination. 
 
 "Something passed right over him, poor devil," 
 he said. 
 
 An hour later John opened his eyes. "My num- 
 ber up?" he asked. 
 
 Doctor Harris nodded; he never could lie any- 
 how not to old John. 
 
 "Bring me Jan," said John. 
 
 And since there was no time to lose, Jan was 
 wrapped in a blanket and carried in. 
 
 John motioned for them to put the child beside 
 him. "Now go," he whispered, "and come back 
 in a quarter of an hour." 
 
 "You ill, Daddy?" asked Jan, pointing to his 
 bandaged head. 
 
 "Not much, old girl," John answered, "but 
 I've a secret to tell you."
 
 JAN 79 
 
 "Lovely fun," gurgled Jan, snuggling down by 
 him. 
 
 "Do you remember, Jan," he went on, "that 
 time last winter, when you and I read voyages 
 and discoveries together? It was first-rate, 
 wasn't it?" 
 
 Jan nodded. "Rather, Daddy." 
 
 "Well, my pet, I'm going on a very exciting 
 voyage quite soon." 
 
 Jan sat bolt upright. "Oh, Daddy by sea! 
 Me, too, Daddy," she coaxed. 
 
 "No luck, old girl," he answered. "This is a 
 queer sort of journey I must go alone." 
 
 "Daddy," she gasped, "you'll be like Stanley 
 in his canoe do you remember?" 
 
 He cut her short. 
 
 "This is going to be a really exciting journey. 
 Guess whom I'm going to meet. Mother!" 
 
 Jan gazed at her father with wide eyes in which 
 horror dawned slowly then flung herself back be- 
 side him, sobbing, "Oh, Daddy, Daddy, don't go 
 stay with me, Daddy." 
 
 John bit his lip till it bled. Then with pain in 
 every movement he raised one arm and with his 
 hand smoothed Jan's rumpled hair. 
 
 "Listen, darling," he whispered, master of him- 
 self again. "You and I have been together ten 
 whole lovely years just think of it, and all the 
 while poor little Mother has been watching on the 
 other side all alone, waiting for one of us."
 
 80 JAN 
 
 Jan was interested and stopped crying to listen. 
 
 John saw his chance and went on quickly: 
 "Now it's her turn, Sweetness. I'm treating you 
 like a real grown-up person, and telling you all 
 about it, because I want you to promise me 
 to do your very best here till your time for the 
 voyage comes." 
 
 But Jan's baby soul welled over with bitter- 
 ness. "I'm only ten," she said "it may be 
 heaps of years." 
 
 Her father shuddered. 
 
 "Yes it may be a long time I hope it will be. 
 You see I want you to grow up into a fine, good 
 girl. And all the time Mother and I will be watch- 
 ing" his voice sank lower "and saying to one 
 another 'Look at Jan Look at our darling 
 little girl!' And when your time comes, Jan, and 
 we see your boat nearing the shore - Oh, Jan ! " 
 
 He stopped; Jan's sobbing had given place to 
 deep, regular breathing. She had cried herself to 
 sleep. 
 
 John lay still; they'd come and fetch her in a 
 minute till then it was good to have her by him. 
 And Jan Was it really Jan? 
 
 Five minutes later Doctor Harris and a nurse 
 he had summoned crept back into the quiet room. 
 
 A glance at the bed showed them that while the 
 child slept John had already started on the jour- 
 ney.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 COMING back after mid-term is rotten, my 
 dear," announced Clare Goodyer. 
 "Well, my dear, it's rottener to stick 
 here during mid-term, I can tell you." Olive 
 McEvoy's tone was final. 
 
 "Yes, you poor thing. Of course I had a 
 priceless time." 
 
 "Lucky beggar!" 
 
 "My sister looked perfectly ripping," swept on 
 Clare, "long train, you know and Dick was 
 home he's at school in Wales and he brought along 
 the most ripping boy John Owen. It was their 
 half-term, too." 
 
 "My dear, how ripping! I do envy you," said 
 Olive, disconsolately. "Of course, in a way, it 
 wasn't bad. I played tennis all Saturday after- 
 noon and knocked Nesta Vaughan out of the 
 tournament. She was as sick as a cat." 
 
 Clare's eyes sparkled. "I bet she was what a 
 lark!" 
 
 "All the decent mistresses went away; they 
 always do, " Olive remarked. 
 
 "What abcut Miss Saunders?" accused Clare. 
 
 "Oh, well, I'd forgotten her. Yes, she did 
 
 81
 
 82 JAN 
 
 stay." Olive's air of indifference was rather over- 
 done. 
 
 "Did you walk round the garden with her? 
 Lucky brute," said Clare, savagely, taking Olive's 
 blush as an answer in the affirmative. "Oh, 
 there's Molly. Hallo, Molly! Miss Saunders 
 didn't go away, and Olive walked round with her 
 to-day." 
 
 "Lucky brute," remarked Molly, taking off 
 her hat. "My dears, I had a priceless time!" 
 
 "How ripping," chorused Olive and Clare. 
 
 They were standing in the broad gravel terrace 
 hi front of the school, greeting arrivals who had 
 been lucky enough to get away for the half-term 
 holiday. Everyone was talking at once even 
 the members of the Staff, who had arrived up from 
 the station in cabs, dressed in wonderful costumes 
 which the school never saw in normal times. There 
 was Miss Read (in a flowered voile and parasol), 
 who was engaged to the secretary of a Member of 
 Parliament, and talked politics with the air of one 
 in the know. She was speaking to Miss Rivers 
 new last term who had played centre forward 
 for the Girton hockey team. She had spent her 
 mid-term golfing, her clubs hung on her arm. 
 "Bogey three a 2 yard putt," and "a magnificent 
 drive, my dear," occurred again and again in her 
 conversation. 
 
 She was listened to without enthusiasm, be- 
 cause no one else on the Staff played golf, and as
 
 JAN 83 
 
 Miss Talbot, the Geography mistress, afterward 
 confided to Miss Clark Junior School, "That 
 Rivers woman bores me stiff. I never can remem- 
 ber what a bogey is." 
 
 On the big triangular piece of grass beyond the 
 terrace was a crowd of girls watching the last 
 heat of the half-term tennis tournament, while 
 at the apex of the triangle, where it was too narrow 
 for a tennis court, the junior school children were 
 playing cricket with an unspliced bat and tennis- 
 ball. But if the batter hit to the left, the ball 
 went over the hedge into the road if straight, 
 on to the tennis court if to the right, on to the ter- 
 race among the groups of girls. A small girl of 
 eleven had just dived in between Molly and Clare, 
 and Olive, from the superior pinnacle of fourteen 
 years, remarked: "Aren't these kids just the 
 limit?" when a four-wheeler rumbled up the slope 
 past the lodge, and along the terrace to the front 
 door. 
 
 Terrific cheering from the tennis courts pro- 
 claimed a victory, and the scattered groups of 
 girls ran toward the court. 
 
 "Come on," said Olive, "let's see who's 
 won." 
 
 "I forgot," said Clare, standing still, "John 
 Owen that boy " 
 
 Olive nudged Molly. "Clare's absolutely 
 smashed on John Owen," she whispered. 
 
 " All right ! Olive McEvoy," said Clare, angrily,
 
 84 JAN 
 
 "don't ask me to walk with you this half, that's 
 all." 
 
 Olive grinned. "Don't be stuffy, Clare. I 
 was only rotting." 
 
 "Oh, well, then," Clare was half appeased; "I 
 was going to say John Owen said his cousin was 
 coming here this half and I expect that's her!" 
 
 "Will she be any good for the Form tennis 
 match?" Olive was Games Captain in Form IV 
 and of a practical turn of mind. 
 
 "She's only a kid," said Clare, "but her father 
 died or something. I forget exactly." 
 
 The big bell clanged at that moment and the 
 girls trooped in, flushed and talking eagerly. 
 They thronged the corridors and stood laughing 
 and calling to one another on the steps leading to 
 the dining-room where supper awaited them. 
 
 Jan stood in the hall, clasping Sarah tightly 
 by the hand, watching them with growing wonder. 
 
 "Sarah," she whispered, "aren't there lots and 
 lots or do the same ones keep coming to and 
 fro?" 
 
 "I don't know, Miss Jan," Sarah answered. 
 "I hope the lady won't be long, I do I'm fit to 
 drop." 
 
 Jan drew closer. "You won't go to-night, 
 Sarah?" she asked. 
 
 "No, no, Miss Jan, come you; I'll stay as long 
 as you like." 
 
 "There's Davy Jones, Sarah," Jan reminded
 
 JAN 85 
 
 her. And, indeed, the events of the past week 
 John's death and funeral, the long journey from 
 Brynavon to Paddington, then across London in a 
 taxi, and finally down to Kent, had driven all 
 thoughts of her husband and step-child out of 
 Sarah's mind. 
 
 But most astounding of all had been the read- 
 ing of John's Will, naming Sarah "sole guardian 
 of my child ! "followed by the words "My sister- 
 in-law, who has helped me so greatly, will appreci- 
 ate the reasons for this choice." 
 
 Annie had been staggered when the Will was 
 read to her. "Sarah sole guardian," she cried. 
 "That can't be right." 
 
 Mr. Griffiths showed her the paper. Annie 
 stared at the big, bold writing, and puckered her 
 forehead in an effort to imagine what she was 
 meant to understand. 
 
 Henry turned away. It was all very well for old 
 buffers to talk about "not saying anything but 
 good of the dead." Henry would have liked to 
 shout aloud a stream of angry abuse against his 
 dead brother. John wouldn't hear it, but it 
 would upset Annie, and loyalty kept his mouth 
 closed. All the same, he understood. John had 
 always played up to Annie; he'd never appreci- 
 ated her, but keeping in mind her offer to take 
 Jan, he'd always given the impression of deferring 
 to her. And since he meant to make Sarah guard- 
 ian, he put in that clause to placate Annie. "It
 
 86 JAN 
 
 was an unworthy act," Henry repeated to him- 
 self, "unbecoming to a gentleman and an Owen." 
 
 "Poor fellow," Annie sighed. "I'll admit to 
 you, Mr. Griffiths, I don't understand it. But 
 depend upon it I said something and he twisted 
 it poor fellow!" Annie wiped one eye with a 
 black-edged handkerchief. "Indeed, he thought 
 a lot of me, didn't he, Henry?" she answered. 
 
 "Yes," answered her husband quickly. "Poor 
 old John," he added, as it occurred to him with a 
 rare flash of intuition that he and John were really 
 in the same boat. For with a person owning such 
 a sensitive temperament as Annie did, prevarica- 
 tion was so much the simplest course. 
 
 Mr. Griffiths had explained to Sarah what sole 
 guardian meant, and the responsibility had 
 weighed heavily on her ever since, but never so 
 much as when she stood with Jan waiting to see 
 Miss Blakeborough. 
 
 Then a door to the right opened, and Miss 
 Blakeborough came out, tall and slim, with dark 
 hair parted in the middle and drawn loosely back 
 to her neck. She was very proud of her hair, 
 but then she was proud of herself altogether, of 
 her brain her organizing power, her business 
 ability, her figure and face, but most of all, of 
 her personality and the way she had with her. 
 Obstreperous children quieted at her approach, 
 the shy unbent, and the silent babbled like 
 brooks.
 
 JAN 87 
 
 "Come in, will you?" she said, smiling at Jan. 
 "I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting." 
 
 "Yes, mum," said Sarah, following her into her 
 pleasant room. 
 
 "So this is Jan, is it?" went on Miss Blake- 
 borough. 
 
 It was a rhetorical question, but one of those 
 which could have done with an answer. Jan, 
 however, made no reply. 
 
 "I hope you'll be very happy with us, Jan," 
 continued Miss Blakeborough, smiling at the small 
 girl in heavy mourning. 
 
 "Say thank you, Miss Jan," prompted Sarah. 
 
 "Thank you," said Jan, obediently. Then, 
 turning to Sarah, she said in a tired way, "Sarah, 
 I don't like this. Come home." 
 
 Sarah gave a quick look at the Head Mistress, 
 who stood up and came over to Jan. 
 
 "Jan," she said, "stay with me a little bit to 
 see how you like it." 
 
 "I shan't like it," said Jan, wearily. 
 
 "Miss Jan!" admonished Sarah. 
 
 "If we've got to stay, Sarah," the child went 
 on, "let's go to bed." 
 
 Sarah and Jan occupied the guest room that 
 night, and next morning Sarah left. Jan only 
 said, "Yes, there's Davy and Elvira," when told 
 of it, and when Sarah wavered, Miss Blakebor- 
 ough urged, "She'll settle down quickly once 
 you've gone."
 
 88 JAN 
 
 Sarah did her best to keep the scorn out of her 
 eyes, but the tone in which she said, "Very well, 
 mum," was openly contemptuous. 
 
 "I'll fetch you, Miss Jan, if you want to come," 
 she said, kissing Jan. 
 
 "Take care of Dio," said Jan. " Good-bye." 
 
 It may here be remarked that when Sarah 
 reached home, Dio was dead. He had been born 
 in the "Plas," reared there, and grown old beside 
 John Owen. And adapting the famous epitaph 
 
 To live after him he tried, 
 Liked it not and died 
 
 Jan did not send for Sarah. She wrote curious 
 little letters, with the dispassionate air of a grown- 
 up person, but she hated school. 
 
 John had fired her imagination, and she dreamt 
 day and night of Daddy and Mother in that won- 
 derful seaside place together, and enjoying them- 
 selves, while she was here with people who hadn't 
 known Daddy, nor the "Plas," nor Dio, nor 
 Sarah. 
 
 The lessons did not trouble her. She was 
 much better grounded than most of the other 
 children, but the atmosphere was so different. 
 Here Jan was back again in Form II, and Miss 
 Clark talked to them as if they were babies of 
 budding intelligence. 
 
 In the village school, Jan had been Standard IV 
 among children who loved a game with the best,
 
 JAN 89 
 
 but who regarded themselves as on the highroad 
 to maturity. 
 
 For instance, when Mrs. Richards' fifth baby 
 came, Bessie, then aged ten, stayed home from 
 school and did all the housework, including the 
 cooking and the care of the nose-disjointed "old 
 baby" of fourteen months. 
 
 Billy Williams was thirteen and a giant in the 
 Seventh Standard, but he was up milking at five, 
 and had taken the cans to the station before 
 school. 
 
 "Wake up, Jan," cried Miss Clark, brightly. 
 "I believe you're dreaming." 
 
 Jan looked up slowly. "Yes, teacher," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 There was a roar of laughter from the class. 
 
 "You don't call me 'teacher,'" said Miss 
 Clark. 
 
 "Why not? "Jan asked. 
 
 "Because you call me by my name, Miss Clark." 
 
 "Yes, Miss Clark," said Jan. 
 
 "Now, children," began Miss Clark, "we're 
 going to have a recitation-lesson. You like that, 
 don't you?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss Clark," said the class in chorus; 
 Jan alone was silent. 
 
 "I'm going to teach you a piece of poetry called 
 'My Bed Is Like a Little Boat,' It was written 
 by a man named Robert Louis Stevenson." 
 
 In an instant Jan's mind flew back to last
 
 90 JAN 
 
 winter, when she had read "Kidnapped" sitting 
 in her little chair on one side of the fire, with 
 Daddy on the other to help with the big words, 
 and while the rest of the class repeated after Miss 
 Clark: 
 
 My bed is like a little boat, 
 Nurse helps me in when I embark, 
 
 Jan was wandering in fancy over the heather with 
 Alan Breck and David Balfour. 
 
 "I'm sure you like that, don't you?" asked Miss 
 Clark at the end of the lesson, and twenty good 
 little girls who came from Upper Middle Class 
 homes answered, "Yes, Miss Clark." 
 
 Something prompted Miss Clark to say, "Do 
 you like it, Jan?" to which the child truthfully 
 replied, "No, thank you, Miss Clark." 
 
 Nature Study was no better. Miss Clark 
 showed the class a robin's nest she had found, 
 and talked about "robin red-breasts" and crumbs 
 and lining the nest, etc., etc. And then the class 
 took out their books and drew a nest, with a bird 
 balancing on the edge of it, and they chalked the 
 breast red, and enjoyed themselves. 
 
 But the "Plas" garden had been full of real 
 nests John had known the name and habits of 
 every bird in the countryside; the robins had 
 grown so bold last winter that they had often 
 come right in to the kitchen. Jan's indifference 
 was palpable and Miss Clark could not ignore it.
 
 JAN 91 
 
 "Bother that child," she thought, "I do wish 
 she'd buck up." 
 
 But Jan did not buck up, and at last Miss Clark 
 consulted Miss Blakeborough. 
 
 "I can't make any headway with that new 
 child, Jan Owen," she admitted, reluctantly. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked the Head. 
 "She's rather an unresponsive little person, of 
 course." 
 
 "She's superior," groaned Miss Clark. 
 
 "Not really." The Head spoke with convic- 
 tion, but then she habitually spoke up for her 
 girls. "She's unhappy, and homesick. Send 
 her to me. I'll try my luck with her." 
 
 "Miss Blakeborough is really wonderful with 
 the children," Miss Clark announced to the Staff 
 Room when she'd sent Jan along. 
 
 But to-day the Head failed to arouse any spark 
 of life in Jan, who listened to everything she said, 
 and replied: "Yes, Miss Blakeborough," and 
 "No, Miss Blakeborough," but as she was leav- 
 ing the room, she turned: "How long do people 
 live?" she asked in the tone of one equal address- 
 ing another. 
 
 Miss Blakeborough was startled, but respected 
 the tone. It was the first voluntary remark Jan 
 had made. 
 
 "It differs, of course," she answered, "but the 
 Bible says three-score years and ten that's 
 seventy, you know."
 
 92 JAN 
 
 "Thank you," said Jan, but her heart sank. 
 That afternoon she wrote to John: 
 
 DEAR JOHN: 
 
 I do not like school. 
 
 Miss Blakeborough says people ought to live seventy years. 
 It is a long time. 
 
 Your loving 
 
 JAX. 
 
 She wrote in the garden, sitting on the grass 
 nursing her writing block on her knee, while all 
 round her played the children of her Form. Every- 
 thing had changed even the games. 
 
 On the way home from school along the road 
 Jan had played lovely games with the village 
 children Bull-dicks Tig and "AYho's going 
 round my poultry-house Only Polly Perkins." 
 Not even the boys in Jan's school played cricket, 
 and there are still parts of Wales, Brynavon, for 
 instance, to which tennis has not yet travelled. 
 
 Miss Blakeborough was standing at her window 
 watching the girls. She had a fine position as 
 moulder of the destinies of these young lives. How 
 she loved them all not individually, of course, 
 but en masse. They were her girls her school 
 her seed-plot in the big garden. As her eye trav- 
 elled round it rested on Jan a small, black figure 
 alone. 
 
 Form II were playing cricket with a surpris- 
 ing amount of noise. Mona McEvoy Olive's
 
 JAN 93 
 
 younger sister had just made six runs, because 
 the ball had stuck up in the may-tree, when a 
 maid came to say that Miss Blakeborough wished 
 to speak to her. 
 
 There was more consternation in Form II than 
 is usually compatible with clean hands and a pure 
 heart, and as Mona knocked at the door her out- 
 look on life was gloomy. 
 
 Miss Blakeborough reassured her at once. 
 "Mona," she said, "I want you to do something 
 for me.'* 
 
 "Yes, Miss Blakeborough." The small girl 
 with her hot, flushed face and rumpled hair was 
 very earnest. 
 
 "It's about Jan Owen, the new girl." 
 
 "Yes, Miss Blakeborough," but Mona's tone 
 registered to the Head's quick understanding the 
 low degree of Jan's popularity. 
 
 "I think she's shy; go and ask her to play with 
 you. Don't say I sent you, just do it on your 
 own, will you?" 
 
 "She won't play, Miss Blakeborough," Mona 
 burst in with wide-open eyes. " She says 
 
 "Go and ask her again I should," the Head 
 advised. 
 
 But from her window she saw Mona's ad- 
 vances refused, and Jan stood up and walked 
 away out of sight. 
 
 John received Jan's letter at breakfast time on 
 Saturday morning, and he thought hard during
 
 94 JAN 
 
 the meal, with there suit that he caught the twelve 
 o'clock express to Paddington. He was sixteen 
 now, and in the Upper Fifth. As he sat back in 
 the corner of a third-class smoker, he hoped that 
 his tracks would be covered till Monday morning. 
 
 As luck would have it, he had an exeat for the 
 whole day Saturday Goodyer had promised to 
 sign on for him on Sunday, and John proposed to 
 travel back to S. Wales by the night train on Sun- 
 day and present himself at Monday's school with- 
 out undue attention. 
 
 It was quite a good plan, and it was charac- 
 teristic of John that when he had made his ar- 
 rangements he put the matter from his mind, and 
 devoted himself to the question in hand Jan. 
 
 He'd gone home for his uncle's funeral and seen 
 Jan then, and he'd sent her a box of toffee to school 
 which she hadn't acknowledged, because he'd 
 stuck a slip of paper "With love from John," in- 
 side the tin, and the paper had stuck to the toffee, 
 and Jan had thrown it away without looking at it, 
 and hadn't known from whom the sweets came. 
 
 The train was late at Paddington, and John 
 missed his connection and landed down in Kent 
 at 9:30 when all the girls were in bed. 
 
 He stood a minute or two by the lodge gate de- 
 liberating. He had his return ticket and five 
 shillings. In addition, he was hungry and did not 
 know where to go. But it never occurred to 
 him to regret having come.
 
 JAN 95 
 
 It was a glorious summer's night the air 
 heavy with a hundred scents, while from the 
 clump of bushes on the hill a nightingale sang to 
 his mate. 
 
 Miss Blakeborough was strolling round the 
 garden glad of a few minutes* respite from com- 
 panionship. She had the finest Staff in the world 
 loyal and keen but like her favourite R.L.S., 
 she found "enthusiasm wearing" at least at the 
 end of the week. 
 
 And to-night her thoughts were far away. 
 She had arranged her summer holiday, and in ful- 
 filment of a long-standing promise, she was going 
 with her family to Switzerland to Campfer, a 
 little village in the Engadine, a good centre for 
 walks, expeditions, and climbing. 
 
 As she came along the terrace, she saw John 
 standing just inside the gate, his head thrown back, 
 his hands clasped behind him, while the moonlight 
 streaming on to his face revived some forgotten 
 memory, and she walked down to the gate. 
 
 "Are you waiting for anybody?" she asked. 
 
 "No, thanks," John answered. "I wanted to 
 see someone, but it's too late. That's a night- 
 ingale, isn't it?" he asked, as the bird's song began 
 again; "I never heard one before." 
 
 Miss Blakeborough nodded. "Do you mean 
 someone in the school?" Of whom did this boy 
 remind her? 
 
 "Yes," John answered, though the nightingale
 
 96 JAN 
 
 had half his attention. "It's Jan Jan Owen 
 I'm her cousin." 
 
 Ah! Miss Blakeborough understood the like- 
 ness well enough; it had been on another such 
 night as this in Cambridge after an illustrated 
 lecture on someone's travels in the 
 
 "Where are you staying?" she asked, coming 
 to earth with a bump. 
 
 "Oh," said John, "I don't know anywhere." 
 
 "But where are you going to sleep?" Miss 
 Blakeborough demanded. 
 
 "There's a hay-rick," John began, confidentially. 
 
 Miss Blakeborough stared at him with a grow- 
 ing envy in her eyes. 
 
 "Lord!" she thought, "what wouldn't I give to 
 be young again." (She was thirty-five.) And 
 to John she said: "Come in; have you had 
 supper?" 
 
 The cleverest people make the biggest mistakes, 
 ignore the more obvious openings, and fail to 
 see the facts which stare them in the face. And 
 in some way or other it never occurred to Miss 
 Blakeborough that John's visit was not made 
 with the concurrence of the authorities under 
 whose rule he was supposed to be. Boys' schools 
 are run on such different lines from girls' and 
 John mentioned his school and home freely. 
 
 Jan was excused from church next day and spent 
 the morning in the garden with her cousin. 
 
 John felt physically sick at the sight of her white
 
 JAN 97 
 
 unhappy face. Human suffering appalled him, he 
 hated the feeling of impotence before those troubles 
 which must needs come. 
 
 They sat hand in hand on the bank. Jan didn't 
 talk and John was afraid to begin. 
 
 "I know you don't like school," he said at last, 
 "but can't you possibly make it do, dear, till I'm 
 a man?" 
 
 Jan turned to him with a faint flicker of interest. 
 "What then?" she asked. 
 
 "I could take you away, "John answered, quickly, 
 "right away and we'd live together and you 
 should keep house for me, and I'd look after you." 
 
 Jan gripped his hand with all her puny might. 
 
 "John," she cried, "is it truth and honour; is it 
 really and truly?" 
 
 " Honour bright, Jan ! " the boy promised, gravely. 
 Whereupon Jan burst into a flood of tears. There 
 was hope in the land yet, some time she'd go back 
 home again and look after John. John appreci- 
 ated the reason for Jan's crying and didn't try 
 to soothe her. But presently he told her as a 
 dead secret about the time he'd run away from 
 school and how her father had talked to him and 
 taken him back. And Jan laughed at the idea 
 of Aunt Annie sitting in the dining-room, while 
 John, who was supposed to be at school, was lying 
 in bed upstairs. And then together they sketched 
 the house they'd live in and what John would do 
 and what Jan would do and when Jan said, "It
 
 98 JAN 
 
 won't be long, will it, John?" he answered. "Hon- 
 our bright, it shan't be long." 
 
 "Goodness me," groaned Miss Clark later, 
 catching sight of Jan's red eyes, "I hope he's not 
 been upsetting that child any more." 
 
 "You take your children too much to heart, 
 my dear," and Miss Rivers yawned. "Take my 
 advice and run some hobby unconnected with 
 school. Now golf " 
 
 "Excuse me," apologized Miss Clark, "but 
 I must go in," and she hurried away. But as she 
 lay on her bed till lunchtime with a new novel, 
 she must have forgotten (if she ever knew) the 
 urgent business that had called her away. 
 
 " Goodness gracious," said Molly, "look, there's 
 a boy. Who's he with - Oh, that new kid." 
 
 Clare Goodyer turned a vivid pink. "I do 
 believe it's John Owen," she said. "You know 
 the boy who came home on half-term." 
 
 "Molly," Olive chanted, with what was re- 
 grettably near a wink, "I think you and I, my 
 child, will be as Mademoiselle says *de trop." 1 
 
 "Don't be such beasts," hissed Clare. "Oh, 
 hallo, John," she said, suddenly changing her 
 tone as John and Jan came toward her. 
 
 "Hallo, Clare!" John greeted her, "I didn't 
 know you were here!" 
 
 "Forgotten, you mean," Clare answered, 
 dimpling into a smile. "I know I told you. What 
 are you doing?"
 
 JAN 99 
 
 "I came to see Jan she's my cousin. There, 
 now, you'd forgotten." 
 
 "No, I hadn't." Truth was Clare's strong 
 point, but she couldn't explain to John that Fourth 
 Form girls did not have much in common with 
 Lower School kids. John ought to have known 
 that, but trifles of that sort never concerned him. 
 
 "All right," said John with a grin, suddenly 
 seeing the point she had not made, "it doesn't 
 matter." 
 
 "But I will," protested Clare. "I'd like to. 
 She's your cousin," but as she said it, the reason 
 lay in the pronoun. 
 
 That afternoon John said good-bye to Miss 
 Blakeborough in the most charming way and 
 thanked her warmly for her kindness. 
 
 "Jan will be happier now, won't you, Jan?" 
 he said. 
 
 "Oh, yes, John, dear," the child answered, " quite 
 happy now." 
 
 Miss Blakeborough wanted to ask how it had 
 been done, for future reference, but didn't like to, 
 so said "Good-bye" instead. 
 
 Jan took him to the gate. She walked hi silence, 
 with a little frown on her forehead. John squeezed 
 the small hand he was holding. "All serene, 
 darling?" he asked. 
 
 Jan stood still. "John," she said, breathlessly, 
 growing rather pale, "tell me, John when you're 
 a properly grown man '
 
 100 JAN 
 
 "You shall keep house, darling," he broke in to 
 assure her. 
 
 "You wouldn't have two people to keep house 
 for you, John?" she inquired, anxiously. 
 
 "Rather not," said John. "You see, Jan, a 
 man has the person he loves best in all the world 
 to keep his house, and he can't love more than 
 one at a time," he added with unintentional 
 cynicism. 
 
 Jan's face was transfigured. "And it's me!" 
 she cried. "That Clare girl shan't come." 
 
 "You're my very bestest," he said, and he meant 
 it, though the kiss Clare had given him in the 
 passage was still hot on his cheek. 
 
 It was from this time forward that Jan began to 
 give trouble. She was noisy and disregarded the 
 rules. 
 
 But when Miss Clark said to her, "You weren't 
 so naughty Jan, when you first came," Jan re- 
 plied, naively, "No, Miss Clark, but you see- 
 now I'm happy."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 WHEN John turned up at school on 
 Monday morning, he found, as Dick 
 Goodyer managed to whisper to him, 
 "Cain raised and the hell of a row" awaiting 
 him. 
 
 By some freak of mischance Annie had decided 
 very suddenly to spend a week with an old school- 
 friend who lived not far from the school. What 
 more natural, then, than that she should walk over 
 on Sunday after Chapel to see John, who was not 
 forthcoming? 
 
 Investigation showed that he had signed on for 
 breakfast, but further inquiries led to the theory 
 that the signature was a forgery 
 
 Dick Goodyer, whose handwriting was known, 
 denied it when accused, not from any wish to lie, 
 but in the thin hope of saving John. But Dick 
 was naturally truthful, and made a hash of it 
 by contradicting himself every second word, till 
 when the Head Master said bluntly, "When is 
 he coming back?" Dick answered "Monday." 
 
 "It was a rotten catch!" he growled to himself 
 when he had been dismissed. 
 
 Doctor Jones returned to Mrs. Owen. The 
 101
 
 102 JAN 
 
 smile of expectancy on her face died away when 
 she saw that John was not there. 
 
 The next five minutes were painful for both. 
 
 "But where can he have gone?" Annie cried, 
 fighting down her tears. "He didn't know I was 
 coming," she challenged him, as if that in itself 
 were an excuse, and the Head unmarried, by the 
 way reflected on the queer freak of nature which 
 allowed only unreasonable and unreasoning creat- 
 ures to carry on the race. 
 
 "It's serious, Mrs. Owen," he told her; "your 
 son is no longer a child and so far he has never 
 realized to any degree the responsibilities which, as 
 a senior boy, devolve upon him. I have the tone 
 of my school to consider." 
 
 "We sent him to you to be taught," Annie 
 flashed back. "His father and I we entrusted 
 him to you. It was your duty to make him 
 realize. Have you failed, too?" 
 
 The last word was a bitter admission and Doctor 
 Jones noticed it. There were patches of bright 
 colour on her cheeks as she sat bolt upright, 
 quivering with the same anger which prompts a 
 tigress to defend her cubs. And she was full of fears 
 for John and so very disappointed not to see him. 
 
 Doctor Jones pursed up his lips and considered. 
 "There is reason in what you say, Mrs. Owen," 
 he remarked at last. "Everything will depend on 
 where John has been and what he has to say for 
 himself."
 
 JAN 103 
 
 And then John refused to tell. He admitted 
 he'd been away, at last when pressed even ac- 
 knowledged that he'd been to London, but would 
 give no further information. The Head Master 
 looked at him reflectively, as if trying to sum up 
 some curious hitherto unknown species. 
 
 "Think it over, Owen," he advised, kindly; 
 "try and look forward and see what the conse- 
 quence of such er obstinacy must be. I have no 
 wish to threaten you " He paused signifi- 
 cantly. 
 
 Annie, who had stayed for the interview, clasped 
 and unclasped her hands nervously. "If they 
 expel him," she thought, "I shall never hold up 
 my head again." 
 
 John ran his fingers through his hair. Here, if 
 you like, was the father and mother of a fix. To 
 tell the truth was out of the question. He simply 
 couldn't speak to these people of Jan of the al- 
 most sacred feeling he had for his little cousin. 
 And it wasn't only because she was Jan, but be- 
 cause she was the daughter of John Owen. 
 
 He wrinkled his face in perplexity. If only he 
 didn't mind lies, he could have spun them a fine 
 yarn. 
 
 He could say he'd been to the station and 
 Tommy Mammy, the old porter, had been 
 struggling with luggage and John had stepped into 
 the van to help and before he knew heigh- 
 presto, he was whirled away up to London. But
 
 104 JAN 
 
 the train to London wasn't a non-stop, he ob- 
 jected no, that wouldn't hold water. He'd have 
 to try another! 
 
 Annie watched him with a sinking heart. She 
 knew from experience that when John set his jaw 
 as he was doing now nothing would induce him 
 to budge out of his own course. 
 
 "Well, Owen," Doctor Jones broke in upon 
 John's thoughts, "have you come to your senses?" 
 
 John started. "I can't, sir," he began. 
 
 "John," pleaded his mother, "tell me, dar- 
 ling. Tell Mother where you went." 
 
 For a second the boy wavered, then he walked 
 across the room to where Annie was sitting. 
 
 "I can't tell you, Mother," he said, taking her 
 hand and rubbing it against his cheek, "if I 
 could, you know you would be the one I'd tell. 
 I did nothing to shame you, dear." 
 
 It would have been humiliating to urge him 
 further, but Doctor Jones was impressed. 
 
 John, with his charming, caressing way, was a 
 revelation to him. He had not realized that 
 there was this side to the boy's character. In all 
 his long experience Doctor Jones had never 
 before met an ill-doer with the quiet, assured man- 
 ner John was showing. He seemed to be drawing 
 on reserves of strength unknown to his hearers, 
 and his conscience always supposing he possessed 
 one was unburdened by his sin. 
 
 The Head Master rubbed his smooth chin re-
 
 JAN 105 
 
 flectively. "Look here, Owen," he said, laying a 
 hand on John's shoulder, "this is a bigger thing 
 than you realize. Expulsion (Annie gasped) fol- 
 lows a man all his life. I don't know where you've 
 been, but I must know. You won't tell me?" 
 (as John shifted impatiently) "Not now but 
 I'm going to give you a whole week to think it 
 over." 
 
 "Thank you, sir." John's eyes were very 
 bright and the words were spoken automatically. 
 
 "I want your son to go home with you now, 
 Mrs. Owen," Doctor Jones went on, "and he 
 may come back within the week if he is prepared 
 to say where he went last Sunday. That is the 
 most I can do for you, and I do assure you, Mrs. 
 Owen, that I am stretching discipline to its ut- 
 most limit." 
 
 Annie murmured an indistinct reply, and the 
 room and its occupants were blurred in a mist of 
 tears. 
 
 "Who hath sinned, this man or his father?" 
 Was it John's own fault or Henry's or Henry's 
 father's? Perhaps it was her own fault, she should 
 have taught him better, but she couldn't she'd 
 done her best and failed. 
 
 And over all her own personal unhappiness, 
 Brynavon's attitude toward John lay like a pall. 
 They'd be astonished to see him and curious as to 
 why he had come home, and the more Annie would 
 try to hide it, the deeper they would dig and then,
 
 106 JAN 
 
 all of a sudden, John would be sure to announce 
 the truth, naked and hateful, to someone, and in a 
 day the whole town would know about it. 
 
 They'd call and sympathize with her, not out 
 loud in words, but in subtle intonations and kindly 
 looks. And Willie Griffiths taught in Sunday 
 School and had just taken a scholarship to Abery- 
 stwy th ! 
 
 It was unbearable, it was disgraceful of John. 
 And then through her tears she saw his face, 
 young and pure, with the corners of his mouth 
 drooping a little, and the dreamy eyes looking 
 from her to Doctor Jones and back again in wist- 
 ful inquiry. He was immeasurably far away, out 
 beyond her reach, and the knowledge stabbed her. 
 If she wasn't careful she'd lose him -altogether. 
 
 "Darling," she cried, in an attempt to reach 
 him, " darling, I am trying to understand." 
 
 Henry was as puzzled as his wife, but far less 
 sympathetic. 
 
 " I'd like to lay a stick across your back, my lad, 
 and teach you," he said, eying his son dispas- 
 sionately. 
 
 John did not answer. He was taller than his 
 father, and he might have reminded him, only 
 Henry remembered quite well that in the past 
 the application of the rod had not been as result- 
 ful as Solomon had seemed to think it would be. 
 
 Supper was a dreadful farce. Henry sat in 
 gloomy silence. Annie wore a pained expression
 
 JAN 107 
 
 and merely toyed with her food, and both, with 
 irritated wonder, watched John make a hearty 
 meal, in apparent unconsciousness of the strained 
 atmosphere around him. . 
 
 "If you don't mind, Mother, I'll take a stroll," 
 he said after supper. 
 
 "I do mind, sir," snapped Henry, "if you have 
 no sense of shame, I have.' 
 
 John flushed and clasped the back of his chair. 
 "It's not quite 'shame,' Father 
 
 "Hold your tongue, sir, I say it is shame to 
 have my son expelled from school " 
 
 John left the room, closing the door quietly 
 behind him, and went out whistling between his 
 teeth. 
 
 "He'll tell me, Henry I'm sure he'll tell me." 
 Annie was trying to buoy up her own courage, but 
 Henry knew better. 
 
 "He'll never tell, the young fool." 
 
 "But, Henry, where can he have been?" 
 
 "God knows I don't." 
 
 Annie stiffened, but Henry's blasphemy faded 
 before a sickening fear that had arisen in her 
 mind. 
 
 "You don't think, do you, that he was taken 
 there, that he did wrong?" 
 
 "No, I don't," Henry answered with decision, 
 "the boy's not sinful he's silly. He's risking 
 everything for some damned quixotic notion. 
 For the life of me I can't think what it can be."
 
 108 JAN 
 
 And as he lay still that night, trying not to dis- 
 turb Annie who scarcely dared to breathe for fear 
 of waking him Henry found himself trying to 
 remember what his brother John had done as a 
 boy, to see if that would give a clue. 
 
 John's appearance in Brynavon had exactly 
 the effect that Annie had feared. Everyone knew 
 that schools did not close until the end of July, 
 so why was John Owen home at the beginning, 
 looking very well, too, indeed! 
 
 The Brynavon ladies were curious, but the curi- 
 osity of a country town is a complex affair. It is 
 prompted partly by an interest hi other people, 
 since provincial life has a narrow radius, and com- 
 paratively few people have the salt within them- 
 selves. 
 
 There is kindliness behind it, too, inasmuch as 
 you and I, being residents in the same town, at- 
 tending the same Chapel, and the same, the one 
 and only, dressmaker, are integral parts of one 
 another's life, and it is second nature to me to dance 
 to your piping and lament to your mourning. 
 But I must know the tune, and if you will not tell 
 me, I must find out for myself, or guess and act 
 accordingly. 
 
 And when Mrs. Griffiths put on her best bonnet 
 and walked up to call upon Mrs. Owen, she wore 
 the air of one who intends to get to the root of the 
 matter. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Owen," she said, when her ample
 
 JAN 109 
 
 person was settled on the drawing-room sofa, 
 "you're not looking at all well to-day." 
 
 It was a skilful throw, but Annie was wary. 
 
 "It's the heat! I do feel a little bit done up, 
 but there what can you expect?" 
 
 "Indeed, I sometimes think you do too much, 
 Mrs. Owen." 
 
 "We hope to get away in August that is, if Mr. 
 Owen can spare the time. Are you going away? " 
 
 "Yes, we're going to Llandrindod for a fort- 
 night Mr. Griffiths, Willie, and myself." 
 
 "Very nice, too. How is Willie? " 
 
 The moment the question had passed her lips 
 Annie saw her mistake, and at the same minute 
 Mrs. Griffiths took her advantage. 
 
 "Willie is very well, thank you, dear Mrs. 
 Owen. You know we were so pleased about his 
 examination. Did you hear about it? " 
 
 Considering that Mrs. Griffiths had already told 
 Annie twice, her husband having previously men- 
 tioned it to Henry, Annie said, "Yes, dear, it is 
 good. I don't wonder you're pleased." 
 
 "He was so poorly the day he started," said 
 Mrs. Griffiths, beginning from the beginning, 
 "that I said to his father 'The boy's not fit to 
 go, William.' And Willie said: 'I must try, 
 Mother.' So I said: 'Very well, then, you shall' 
 and would you believe it, Mrs. Owen, that boy 
 came out top, swept the board," and Mrs. Grif- 
 fiths made a wonderful sweeping movement with
 
 110 JAN 
 
 her hands, indicative of Willie's success, and 
 thereby upset a vase of flowers on the table. 
 
 "How is John?" she asked, when the water 
 had been mopped up and the flowers taken 
 away. 
 
 "He's home for a week," Annie answered. 
 
 "Oh, not well, I suppose?" 
 
 "Well," Annie's pursed-up lips might have 
 meant anything, "we thought it better to have 
 him home just for a time. Not delicate, but a 
 very highly strung boy, you know." 
 
 Mrs. Griffiths nodded several times in a com- 
 prehending way. 
 
 " Yes, of course, he always was difficult. I mean, 
 of course, dear Mrs. Owen, that John always 
 needed care. I heard you say so a dozen times." 
 
 Annie rose to the occasion with magnificent 
 dignity. 
 
 "It is a mother's privilege," she said. "I al- 
 ways feel that a boy of John's calibre" (good 
 word that!) "has, with the right guidance, an 
 infinite capacity for good or evil. But I'll admit 
 to you, Mrs. Griffiths, that I am sometimes tempted 
 to envy you your Willie with his placid, easy 
 temperament. Do let me give you another cup of 
 tea." 
 
 While Annie was fighting his battles for him at 
 home, John was on his way to Pentre Fawr to see 
 Sarah. He didn't particularly want to see her, 
 in fact he didn't particularly want to see any-
 
 JAN 111 
 
 thing or anybody only to be left alone and to be 
 free to go his own way. That was it he wanted 
 freedom not to do anything specially but to have 
 time to be. John hated living in Brynavon, 
 though he loved the place. He could have been 
 so happy there, idling away his life in dilettante 
 hobbies and dreamy reflections. 
 
 But life on the Parade with hot dinner at one 
 o 5 clock and Chapel on Sundays every Sunday, 
 and bowing and scraping to the right people, and 
 being condescending within the Christian limit 
 to those who didn't matter John loathed it all. 
 
 If he had wanted his freedom for some purpose, 
 they might have understood, but it was an end in 
 itself; he broke their laws for the sake of breaking 
 them. He was young, crude, and as unhappy as a 
 sun-worshipper can be on a glorious summer's day. 
 
 Sarah greeted him with all the effusion of which 
 she was capable and that is not saying much. 
 
 "Please to come in, Master John," she said. 
 "Elvira, bring Master John a glass of milk." 
 
 The sound of clogs tapping on the stone floor 
 showed that Elvira had heard and was obeying. 
 
 John sat on the settle in the long, dark kitchen, 
 while opposite him Sarah drew up a chair, and sat 
 with her hands folded, her wedding-ring well in 
 evidence. It was a habitual attitude of hers, as 
 if to show the world the bargain she had secured. 
 The price was no one's concern but her own, but 
 there was an ugly bruise under one eye.
 
 112 JAN 
 
 "Pretty well, Sarah?" the boy asked. 
 
 "Yes, thank you, Master John. But I had a 
 nasty accident. Slipped and fell, I did, hitting 
 my head on the table." She smoothed the bruise 
 gently, and looked at John with eyes which asked 
 him to believe her lie. 
 
 John understood all right. 
 
 "Bad luck, Sarah! Oh, thank you most aw- 
 fully," this to Elvira, a buxom girl of fifteen 
 who handed him a glass of milk. There was a 
 suspicion of Jan in her looks Jan broadened and 
 made more coarse but she had the same heavy 
 black hair and dark eyes, though hers beckoned 
 and enticed. 
 
 John raised the glass of milk, "Happy days," 
 he said, turning first to Sarah and then to Elvira. 
 
 Sarah didn't understand what he meant, but 
 she saw the mischief brewing in her step-daughter's 
 dark eyes. 
 
 "It's getting on for milking time," she said, 
 "you'd best be calling home the cows." 
 
 Elvira moved to the door, but before she dis- 
 appeared she caught John's eye, and smiled at 
 him, showing strong white teeth. 
 
 "When's Jan coming home, Sarah?" John set 
 the empty glass on the table. 
 
 Sarah stood up. "The old pump wasn't work- 
 ing this morning; will you help me, Master John, 
 same as at the 'Plas'?" 
 
 Again John understood Sarah's evasive answer.
 
 JAN 113 
 
 The kitchen had three doors the pump was in 
 the middle of the yard. No one could overhear a 
 conversation there. 
 
 "I don't want Miss Jan here," announced 
 Sarah, while John pumped. "It's not it's not 
 the place for her." 
 
 "David Jones was her uncle before you married 
 him," was John's reply. 
 
 "That's got nothing to do with it take care, 
 Master John you're spilling it over nor that 
 Elvira is Miss Jan's cousin. She shan't come here 
 never." 
 
 John filled the second can. "Shall I ask the 
 mater?" he said, leaning on the pump handle. 
 "She'll have her sure enough." 
 
 "That's it, Master John." 
 
 "All right, Sarah no, I'll carry them, both 
 of them," but as he staggered back to the kitchen 
 with the heavy cans John thought that poor old 
 Sarah must be in a pretty sort of fix before she 
 would try and drive Jan up to the house on the 
 Parade. 
 
 As he walked home down the lane, he met El- 
 vira driving home her cows. 
 
 "Hallo!"he hailed her. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Master John," she mocked 
 him. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he demanded. 
 
 The girl opened her eyes wide in feigned as- 
 tonishment.
 
 114 JAN 
 
 "What do you mean?" she parried every tone 
 and gesture seeking to allure him. 
 
 "Say, Elvira give me a kiss." 
 
 "Oh, Master John!" Her tone was a denial 
 her looks an invitation, and a moment later John 
 put his arm round her and kissed her. 
 
 But, suddenly, he understood what Sarah meant, 
 and seizing his handkerchief, scrubbed his mouth 
 to try and cleanse it from taint. 
 
 When he reached home, he could feel a subtle 
 change in the atmosphere even before a word was 
 spoken. The strained look in his father's eyes 
 was replaced by one of grudging admiration 
 (John could only have told you there was a change 
 not what the change was). His mother kissed 
 him loudly on the forehead in a way he peculiarly 
 disliked. All through supper they talked brightly 
 to one another, while John ate in abstracted silence 
 without noticing that the meal was an extra good 
 one. It was, as a matter of fact, part of Annie's 
 thank-offering, for the mystery of John's where- 
 abouts on the Sunday had been cleared up by that 
 beneficent Providence who looks after fools. On 
 this occasion He acted through the medium of 
 Miss Blakeborough, and it had happened in this 
 wise. 
 
 Adele Blakeborough, a younger sister, became 
 engaged to Mr. Hardacre, the Games Master 
 at John's school. And when she wrote to her 
 sister and announced the fact, the sister that
 
 JAN 115 
 
 is our Miss Blakcborough sent her congratula- 
 tions to her future brother-in-law, and asked cas- 
 ually was it the custom in boys' schools for pupils 
 to be careering over the country at all hours of 
 the day, even if they were such dear things as 
 young John Owen, and so absurdly fond of little 
 cousins as he was of Jan. 
 
 Hardacre took the letter to Doctor Jones, who 
 pondered over it, and gave John the benefit of 
 believing that his silence was due to gallant though 
 mistaken motives, and in his letter to Mrs. Owen 
 he signified his permission for John to return to 
 school. 
 
 No wonder the Owens were relieved. 
 
 "I saw Sarah to-night." John raised his eyes 
 from his plate, and caught the glances passing be- 
 tween his parents. "She wants us to have Jan 
 for the holidays." 
 
 "We can't do that possibly." It was Henry 
 who answered, and his tone was final as though 
 the matter had been thought out before. 
 
 "We'll have to see about it." Annie nodded to 
 John in a way that was intended to soothe him. 
 
 "Annie!" and her husband's tone was per- 
 emptory. "I do not often oppose you. But this 
 time I am decided, so understand that Jan does 
 not come here once and for all." 
 
 John turned pale and pushed back his plate. 
 
 "Why not, Father?" he asked in a very small 
 voice.
 
 116 JAN 
 
 "I am not called upon to give you my reason," 
 Henry fumed, "but this time I will. If my 
 brother had wished us to have her, he would have 
 said so. He deliberately chose otherwise; well 
 and good. Secondly " 
 
 "Henry," Annie implored him "Darling boy," 
 she turned to John "it was very sweet of you 
 but why not say where you had been? " 
 
 John shuddered with fear. It was coming, 
 then they were going to strip him of the reserve 
 in which he had wrapped himself and make him 
 bare himself to their eyes. 
 
 "It was foolish of you, John," Henry's voice 
 broke in upon him. "You might have ruined 
 your career for a whim." 
 
 But it is given to those who love best to mar 
 the lives of those they would die to help, and it was 
 Annie who sinned past forgiveness. 
 
 "Father and I quite understand about Jan, 
 dear." Her son winced. "Your love for little 
 Jan is very sweet, and we know how much 
 you have helped to comfort her." She stopped 
 because John looked as if he were going to 
 faint. 
 
 "Hysteria," muttered Henry, riled at his son's 
 drawn white face and staring eyes. "Then you 
 go back to school to-morrow, do you hear?" He 
 rose from the table, trying to pass off the matter 
 with a high hand. 
 
 John did not move.
 
 JAN 117 
 
 "It's all over now, darling," his mother assured 
 him. "Doctor Jones understands, too." 
 
 "I'm not going back to school." The words 
 forced themselves from John with a jerk. 
 
 Henry stopped at the door. "Nonsense," he 
 said, briskly, "don't let me hear any more about 
 it. Come round the garden, Annie?" 
 
 John did not move after they had gone. So 
 they all knew. Once again they'd stormed the 
 citadel of his soul. It wasn't exactly a secret, 
 but it belonged to him not to them. He left 
 them alone they persecuted him. 
 
 "Henry," Annie began, timidly. 
 
 "I'm not going to discuss John, my dear," said 
 her husband. "He'll be all right when he gets 
 back to school." 
 
 But when they went to call John the next morn- 
 ing, they found his bed empty and it had not been 
 slept upon. 
 
 He had taken his life into his own hands, and 
 he did not return to school.
 
 CHAPTER VHI 
 
 IT WAS within hailing distance of the end of the 
 summer term, and the joy of girls as they 
 looked forward to the holidays was as nothing 
 to that of the Staff. 
 
 Teaching is the most fascinating and exacting 
 profession under the sun. It absorbs all the ener- 
 gies, interest, brain, and patience of its followers. 
 And boarding-schools naturally are the worst. 
 
 The sex problem plays a prominent part in the 
 restlessness and discontent of every staff toward 
 the end of a term. Men and women were meant 
 to live and work together presumably because 
 each supplies the other's want. 
 
 In ordinary private life a house full of women is 
 rather a pathetic object. Their attempts to adapt 
 themselves to the second-best in life are palpably 
 obvious, and they lavish unrequited affection 
 upon cats and dogs and nephews maiden aunts 
 never really care for nieces. 
 
 And in an institution where thirty or more 
 women live in close and intimate contact with one 
 another for three months at a stretch the at- 
 mosphere grows electric. 
 
 Afternoon tea for the Staff was served on the 
 
 118
 
 JAN 119 
 
 terrace, and Miss Blakeborough had just gone 
 indoors wondering whether all dear, good women 
 talked such appalling tosh as her staff. 
 
 Miss Rivers now splendid with the children 
 and a good scholar was unutterably boring. 
 She was an egoist through and through, she looked 
 on life in general from a subjective point of view, 
 and as surely as streams turn to the sea, all her 
 conversation ended with herself. Miss Talbot was 
 too nervous to say anything unless she could agree 
 with the last speaker, and she had the most irri- 
 tating habit of fiddling with her shoe when ad- 
 dressed. Miss Clark talked "shop," spoke of 
 "my children" and "my little flock," and told 
 rather pointless stories of their sayings and doings. 
 Miss Saunders opposed everybody for the sake of 
 contradicting Miss Somers adored the Head with 
 a blind, school-girl sort of devotion which the 
 Head found wearing. 
 
 "Good Lord, what a cat I'm getting!" 
 
 Miss Blakeborough leant back in her chair, 
 stretched herself and yawned, conscious with a 
 pleasing little sense of superiority that she was 
 rather a young and unorthodox Head Mistress. 
 
 Suddenly a piercing yell came from the end of 
 the long corridor followed by another and yet 
 another. 
 
 Miss Blakeborough sprang to her feet and hur- 
 ried from the room . 
 
 There was a crowd of small girls buzzing round
 
 120 JAN 
 
 some central object like a swarm of wasps. Their 
 small faces were red with indignation and two of 
 them had their arms round Mona McEvoy who 
 was crying loudly. 
 
 Jan Owen stood in the middle of the crowd, 
 her legs apart, her head thrown back. 
 
 "Serve her right," she was saying at the top of 
 her voice, " and if any one else says so, I'll do it to 
 her, too. So there." 
 
 '* Children ! What is the meaning of this noise, 
 and Mona, what is the matter?" 
 
 There was dead silence for a moment at Miss 
 Blakeborough's words. Then Mona dissolved 
 into tears again. "Jan Owen hit me," she wailed. 
 
 "Jan!" Miss Blakeborough turned to the cul- 
 prit, "is that so?" 
 
 "Well," said Jan, "not hit her; I banged her 
 head against the wall." 
 
 "On purpose?" There are points in a dull 
 end of term, after all. 
 
 "Yes," said Jan, "and if she says it again 
 
 "Jan!" Miss Blakeborough's tone cut short 
 further threats. "Go straight upstairs, without 
 speaking to any one, and go to bed and stay there." 
 
 Jan cast one vindictive look over her shoulder 
 at the weeping Mona. "Booby," she ejaculated 
 as she marched away, head in the air. 
 
 The bump on Mona's head testified to Jan's 
 truth, but after the matron had bathed it with ar- 
 nica and had administered two sweet biscuits by
 
 JAN 121 
 
 way of a "pick-me-up," the patient felt sufficiently 
 restored to return to the bosom of her Form, who 
 were doing dictation with Miss Rivers. 
 
 It was a makeshift lesson; no lower-school mis- 
 tress was free, so Miss Rivers, who couldn't abide 
 "little ones," was pressed in to fill the gap, which 
 she did unwillingly, because she thought it "a 
 pretty good nerve of the Head to ask it!" 
 
 She took no trouble over it. First she read a 
 paragraph, always from "Alice in Wonderland," 
 next she re-read it, phrase by phrase, and the class 
 wrote it down; then she made a fair copy on the 
 board, and the children changed books and cor- 
 rected each other's work. It was as dull as it 
 could be, but Form II loved it far better than they 
 did the efforts of Miss Clarke, who really did her 
 very best. 
 
 Miss Blakeborough did not ask Mona for her 
 version of the quarrel: if Jan were difficult she 
 might be asked later, but the Headmistress had 
 no doubts of Jan's willingness to answer. 
 
 Every girl in the school had a cubicle to herself, 
 and when Miss Blakeborough knocked at Jan's 
 door half an hour later there was no answer at 
 first, though a low chuckle of laughter and Jan's 
 voice could be heard from within. 
 
 "Jan," called Miss Blakeborough, the dis- 
 ciplinarian rising in her at this deliberate flouting 
 of her authority, and opening the door she went in. 
 
 Jan sat up in bed in one of the dainty little night-
 
 122 JAN 
 
 gowns Sarah's coarse fingers had made for her, 
 while clasped in her arms was a battered wax-doll 
 called Jan-John, which her father had given her 
 years ago. Generations of dolls had come and 
 gone since then, but none had rivalled Jan-John 
 in her mistress's affections. 
 
 Jan looked up with the friendliest smile. 
 
 With the wonderful memory of a child she had 
 forgotten the unfortunate fracas of half an hour 
 ago. She held out her doll for approval. 
 
 "I've been smacking her," she gurgled; "she's 
 very naughty." 
 
 Miss Blakeborough came right into the tiny 
 room and for a moment was silent. She was an 
 enthusiastic admirer of Kipling: she even liked 
 "Stalky & Co.," which is a hard nut for the 
 teaching profession. In her secret soul she fan- 
 cied herself the female counterpart of "that downy 
 bird the Prooshian Bates," and followed his ex- 
 ample in dealing with the unusual in an unusual 
 way. 
 
 "What has she done?" she inquired, gravely. 
 
 "She's quarrelsome," said Jan, falling into the 
 game delightedly, "she's a great trouble to me." 
 
 Miss Blakeborough sat down on the end of the 
 little bed, and looked meaningly at the child. 
 
 "And you are troublesome to me," she said at 
 last, "but I can't slap you." 
 
 "Can't you?" Jan's eyes were wide with aston- 
 ishment. "Sarah did often."
 
 JAN 123 
 
 "That was different. In a way you belonged 
 to Sarah " 
 
 "Yes," Jan interrupted, eagerly, "there was 
 Daddy and Dio and Sarah and me. Now I 
 don't belong to nobody." Her mouth drooped 
 for an instant, then turned up into a delighted 
 little smile, "But I shall belong to John," she 
 said. 
 
 If Miss Blakeborough had followed her impulse, 
 she would have taken the child into her arms and 
 nursed her Jan's smallness gave her such an 
 unfair advantage. Even as it was, she swallowed 
 and blinked and said in a husky voice: 
 
 "Why did you hit Mona?" 
 
 "Oh," said Jan, attending rather carefully to 
 Jan-John's clothing which had become unfast- 
 ened, "they were all talking of their mothers 
 and I said mine was the prettiest, and Mona 
 said" Jan paused, impressed "that I hadn't 
 got a mother, so I banged her head. I have, 
 haven't I?" 
 
 "Yes." Miss Blakeborough made for the door, 
 and stood well in the shadow. "Listen, Jan; you 
 may get up in half an hour's time, when the bell 
 rings, and come down to my room and tell Mona 
 you are sorry you hurt her." 
 
 "All right," Jan answered, indifferently. 
 
 But Mona waited in the Head's room ten min- 
 utes and Jan did not appear, and the maid who 
 was sent to fetch her came back smiling to tell
 
 124 JAN 
 
 Miss Blakeborough that Miss Owen was fast 
 asleep, hugging to her breast an ugly old doll. 
 
 Unless the Staff had combined to resist it, Jan 
 Owen would have been badly spoiled by the elder 
 girls. 
 
 Clare Goodyer, for instance, took her up in the 
 hopes of hearing about John. Dick had written 
 to her the sad news that John had disappeared 
 from school in the middle of the term, and though 
 he'd written, John hadn't answered. 
 
 "Is your cousin at home, Jan?" Clare asked her 
 one day. 
 
 "I dunno," said Jan, licking from her fingers 
 the remains of the toffee Clare had given her. 
 
 "He's not at school now." 
 
 "Isn't he?" champed Jan. 
 
 "Oh, shut up, child, don't suck so loudly!" cried 
 Clare. 
 
 Jan stood up. "I like sucking loudly," and 
 she gave an illustration, "but if you don't like it, 
 I'll go away." 
 
 Clare reflected as Jan ran down the hill that 
 "it was a fat lot of use pumping that kid," though 
 Jan had received that very morning a letter from 
 John with no address at the top: 
 
 DARLING JAN: 
 
 I've begun working for our house. I'll come and fetch you 
 when I'm ready. Don't forget. 
 
 Bestest love from 
 
 JOHN.
 
 JAN 125 
 
 He had written a letter at the same time to his 
 mother: 
 
 DEAR MOTHER: 
 
 I couldn't ever explain to you and Father, and I couldn't 
 take the chances you gave me. Now I'll make opportunities 
 for myself. I am going to Canada and I'll send you my 
 address. 
 
 Your affectionate son, 
 
 JOHN. 
 I've written to Willie Griffiths and told him so. 
 
 Annie read the letter aloud at the breakfast 
 table. 
 
 "All right," said Henry, but he had aged ten 
 years in the last few days "he's made his bed, 
 let him lie on it." 
 
 "It was very thoughtful of him to say that," 
 said Annie, clutching at the last straw, and Henry 
 understood. 
 
 Henceforward Brynavon talked of John as one 
 of their promising young men who had "gone to 
 Canada farming they do say." 
 
 His parents did not speak much of their son; 
 their disappointment was too bitter, and yet 
 somewhere at the back of Henry's mind lurked 
 that feeling of admiration for the lad which he 
 could not stifle. John, at any rate, knew what he 
 wanted and he'd gone ahead to get it. Thwarted 
 hopes and bitter disappointments had strewn his 
 path, but he'd thrust them aside.
 
 126 JAN 
 
 "An impossible boy, oh, yes but with the mak- 
 ings of a man in him and a fine man, too." 
 
 Within a fortnight of the end of term Miss 
 Clark discovered that it would stimulate the inter- 
 est of her Form if she might take them to the 
 Zoo one Saturday afternoon, so that they might 
 see in real life the creatures whose habits they had 
 learnt hi Nature Study. 
 
 "Very well," said Miss Blakeborough. "I'll 
 come along, too." 
 
 From the Thursday when it was settled till the 
 Saturday when the excursion took place seemed to 
 the imagination of Form II endless. Even the 
 nights dragged and the days were slow, and on the 
 eventful morning Form II was up on the first 
 clang of the bell, and ready dressed long before 
 breakfast hour. 
 
 What tongue can relate with due justice the 
 joys of the walk to the station the journey to 
 London then lunch in a real proper restaurant 
 (special arrangement with Slaters), and best of 
 all, the drive in the private 'bus across London to 
 Regent's Park? 
 
 Miss Blakeborough loathed expeditions, but 
 she supported her staff on principle, and really 
 the children's excitement was rather sweet. 
 
 Once inside the Zoo, they were mad with pleas- 
 ure. 
 
 "Let's see the bears first." 
 
 "No, the lions."
 
 JAN 127 
 
 "I want to see the snake-house." 
 
 "We're quite near the bears," said Miss Blake- 
 borough. 
 
 "Let's see the bears first," they chorused, and 
 started off at a run in that direction. 
 
 Delighted squeals were borne back to Miss 
 Blakeborough and Miss Clark, and when they 
 arrived, Form II were scurrying up and down the 
 barrier before the bear-houses, watching while 
 the creatures tramped to and fro across the cages 
 or poked their paws under the bars like beggars 
 asking alms. 
 
 "Isn't he lovely?" cried MonaMcEvoy. "Look 
 at him." 
 
 Her friends joined in high peals of laughter, 
 but Miss Blakeborough caught sight of Jan 
 her whole body rigid her face tense and white. 
 
 Leaving the others to Miss Clark, the Head 
 led Jan away. 
 
 "What's the matter, Jan?" she asked. 
 
 "Have they all got bars?" said Jan. "Can't 
 they never be free? " 
 
 Miss Blakeborough thought she was afraid. 
 
 "No, they can't get out, because if they did, 
 it would be pretty bad for you and me. But 
 they can't don't be afraid." 
 
 "They're caged," wailed Jan. fc "Oh, I hate it 
 they want to be free." 
 
 "Come and see the old elephant," coaxed Miss 
 Blakeborough.
 
 128 JAN 
 
 "No, thank you," said Jan, the tears streaming 
 down her face. "Oh, I do wish they would let 
 them be free." 
 
 "Thank goodness for the usual placid children," 
 thought the Head, but she was very fair-minded 
 and respected everyone's point of view. 
 
 "I know," she said aloud, "let's go and have a 
 glass of lemonade." 
 
 "No, thank you," Jan said again. "I've got a 
 prickly throat. It's too big to swallow, you 
 know." 
 
 In a secluded corner under the trees Miss Blake- 
 borough looked at Jan's throat. It was very red 
 and swollen, with here and there an ugly little ulcer 
 beginning to show. 
 
 Miss Clark declared she could manage the rest 
 of the expedition quite easily. She was rather 
 glad to be left and showed it. She and Miss 
 Blakeborough were like parallel lines they would 
 work together, but never meet. 
 
 The Head took Jan back and isolated her for a 
 couple of days. Then, on the doctor's advice, 
 she wrote round to all the parents, and the school 
 broke up ten days earlier, because it was still a 
 moot point whether Jan had or had not scarlet 
 fever. 
 
 Then she began to peel, and that settled the 
 matter. Incidentally, it settled Sarah's hash. She 
 had been so determined that Jan should not come 
 to Pentre Fawr. Now Jan could not go there nor
 
 JAtf 129 
 
 anywhere else. Sarah packed up at once and came 
 to nurse her. Aunt Annie wrote nearly every day 
 "just a little note" about nothing at all "and 
 Uncle Henry sends his love." 
 
 Miss Blakeborough stayed on after the others. 
 The Swiss holiday wasn't due till the 29th of July, 
 and she wanted to be near at hand till Jan was 
 really better. She went in to see the child every 
 day. Jan had had the disease so slightly, there 
 was no need for the Head to fear to leave her. 
 
 Jan unbent as soon as she felt better and talked 
 of home, and John, and the old school. She spoke 
 of her father constantly, and told Sarah and Miss 
 Blakeborough that she was going to keep house for 
 John in the "Plas" when he was a man. 
 
 At night, after Jan was asleep, Sarah would 
 change her dress, and come out into the garden 
 and have a chat with Miss Blakeborough. 
 
 "He left me 'sole guardian,' ma'am," she said 
 one night. "It's a lot to put on a woman." 
 
 "He must have meant it as a great honour to 
 you. But it will mean a tremendous lot of work 
 for you. Jan does manage to keep people busy." 
 
 "She does that, ma'am, she always did. I had 
 her from the first month." 
 
 "Then she's almost like your own." Miss 
 Blakeborough knew she had made a mistake, but 
 didn't know where, for Sarah stiffened and said: 
 "No, not like my own." 
 
 "No, of course not," agreed Miss Blakeborough,
 
 130 JAN 
 
 but how could she know that it hurt Sarah to have 
 Jan compared to great hulking Harold that son 
 of hers who lounged about the farm a little 
 wanting, amiable, but foolish. 
 
 "Have you been married long?" Miss Blake- 
 borough hated making a mistake, so she turned the 
 conversation to a topic on which Sarah, the mar- 
 ried woman, would shine in comparison with the 
 spinster schoolmarm. 
 
 "Six weeks it's more like six years some- 
 times," was the reply. 
 
 "You mean you've settled down so quickly?" 
 
 Sarah gazed straight ahead of her and nodded. 
 Her hands were folded in front of her, the wedding- 
 ring, as usual, in prominence. 
 
 "Yes," she said at last, "settled down, that's 
 it. But it was very nice when I was free." 
 
 It was such an unusual view of marriage that 
 Miss Blakeborough forbore comment. 
 
 "I think I can leave you both safely now, can't 
 I? " she said, presently. "I'll come over to-morrow 
 and say good-bye to Jan, then I'll disinfect myself 
 and go off on Wednesday." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 "I've arranged all about having the Sanator- 
 ium disinfected, and the doctor will notify the 
 authorities." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 "Is there anything else I can do? " 
 
 "No, ma'am, thank you."
 
 JAN 131 
 
 "Good-night, then, Mrs. Jones." 
 
 "Good-night, ma'am." 
 
 The next morning Miss Blakeborough went 
 across to say good-bye to Jan. 
 
 The child was out of bed sitting wrapped in a 
 rug in a big armchair. She seemed very small 
 and frail. The delectable Jan-John was in her 
 arms, and she looked up with a very engaging 
 smile. 
 
 "Hallo, Jan. What!. Out of bed? You are get- 
 ting on famously, aren't you?" 
 
 "Yes, thank you, Miss Blakeborough." 
 
 "And soon you'll be able to go into the garden 
 with Mr s.Jones!" 
 
 "You mean Sarah oh, yes!" 
 
 "I don't think you'll be dull, will you?" 
 
 "Oh, no, thank you." Jan's manner was al- 
 most effusive, "not a bit dull with Sarah, me, 
 and you." 
 
 Her family privatim and seriatim thought her 
 mad, and were justifiably vexed at the telegram, 
 but the fact remains that Miss Blakeborough did 
 not go to Switzerland for her holiday.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 JAN sat on her bed and looked at the chaos 
 of clothes around her. 
 "Hadn't you better begin, Jan?" Mona 
 McEvoy suggested. 
 
 "Why?" asked Jan, without moving. 
 
 "To finish it's a good enough reason for most 
 people." Mona's tone was severe, but her eyes 
 looked at her friend kindly enough. 
 
 It was the last night of the summer term and 
 Jan was leaving. She was seventeen years old 
 now, with a tall, straight figure like a boy's and a 
 thin, piquant face. She wasn't in the least pretty 
 only unusual, an effect which was heightened 
 by her straight black hair, cut square on her neck 
 in Florentine fashion, before "bobbing" became 
 the craze. 
 
 Mona was large and angular, more than a 
 match for Jan now in any head-knocking compe- 
 tition. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry you're leaving, old thing," 
 she said at last. 
 
 "I don't know," answered Jan, "one's got to 
 leave some time. I want to get up to Girton next 
 year. Are you going?" 
 
 132
 
 JAN 133 
 
 Mona nodded. "But it seems an awful pity to 
 drop a year like this you'll lose ground." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know." It was Jan's favourite ex- 
 pression to-night. "You see it's always easier, if 
 there's no choice." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 Jan's worst enemy, and she had several, couldn't 
 have called her expansive, but she tried to explain. 
 "It's in the Will. When I left school before I 
 decided what to do I was to go for a year to my 
 relations. So you see it's settled. I'll work at 
 home all right." 
 
 Jan's reticence had made her something of a 
 mystery. "What relations are they?" Mona 
 asked. 
 
 "I don't know," Jan answered, carelessly, 
 springing up from the bed. "Here, chuck me 
 over my boots, there's a good soul." 
 
 Mona thought Jan was evading her question, 
 but it was the truth that Jan did not know to 
 whom she was going to Sarah at Pentre Fawr or 
 to Aunt Annie at the Parade. 
 
 No one else knew, either. Miss Blakeborough 
 didn't; she had told Jan of the clause in the Will. 
 "But I don't know who your relations are," she 
 had said. Sarah didn't know, either, as her letter 
 to Jan had showed. Aunt Annie had written two 
 sheets all about how pleased she would be to see 
 Jan, and how it had always been hers and Uncle 
 Henry's wish to do their duty by Jan, as dear
 
 134 JAN 
 
 Jan knew only the peculiar circumstances of the 
 Will- 
 
 The letter had rambled on, and Jan skipped 
 freely. But a sentence at the end caught her eye: 
 "I heard from John last week he talks of coming 
 home. And we shall all be pleased to see you," 
 she finished. 
 
 At first Jan thought the "you" was a mistake 
 for "him," but later she concluded that Aunt Annie 
 was the only person who had no doubts as to the 
 term "relations"; in her mind, at any rate, Sarah 
 as a relation did not exist. 
 
 "My dear," expostulated Mona, "you're so 
 slow, I shan't ever get my own packing done." 
 
 "I believe if you went I'd be quicker." 
 
 "Thank you, Jan Owen," said Mona, "I'm 
 sorry to have hindered you," and she departed, 
 slamming the door. 
 
 Jan packed slowly she was thinking hard. 
 She had not been to Brynavon since she came to 
 school seven years ago. She supposed it had hap- 
 pened like that; she did not guess at Sarah's pa- 
 tient scheming to keep her away. 
 
 That first summer holiday, when Miss Blake- 
 borough had stayed at home from Switzerland, 
 had had great results in the lives of all concerned. 
 
 To begin with, she had earned Sarah's devotion 
 a thing rarely given, and afterward never with- 
 drawn. And one stifling August evening, as they 
 paced the terrace side by side, Sarah had told the
 
 JAN 135 
 
 other woman the secret which was weighing her 
 down. 
 
 "I can't have Miss Jan home," she finished, 
 " until as I've had time to get him in hand. Drinks, 
 he does something shocking." 
 
 About Elvira she was more reticent. "Not 
 what you'd call a nice young girl, ma'am not 
 fit for Miss Jan. I'm thankful Master John isn't 
 home, that I am." 
 
 For once Miss Blakeborough was at a loss, and 
 suddenly she felt rather passee and out of things. 
 All her life she'd dealt with things on the surface 
 little questions of discipline small points of con- 
 duct; this woman was up against life in all its ugli- 
 ness, and Miss Blakeborough did not dare to dese- 
 crate the confidence by words of conventional 
 sympathy. To those in trouble the 'curiosity of 
 others is not an impertinence; it betrays interest. 
 
 "What about Mrs. Owen?" the Head asked. 
 
 Sarah sniffed contemptuously: 
 
 "I don't rightly understand, ma'am but some- 
 how it's Mr. Owen as won't 'ave Miss Jan to the 
 'ouse his own brother's child, too, and Master 
 John the very spit of the master, and no more like 
 his pa than what you are." 
 
 "There's no use spoiling the ship for a hap- 
 porth of tar," Miss Blakeborough said to herself 
 a month later when Jan was fit to travel; so she 
 took rooms at a small seaside village and Jan pad- 
 dled and built castles, and ate and slept and grew
 
 136 JAN 
 
 less like a little shadow and more like a child of 
 ten. 
 
 It was no holiday for Sarah who was working 
 with an object in view. "I'm busy," she'd say 
 when Jan brought her bits of seaweed and other 
 treasures; "show them to Miss Blakeborough." 
 
 So Jan would patter off to the Head, until that 
 became the natural thing to do, and then, having 
 accomplished her object, Sarah packed up her 
 boxes and went home. 
 
 Miss Blakeborough enjoyed herself more than 
 ever before. Jan took her so much for granted. 
 She ran to her to be pinned up she asked her for 
 pennies for sweets (Sarah had left Jan a shilling 
 and Jan gave it to Miss Blakeborough to keep and 
 asked for a penny every day), and when some old 
 gentleman asked Jan whose little girl she was, 
 Jan nodded to the Head sitting on the stones. 
 
 It had been the same time and again. About 
 the end of every term Sarah had written and 
 asked Miss Blakeborough if she could kindly sug- 
 gest any plans for Miss Jan, and it usually ended 
 by Jan's spending her holidays with the Head. 
 Sometimes Sarah came up and took Jan away for a 
 while, sometimes she came to the Blakeboroughs, 
 too, and mended and made new clothes for Jan; 
 but it was Miss Blakeborough to whom Jan looked 
 as the ruler of her destiny. 
 
 Miss Blakeborough had solved the question of 
 discipline, too, and the child played up. In the
 
 JAN 137 
 
 holidays they both forgot school In term-time 
 holidays were things of the past or dreams of the 
 future. 
 
 It had to be like that, because Jan was a con- 
 firmed law-breaker, and except that her circum- 
 stances were peculiar, she would have been sent 
 away long ago, with a note to the effect that she 
 would probably do better elsewhere. But as there 
 was nowhere to send her, she stayed on, broke the 
 rules, and took the punishment with an acquies- 
 cence that drove her teachers nearly mad. 
 
 "I called the tune," her attitude seemed to say, 
 "now I'll pay the piper if you like." 
 
 As she grew older, she became quieter but no 
 less troublesome, and her popularity with the girls 
 began to wane. She was too moody for others 
 to trouble to understand her; at times she would 
 be riotous and then suddenly, for no reason at all, 
 when the fun was at its height, Jan would get 
 pensive and silent, till like a ghost at a feast she 
 chilled the gaiety of the others. She was a wide 
 reader, and the people around her were of small 
 importance in her eyes. She peopled a world 
 with creatures of her own imagination, and though 
 she never quarrelled now with other girls, she did a 
 worse thing than that: she forgot their existence. 
 
 And yet they did like her she was too utterly 
 indifferent to them to be popular, but as a riddle of 
 which they could not guess the answer, she ap- 
 pealed to them.
 
 138 JAN 
 
 The Staff, with the exception of Miss Blake- 
 borough, disliked her in various degrees. She 
 hadn't that inordinate affection for any member 
 which schoolgirls usually have for one or other 
 of their mistresses. She didn't like games she 
 hated getting hot and was sorry for the loser. She 
 had no Form spirit no competitive instinct. 
 In a word, she was difficult as each Form Mis- 
 tress found to her cost. On the other hand, she 
 had charming manners "affected," Miss Rivers 
 said. "Better affected than none," laughed 
 Miss Clark not in praise of Jan, but as a hit at 
 Miss Rivers whose lack of manners was conspicu- 
 ous. Jan was sometimes quite concerned to hear 
 about the rule she had broken, but as she was al- 
 ways willing to express contrition at her lapse, and 
 invariably did the same next time, she was consid- 
 ered insincere. 
 
 But she was really quite distressed at the 
 trouble she gave, only the trouble it caused her to 
 keep the rules irked her more. Hence she chose 
 the lesser evil. 
 
 One sultry July afternoon Jan sat alone in the 
 deserted schoolroom preparing a passage of Caesar 
 which she had failed to bring to class that morn- 
 ing. Now, if there was one thing on which Miss 
 Rivers prided herself, it was her discipline. 
 
 "'His rebus actis.' Jan, begin to construe, 
 please." 
 
 Jan's desk was in a patch of sunlight, and she
 
 JAN 139 
 
 was basking with animal contentment in the light 
 and warmth. At her name she started, and Mona 
 McEvoy showed her the place. 
 
 Miss Rivers kept her temper with difficulty; 
 she liked bright, smart, eager girls not this lacka- 
 daisical nonchalance. 
 
 " 'His rebus actis' When this had been done," 
 began Jan who had met this opening before 
 
 "Caesar " she looked ahead for the verb past 
 
 a "cum" clause and an ablative absolute. Ah! 
 there it was at last. "Profectus est?" she said, 
 with a note of inquiry in her voice. 
 
 Miss Rivers looked at her in silence. Jan was 
 one of her failures, and the fact never ceased to rile 
 her. 
 
 "Haven't you prepared?" she asked at last in 
 an awful voice. 
 
 Mona shifted about in an agony of nervousness 
 for her friend. 
 
 "I'm afraid I didn't," was Jan's answer. 
 
 "Why not?" demanded Miss Rivers. 
 
 "I forgot it." 
 
 "Nonsense, Jan, you couldn't 'forget' a prepa- 
 ration." 
 
 Jan flushed a dull, brick red. "I forgot it," she 
 repeated, slowly, and with emphasis, her eyes fixed 
 on the mistress. 
 
 Miss Rivers bit her lip a tussle with Jan would 
 mean that the girl would lose her temper and that, 
 in its turn, would mean reporting the matter to
 
 140 JAN 
 
 the Head. And though Miss Rivers admired 
 the Head's capability, she disliked any interfer- 
 ence with her Form, especially as to Jan. 
 
 "Very well," she said, icily; "stay in this after- 
 noon and bring me the work, and as much again 
 at four o'clock. Next girl." 
 
 Jan's plea of forgetfulness was quite true. She 
 had gone to the library the afternoon before to 
 confirm a quotation for an English essay, and had 
 stumbled across Browning's "Saul," in a volume of 
 selections. She hadn't understood a tenth of it, 
 but she had read on and on, rapt and enthralled, 
 forgetful of everything till the clang of the tea- 
 bell forced itself upon her. She had been late for 
 tea, which hadn't made for pleasantness, but it 
 had been worth it. And she had lain awake far 
 into the night; the poem wouldn't leave her, and 
 now while the rest of the class stumbled through 
 a tedious description of how Caesar built his bridge, 
 Jan gazed at the Latin words which had no mean- 
 ing for her, while her mind worlds away kept 
 repeating: 
 
 . . . . Behold! I could love if I durst! 
 But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake 
 God's own speed in the one way of love: I abstain for love'a 
 sake. 
 
 "Principal parts of dimitto Jan." 
 
 And God is seen God. 
 In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod.
 
 JAN 141 
 
 Jan gazed at Miss Rivers' short, thick-set 
 figure, at the keen, alert face, and hard, bright eyes. 
 "Is God there, too?" she wondered. 
 
 "Why, Jan, you're not even attending to the 
 lesson. And you have come totally unprepared. 
 What is the use of my wasting my time and the 
 time of the class," etc., etc. 
 
 Jan had heard it all so very many times before 
 that she could have carried on the discourse. 
 
 But all the same, that day marked the dawn 
 of a new era in her life, and it was Miss Rivers who 
 pointed the way. 
 
 Jan appeared on the stroke of four, with a trans- 
 lation of the Latin written out, and all the prin- 
 cipal parts of the verbs learnt. 
 
 "Why not do it to time?" suggested Miss Riv- 
 ers, giving Jan an opening for some explanation 
 or apology. 
 
 But like flowers which cannot open except in 
 the sunlight, Jan was silent. 
 
 Miss Rivers' voice was colder. "You are get- 
 ting up in the school you are in the Fifth Form, 
 and you have no idea of discipline you make no 
 effort at keeping rules." 
 
 It was too true to be disputed. "There are so 
 many of them," Jan remarked in passing. 
 
 "You don't like rules," continued Miss Rivers 
 "neither does any one else." 
 
 Jan had not thought of that before, and gave 
 the elder woman more of her attention. She had
 
 142 JAN 
 
 been too much inclined to feel that the world con- 
 sisted of Jan and others only the others were 
 inconsiderable. 
 
 "The wise people are those who live without 
 constantly knocking up against rules, like you do. 
 The rule remains it's you who get hurt. And 
 there is such a thing as freedom within the law. 
 Now go into the garden. Take your books away 
 don't leave them here." 
 
 Jan ran downstairs, flung her books into her 
 locker, and passed out into the garden. 
 
 There was the semi-final of the Form Tennis 
 Match being played on the far court, which was 
 lined with partisans of the two Forms, cheering 
 and encouraging the players. Jan looked across, 
 and decided against it, and then slipped round the 
 five courts and up the hill, and flung herself down 
 on the grass. 
 
 "Freedom within the law," Miss Rivers had 
 said. Well, it was worth considering. Any sort 
 of freedom was. 
 
 "Hallo, Jan! Dreaming, as usual. Isn't that 
 exactly like you not even to remember your 
 friends." 
 
 Clare Goodyer, who had left a year ago, looked 
 down at Jan with a superior smile. 
 
 Jan sprang up. "Don't be a silly ass, Clare," 
 she advised, then stopped. A young man by 
 Clare's side was smiling broadly at her. 
 
 "She's always like that," Clare said, turning to
 
 JAN 143 
 
 him. "Jan, my brother Dick he was at school 
 with your cousin John." 
 
 " Oh, were you? " It was obvious that Dick rose 
 in her eyes. "You know he went to Canada." 
 
 " No ! What's he doing there? " 
 
 "There was some fuss or other I don't know 
 what" Dick flicked an imaginary speck from his 
 coat, so that his face was partly hidden "and 
 John couldn't stand it so he just went away. 
 And then he met men going to Canada; three of 
 them the fourth had dropped out at the last 
 minute, and John persuaded them to take him 
 along. He went over steerage, poor boy, and he's 
 been there ever since." 
 
 "Do you hear from him?" Clare asked. 
 
 Jan opened her eyes wide. "Of course," she 
 said. 
 
 "Where did you say he was?" 
 
 Jan hadn't said, but she gave the name now. 
 
 Clare turned to her brother: 
 
 "You must remember that," she said. "You 
 ought to write to him again." 
 
 And John's mail brought him two letters 
 Jan's little note, and a four-page effusion of 
 flourishes from someone who signed herself Clare 
 Goodyer. 
 
 "May I come hi?" 
 
 Jan sprang to the door, and Miss Blakeborough 
 walked into the room. The years which had swept
 
 144 JAN 
 
 away Jan's childhood had left their traces on her, 
 too. She brushed her hair very carefully now to 
 hide a gray patch at one side, and she wore high 
 collars to her shirts and smart bows. She told 
 herself it was more trim and business-like, but her 
 glass told her with ruthless veracity that her neck 
 was beginning to show her age and was best cov- 
 ered. 
 
 "My dear what chaos I thought you'd have 
 finished." 
 
 "So did I only I began to think instead ' 
 
 "And that's always fatal for you, isn't it? 
 Pass me those shoes." 
 
 "No, no," protested Jan, "I'll do it." 
 
 "Don't be silly," advised the Head. "I want 
 to talk to you this evening, and you must pack 
 first. Now those nightdresses." 
 
 Miss Blakeborough packed quickly. It's im- 
 possible to do much for any one without growing to 
 love them, and the Head didn't trust herself to 
 think what Jan's leaving was going to mean to 
 her. 
 
 "There," she said at last, "that's done. Now 
 let's go to the garden." 
 
 They paced the terrace side by side. 
 
 "Really, Miss Blakeborough does spoil that 
 Owen girl," remarked Miss Rivers from the Staff 
 Room. 
 
 "Well!" argued Miss Clark, "it's rather dif- 
 ferent for Jan, isn't it? "
 
 JAN 145 
 
 "That's the mistake you've all made different, 
 and the girl now really does think she is separate 
 from other people." 
 
 "Not a bit," said Miss Clark, bluntly. "She's 
 queer, and the Head has the good sense to see it 
 and not force a round peg in a square hole. That's 
 all." 
 
 "Well, I'm very glad she's going," said Miss 
 Rivers with an air of finality. 
 
 "You know she's done quite well for me," Miss 
 Talbot pleaded, "her essay last week on 'Farm 
 Life In Canada' was really good." 
 
 "Then she'd some reason of her own for doing 
 it!" retorted Miss Rivers. 
 
 Outside, Miss Blakeborough and Jan were talk- 
 ing. 
 
 "Are you glad to be going, Jan?" 
 
 "I don't know, Miss Blakeborough. I'm sorry 
 to leave you, of course, but I want to get on." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 Jan wrinkled her nose in the effort to explain. 
 
 " I don't quite know. But I feel like a dog that's 
 on the scent; he follows it until he gets there. 
 Oh, I don't know." 
 
 "You must keep up your reading if you mean 
 to go to Girton." 
 
 "Yes I hope I'll have time for that. I don't 
 know yet where to go." 
 
 "I had a letter from your aunt," began Miss 
 Blakeborough.
 
 146 JAN 
 
 "So did I," said Jan. "John's coming home. 
 But, of course, I think Sarah is a relation. I 
 wonder what Daddy meant. I've forgotten a 
 lot about him at least it's kind of faded, but 
 I do remember that he never made things easy for 
 people.'* 
 
 "Sarah's very wonderful," said Miss Blake- 
 borough. 
 
 "Why? "asked Jan. 
 
 "That's rather a stupid question for a person 
 who isn't usually stupid. Sarah had you when 
 she wasn't much older than you are now and she 
 brought you up really well until you came here." 
 
 "Yes," Jan agreed, "but she liked me." 
 
 "Of course that's part of being splendid lik- 
 ing what you do. And then she married 
 
 "My uncle," Jan supplied, "and never had me 
 home since!" 
 
 "A drunkard," said Miss Blakeborough, "and 
 was too anxious for you to let you come near him. 
 You may stare at me, Jan, but it's the truth. She 
 told me just a little tiny bit about things years 
 ago when you had scarlet fever. That is why 
 I've always had you. Sarah was putting up such a 
 fine fight for you that I had to help, too." 
 
 Jan digested this for some time. "I do hope 
 I'll turn out worth it," she remarked at last. 
 
 Thanks would have been inadequate, but it was 
 characteristic of Jan not to attempt them. Miss 
 Blakeborough laughed.
 
 JAN 147 
 
 "You'll be all right, dear," she reassured her, 
 "and you've given me a lovely time, too." 
 
 "And Sarah?" Jan inquired, anxiously. 
 
 "Sarah's had a bad time, but I gather she's 
 won." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "In the first place, she evidently wants you to 
 go to her now, and so she thinks it fit for you, and 
 that must mean she has her husband well in hand. 
 In the second place, the farm is doing well so the 
 husband can't be drinking away his money." 
 
 "Poor old Sarah," said Jan, softly. 
 
 They dropped into silence, but Jan's face was 
 working as if she were trying to say something. 
 
 At last she slipped a hand into the Head's, in 
 one of her rare caresses. 
 
 "It looks like a muddle at present," she said, 
 waving her hand to indicate her future, "but 
 it's sure to straighten out, and anyhow I'm going 
 home, and John's going to be there." 
 
 Miss Blakeborough felt something cold clutch 
 at her heart it was not fear, it was certainty. 
 From henceforth she knew her place in Jan's 
 scheme of life. 
 
 She was relegated to the "has beens."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 PUT the best sheets on the spare-room bed, 
 Emily, and No, put the best sheets 
 on Mr. John's bed no, Emily, put one 
 of the best sheets on each bed top sheet, and 
 you'll find pillow-shams in the bottom drawer. 
 That will do." 
 
 Emily listened attentively, with her mouth open 
 and her cap slightly askew, but Mrs. Owen's at- 
 tempt to be fair both to John and Jan confused 
 her, and she left the best linen sheets in the cup- 
 board, and no one had them. 
 
 Annie bustled away to the kitchen. "I'll run 
 downtown and get Mr. Thomas to spare me a 
 nice shoulder of lamb, Alice," she cooed. "And 
 now what about pudding? They'll be hungry, 
 that is if they really do come to-day, only Mr. John 
 is so irregular you never know." 
 
 "Rice, mum?" said Alice. She was a girl from 
 a farm six miles away, and she walked to and 
 fro on her Sundays out. But her mind could not 
 grasp more than one fact at a time; rice was the 
 only suggestion in puddings she had ever been 
 known to make. 
 
 "That will do nicely," agreed Mrs. Owen, "very 
 
 148
 
 JAN 149 
 
 nicely: I want them to have a nice dinner. Now 
 what about lunch?" 
 
 The transformation of dinner into lunch and 
 supper into dinner marked the biggest step for- 
 ward that the Owens had taken in the last seven 
 years that and Mr. Owen's acceptance of the 
 mayoralty last year. 
 
 People who wanted to be playful spoke of 
 Annie as the Lady Mayoress, and Annie shook 
 her head vigorously and protested: "No, no. 
 My husband is not quite Lord Mayor yet." 
 
 Henry was deservedly popular in the town. 
 He was a safe man, with an air of breeding about 
 him, and he upheld the dignity of his office. He 
 was silent, and a good listener, too. The wonder 
 was that he had not gone further. Annie admired 
 him immensely, and nursed in secret the wild am- 
 bition of a knighthood for him. Once she men- 
 tioned it to Henry, but he was very angry. 
 
 "Do you want to make me ridiculous?" he de- 
 manded, blinking behind his glasses. 
 
 She was sorely puzzled at his answer: she was 
 sure he must have misunderstood her he couldn't 
 have heard what she had said, but he had looked 
 so vexed she had not cared to explain. 
 
 "Sir Henry and Lady Owen." She never said 
 the dear, dreadful words aloud it seemed like 
 tempting Providence only only well, there, if 
 ever such a thing did come along and, of course, 
 one never knew
 
 150 JAN 
 
 And by way of preparation though the reas- 
 oning is not easy to follow Annie began to 
 rest for an hour in the afternoons. 
 
 "I'm coming downtown with you this morning, 
 Henry," his wife announced when she met him 
 in the hall after breakfast. "Can you wait, 
 dear?" 
 
 "Certainly, I'll take a walk round the garden." 
 
 There was nothing to be noted on Henry's face, 
 though his soul was stirred within him at the pros- 
 pect of seeing John after seven years. John a 
 man now but what kind of man? Henry could 
 see more clearly than Annie that John's return 
 would not bring unmixed happiness to the home. 
 
 After seven years' freedom from the parental 
 roof seven years in which the boy had passed 
 into manhood would he slip back again into his 
 place or into any place? Perhaps he had only 
 come over for a holiday but if he'd come to stay, 
 what work was he going to do? And then, sud- 
 denly, all these questions and perplexities were 
 swept away by a great engulfing wave of gladness, 
 that anyhow he was going to see the boy. 
 
 "I thought I'd better see Mr. Thomas myself,* 7 
 chattered Annie, as she pattered along beside him; 
 "he'll give me a nice leg of lamb, or did I say 
 shoulder? Now, wouldn't it be a funny thing if 
 they travelled together!" 
 
 "Very," answered Henry, though without mirth. 
 Then, suddenly, "They who are they?"
 
 JAN 151 
 
 "Jan and John, dear!" Annie's tone was one 
 of patient surprise. 
 
 Henry stopped short in the middle of the path. 
 
 "Is Jan coming to-day?" 
 
 "Henry, dear of course she is; Emily has put 
 the spare-room all ready, and " 
 
 Henry was too considerate a husband to relish 
 his task, but he went straight to the point. "She 
 won't come to us, my dear," he said, gently. " My 
 brother spoke of relations, I know. But Sarah is 
 guardian and relation now." 
 
 "But, Henry," she began, angrily, then smiled 
 and bowed. "Good morning, Mrs. Griffiths, how 
 are you to-day?" 
 
 "Nicely, thank you." 
 
 "Henry," as they moved on, "Jan couldn't 
 go and live in Pentre Fawr. It wouldn't be re- 
 spectable." 
 
 "David Jones signed the pledge two years ago. 
 He's kept it, too, as far as I know," her husband 
 reminded her. 
 
 "Then I shall speak to Sarah!" announced Mrs. 
 Owen, stormily. 
 
 "That won't help matters, Annie; Sarah's the 
 guardian, and she'll put the matter to Jan. It 
 will be for Jan to decide." 
 
 "I never heard of such a thing, never! When 
 we are willing, too! Teh, tch, tch! What will 
 people say? There is Sarah! Good-bye, Henry. 
 Lunch at one as usual," and Mrs. Owen darted
 
 152 JAN 
 
 across the road and folio wed Sarah into the butcher's 
 shop. 
 
 The assistant was serving Sarah. Mr. Thomas 
 the great man himself hurried forward to at- 
 tend to the wants of the Mayor's wife. 
 
 "A nice shoulder of lamb, Mr. Thomas a 
 good-sized piece. My young people will be 
 hungry." 
 
 Mr. Thomas was rather deaf, and Annie's stac- 
 cato words carried across to Sarah who was buying 
 a piece of scrag. 
 
 "I knew she didn't expect her," thought the 
 Mayor's wife, "she'd never offer the girl scrag- 
 end surely not the first night. Oh, good morn- 
 ing, Sarah," she went on out loud. 
 
 The Christian name as Mrs. Owen applied it 
 was a mark of servitude the term a mistress 
 would use in speaking to her maid. Sarah was 
 Mrs. Jones now mistress of Pentre Fawr, wife 
 of a sober husband. She hadn't worked late and 
 early, body and soul, for seven years, to be treated 
 with condescension before shopkeepers. A wiser 
 woman than Mrs. Owen would have known this 
 instinctively, or not knowing, would have learnt it 
 from Sarah's grave face. 
 
 "Good morning, Mrs. Owen," Sarah answered. 
 The tone was that of an equal her look was a 
 challenge. 
 
 "Now," pursued Mrs. Owen, rushing onward 
 to destruction, "won't you come up this after-
 
 JAN 153 
 
 noon and have a cup of tea with us? Miss Jan 
 will be so pleased to see you." 
 
 Their purchases over, the two women left the shop. 
 Sarah's scrag was in her basket and Mr. Thomas 
 was going to send the shoulder to the Parade. 
 
 Sarah moved a step or two so that the assistant 
 should not hear. 
 
 " I'm Miss Jan's guardian," she said, slowly, al- 
 lowing each word to sink in, "and I have the right 
 to have her. But I intend that she shall go to Mr. 
 Griffiths who made out the master's Will, and 
 there before him before you, if you like she shall 
 choose. I wish you good morning, Mrs. Owen." 
 
 "Never have I been so insulted hi all my life, 
 dear," Annie told her husband at lunch "to 
 speak to me like that, in the open street. *I have 
 the right I intend.' What is the world coming 
 to, I should like to know?" 
 
 "The idea isn't a bad one," said Henry, dispas- 
 sionately "you both want her God only knows 
 why let her choose." 
 
 Later in the afternoon Annie discovered Em- 
 ily's mistake about the sheets, but she let it be 
 and that shows how much upset she was. 
 
 Meanwhile, the express tearing its way through 
 wonderful English country was carrying Jan 
 nearer and nearer her home. Her carriage was 
 stuffy, and she was hot and strangely depressed. 
 The woman opposite was feeding her baby at the 
 breast, and her husband refreshed himself peri-
 
 154 JAN 
 
 odically by drinking from a mysterious bottle he 
 concealed on his person. The child of five had 
 been eating steadily since they left Paddington 
 and was now chewing toffee at the top of its voice, 
 so to speak. The only other occupant, an elderly 
 gentleman, was leaning back in the corner with a 
 handkerchief over his face, snoring loudly. 
 
 "Second lunch," called the attendant, "any 
 one for second lunch?" 
 
 Jan stood up, and slowly made her way along 
 the corridor to the luncheon car, but the stream 
 of those who had lunched coming from the opposite 
 direction hindered her and she arrived late. 
 There was no seat vacant so far as she could see, 
 until a waiter asking "One, Miss?" led her to a 
 table for two at which sat a man whose face was 
 hidden behind a newspaper. 
 
 As Jan took her seat he lowered the sheet, and 
 looked at her. 
 
 "Jan," he said, suddenly. 
 
 "John!" She shot the name out at him, and 
 then bit her lip and sat blinking furiously for a 
 minute or two. 
 
 "Lord! Jan, you haven't altered a bit. I'd 
 have known you anywhere!" John spoke slowly 
 to give her time. "But it is queer meeting you 
 like this. Seven years I'm a man you're still 
 only a little girl, my child." 
 
 "I wonder if I could jump the stream now," 
 laughed Jan, but her lips were trembling.
 
 JAN 155 
 
 "Do you remember what happened last time 
 you tried?" he teased. 
 
 "Yes," Jan flashed, "you called me a sport." 
 
 Their eyes met each searching the other's. 
 
 "I must go and look at the stream." Jan spoke 
 breathlessly. 
 
 " We'll go first thing to-morrow," John agreed, 
 gravely. 
 
 "Are you going back to Canada?" Jan crumbled 
 her bread restlessly. 
 
 "I don't think so not at present. You see, 
 Jan, it's a secret so far but I've been doing pretty 
 well at least all right in some work." John 
 had never overcome his difficulty hi speaking 
 about himself. "The point is I've been writing 
 I called myself Owen John." 
 
 "You didn't!" Jan's incredulity was not flat- 
 tering. 
 
 John nodded. "Don't talk about it at home, 
 please not till I've told them." 
 
 "I could have swanked ever so much if you only 
 told me. But Owen John is awfully good. Are 
 you sure it's you, John?" 
 
 "What have you been doing?" John demanded 
 with a short laugh. 
 
 Jan considered the question before answering. 
 "Growing up, I think, mostly. I haven't been 
 home since since since I left." 
 
 "But why ever not you didn't stay on at that 
 old school, holidays and all, surely?"
 
 156 JAN 
 
 Jan's reply was incoherent, Miss Blakeborough, 
 Sarah, and David Jones being inextricably 
 mixed. "Of course Sarah wanted me, though I 
 didn't know it at the time, but Miss Blakeborough 
 told me only you see there was David Jones and 
 Sarah hadn't him in hand as she has now. 
 Sarah's splendid." 
 
 "But you could have gone to my people," 
 John's tone was short and dry and his eyes grew 
 suddenly hard. 
 
 ( "I generally stayed with Miss Blakeborough," 
 was Jan's reply. "Now, you tell me about 
 Canada." 
 
 While he spoke, Jan watched him. He was 
 very like her father as she remembered him tall 
 and broad; his face was that of a man who had 
 lived hi the open air. He had her father's blue 
 eyes and half-humorous smile the same warm 
 hand and long, slender fingers. 
 
 "I'd better move to your carriage," said John 
 after the meal. "You can't come to mine." 
 
 "We're stuffy and full of crumbs," said Jan. 
 
 "Mine's a smoker," said John. "Let's go to 
 the guard's van." 
 
 They perched themselves side by side on some 
 luggage half-a-crown usually melts the heart of a 
 guard and chattered away, heads together as if 
 the seven years had been seven days, and they 
 were still children back in the "Plas" garden. 
 
 "Oh, there are some photos perhaps you'd like
 
 JAN 157 
 
 to see," said John, pulling out his notebook. 
 "There's the house and there's me and here 
 are Morrison, Saunders, and Sawyer, the three best 
 pals any man ever had bar one," he finished, 
 his eyes on Jan. She was close beside him, her 
 head bent over the photographs. He noted that 
 she had the art of travelling tidily. Her serge cos- 
 tume was uncreased, her white shirt still fresh 
 and clean. 
 
 "Do you mean me?" Jan faced him calmly. 
 
 John nodded. "Who else?" he laughed. A 
 letter fluttered from his case on to the floor. The 
 writing was large and sprawling and Jan recognized 
 it. 
 
 "Oh!" she said, nodding toward the letter, "I 
 thought you might mean Clare Goodyer." 
 
 John's memory took him back to that Sunday 
 afternoon on the terrace with Jan tugging at his 
 hand, and asking whether in the little house he was 
 to build there was room for that Clare-girl. 
 
 "Jan!" he said, laying his hand on hers, "you 
 haven't grown up a bit. You're a most shocking 
 little duffer still!" 
 
 "Duffer yourself!" blazed Jan, drawing her 
 hand away as the train steamed into Brynavon. 
 
 Sarah and Mrs. Owen had arrived at the station 
 simultaneously quite twenty minutes too soon and 
 the train was half an hour late. It was exceed- 
 ingly awkward to walk to and fro meeting one 
 another at every turn and trying to pretend that
 
 158 JAN 
 
 each hadn't seen the other. "But that woman 
 deserves a lesson," as Mrs. Owen had said to her 
 husband, and Sarah's thoughts were too much 
 occupied with the future to trouble about the 
 "cut." 
 
 "My dearest boy," piped Annie when John 
 alighted, "and where is Jan?" 
 
 But Jan was disentangling herself from Sarah's 
 tearful embrace. At the sight of the girl all 
 Sarah's composure had left her. 
 
 "My lamb, my lamb!" she sobbed. "Fancy 
 to see you back again. Mtfss Jan f ach ! how you've 
 grown." 
 
 Jan squeezed Sarah's hand tight; somehow it 
 was the least and the very most she could do. 
 
 "It's lovely to see you, Sarah, dear," she whis- 
 pered. 
 
 "Fancy making a scene like that before people," 
 said Mrs. Owen, with her lips pursed up in dis- 
 approval. "Really!" Then hurrying forward, 
 "Jan dear, tch, tch, tch such a long time since 
 I've seen you. Welcome home, dear!" 
 
 The words dried Sarah's tears effectively. 
 
 "Hallo, Sarah!" cried John, but Sarah didn't 
 resent her name this time "how's yourself? 
 Here's an upset for Brynavon. Mother, why 
 didn't the Mayor and Corporation turn out to 
 meet us?" 
 
 "Oh, John, dear, you couldn't really expect 
 that," and nothing his mother could have said
 
 JAN 159 
 
 would have convinced John more firmly that the 
 seven years hadn't altered her essentially. She 
 had changed outwardly, but intrinsically she was 
 the same. 
 
 Outside the station a car was waiting for Mrs. 
 Owen, and David Jones stood by a trap. 
 
 "Come with me, Jan, dear." Mrs. Owen linked 
 her arm through that of her niece. "We've got 
 to call at the office some absurd business or 
 other." 
 
 John walked behind with Sarah, and grasped 
 the situation at a glance. Sarah's face, which she 
 thought was so sphinx-like, was an open book to 
 him. 
 
 "Jan," he said, as she stood irresolute by the 
 car, "do you mind going with Sarah?" 
 
 "John!" began his mother. 
 
 "I want to have my mother to myself," he con- 
 cluded. 
 
 Inside the car Annie wept John was too 
 sweet, but to have upset all her plans like that 
 it was most vexing! 
 
 Sarah explained the situation to Jan. "It's 
 for you to decide, Miss Jan," she kept saying "I 
 don't want to persuade you. 'Relations/ said 
 the master. Now, what did he mean, do you 
 think?" 
 
 At the office, Mr. Griffiths could throw no light 
 on the subject, and Henry, having shaken hands 
 with Jan John kissed him stood glum and
 
 160 JAN 
 
 silent. The room was arranged with chairs placed 
 as for a debate, Jan thought. In the centre 
 was a table at which Mr. Griffiths sat with a chair 
 for Jan beside him. On his right were Mrs. Owen 
 and John, who suddenly wanted to shout out loud ; 
 on his left David Jones, twisting his hat in his 
 hands, and Sarah. 
 
 Henry Owen stood by the window, acting as 
 audience to the scene. 
 
 "You know the er situation, I believe, Miss 
 Owen?" said the solicitor, looking at Jan over his 
 spectacles. 
 
 "Most peculiar hat," thought Jan's aunt; "not 
 altogether, perhaps, quite my taste but still 
 
 "Your guardian," continued the old man, "has 
 told me that you are to decide the meaning of 
 your father's use of the word relations. On the 
 one hand, there are obviously your respected 
 uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Owen- 
 He bowed to Annie, who acknowledged it with a 
 graceful inclination of the head. 
 
 "Pompous old fool," thought Henry, suddenly 
 irritable. 
 
 "Two to one that the pater explodes before the 
 end," mused John. 
 
 "On the other," continued Mr. Griffiths, "there 
 are your uncle your mother's brother Mr. Da- 
 vid Jones, and his wife, your guardian." 
 
 Sarah gazed straight in front of her. Her heart 
 was beating like an engine her eyes were burning
 
 JAN 161 
 
 and her throat was parched and dry. Her hus- 
 band turned a dull brick red at the unusual at- 
 tention paid to him, and so far forgot himself as to 
 spit on the floor. 
 
 Jan looked from one to the other with a quick, 
 bird-like glance. Sarah wanted her because 
 Sarah loved her that thrilled Jan. Aunt Annie 
 wanted her because well, it would look so queer, 
 you know, for Jan to stay up at the farm, and 
 Henry Mayor and all that! But John would be 
 at the house on the Parade! 
 
 "You are free to choose, Miss Owen," Mr. 
 Griffiths reminded her. 
 
 Free! It was a silly travesty of the word. If 
 she were really free, she wouldn't go to either, 
 and whichever way she chose, it would offend 
 someone. 
 
 Suddenly Jan stood up and clasped the edge of 
 the table. Not in vain had she been president of 
 the School Debating Society. 
 
 "Gad!" murmured John. 
 
 "Mr. Griffiths,'* said Jan, the colour rising to 
 her cheeks, "Uncle Henry, Aunt Annie, Sarah 
 dear" she paused "Uncle David, and John 
 
 John slapped his knee "Lord, what a sport!" 
 he whispered. 
 
 "It is too sweet of you even to be willing to 
 have me, but it's very dear of those of you who 
 want me. I want you all (oh, Jan, what a lie!), so 
 if I may, I'll go six months to each house."
 
 162 JAN 
 
 There was a dead silence. 
 
 "And if I may, I'll toss up to decide to which I 
 go first." 
 
 "Well done, indeed!" was Henry's startling 
 comment, and following his lead, Annie signified 
 firm approval. "Perhaps that would be best." 
 
 Sarah nodded but said nothing. Against all 
 rules of the game of toss, she was praying, with 
 clenched hands "Let me have her! O God, 
 let me have her." 
 
 "Here's a half-penny," said John. "Shall I 
 toss?" 
 
 "Yes," said Jan, "make it the best of three. 
 Heads, Pentre Fawr," and she smiled at Sarah 
 "tails, the Parade." 
 
 John tossed. "Tails," he said, and Sarah's 
 heart missed a beat ; then he tossed again . ' ' Heads ! 
 The next one decides it!" There was silence 
 while he spun "Heads," he announced. "You 
 go to Pentre, Jan." 
 
 And with that sympathy for the loser which 
 made her no real good for games Jan crossed to 
 Aunt Annie. 
 
 "Then I come to you in six months' time, if I 
 may," she said. 
 
 "We shall be pleased to have you, Jan," Annie 
 said, loftily, "and now we must be getting on. 
 I told the car to wait, and I don't want my nice 
 little dinner spoiled." 
 
 "Poor child," she said later, as they sat down to
 
 JAN 163 
 
 their meal, "I do hope Sarah has a bit of some- 
 thing for her. This morning she was buying a 
 small piece of scrag. More rice, John? I could 
 see that Jan wanted to come to us." 
 
 The scrag end had been made into a drop of 
 broth for the wife of one of the farm labourers, 
 and Jan's supper consisted of roast fowl, with 
 home-cured ham and home-made sausages, pan- 
 cakes and cream, fresh bread and butter and 
 cheese and a cup of coffee as the master used to 
 like it. 
 
 John turned up at the farm about eight o'clock. 
 "Come for a walk," he said. 
 
 "Don't take her far, Master John," warned 
 Sarah, "Miss Jan is looking tired." 
 
 "We'll go as far as the stream," said Jan. 
 "No, Sarah, I don't want my hat." 
 
 "Come, Miss Jan, they'll be saying how funny 
 it looks you without a hat. You'd better take 
 your hat." 
 
 "All right," said Jan. 
 
 "We'll cross the fields, shall we?" asked John. 
 
 Jan nodded. "Oh, John!" she said, suddenly, 
 laying one hand on his arm, "it's a very queer 
 feeling to come home, when all my people are 
 away." 
 
 "Don't say 'all', darling"; he dropped back 
 instinctively into the caressing tone he had used 
 to her as a little girl. "You still have me, haven't 
 you?"
 
 164 JAN 
 
 For an instant a look of fear shot through Jan's 
 gray eyes. 
 
 "Yes, I've got you, thank goodness," she an- 
 swered. "Do you know, John," she continued, 
 "what I'm looking forward to most of all?" 
 
 "No what?" 
 
 "Do you remember the toffee Mrs. Jones, the 
 confectioner, used to make! I do hope she makes 
 it still." 
 
 "We'll see about it to-morrow," John answered, 
 drily. Of course he was a fool to have thought 
 anything, he told himself the girl was only a 
 child. 
 
 "What are you thinking of, John?" 
 
 "You," John answered promptly. "I'm think- 
 ing you haven't changed; you're still a little pig 
 for sweets!" which was, after all, the truth, if 
 in a Bowdlerized edition. "Here we are; this way 
 to the stream." 
 
 Jan ran forward, then stopped and looked 
 in dismay at the trickling water, three or four 
 inches in depth and perhaps a foot wide. 
 
 "I don't believe it," she cried, passionately; 
 "it was bigger than that. It was bigger, wasn't 
 it, John?" 
 
 John shook his head. "No!" he said, "but we 
 were a great deal smaller you got very wet that 
 day you fell in." 
 
 Jan laughed, though big tears glistened on her 
 lashes. "It's a shame," she cried. "I thought
 
 JAN 165 
 
 it was nearly a river. Of course, I've grown, but 
 not wiser you'll say. Let's go home I mean to 
 Pentre." 
 
 "One day," said John, "we'll go home." 
 
 "Yes, I'd like to," said Jan. 
 
 She thought he meant to take her to the "Plas" 
 so it was true she wasn't very worldly wise yet.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 INDEED, Miss Jan, I'm afraid you don't fancy 
 your breakfast." 
 "Indeed, then, Sarah, I do." 
 
 "Well, then, you let me fry you another egg 
 and a bit of ham with it." Sarah got up, so did 
 Jan. 
 
 "Sarah, I couldn't," she protested. "I really 
 couldn't. Please do get on with your own break- 
 fast." 
 
 "A drop more coffee, Miss Jan?" 
 
 "Yes, please." Jan passed up her cup. "Har- 
 vesting to-day, Sarah?" she asked. 
 
 "The men have been out these hours since. 
 I'm going to take them a bit of dinner along when 
 I've tidied up here." 
 
 "I'll help you, Sarah, may I?" 
 
 "No, indeed, you shan't," was Sarah's quick 
 retort, "you be free to enjoy yourself, Miss 
 Jan." 
 
 Jan had heard that sentence a dozen times dur- 
 ing the last week, but it was like urging a hungry 
 man to eat during a famine, or inviting a thirsty 
 man to drink in a dreary desert waste. 
 
 She was trying so hard to enjoy herself, to be 
 
 166
 
 JAN 167 
 
 contented, at any rate not to be bored and un- 
 happy, but it was more difficult than she had ever 
 imagined. 
 
 Sarah nipped in the bud any attempts at work; 
 true Jan did dust her own bedroom, but she 
 couldn't make that take long, and Sarah always 
 did it after her to make sure. 
 
 Breakfast was at half -past seven; it was over 
 and cleared away by eight, and then Jan looked for- 
 ward to a long day with nothing to do punctuated 
 with meals at which Sarah pressed her to eat, and 
 at which she did eat too much. 
 
 The meals were the times Jan hated most. 
 She hated herself, too, for it, but she never over- 
 came her fastidious dislike of the table-manners at 
 the farm. David had a moustache and drank 
 loudly; he put his knife in his mouth and smacked 
 his lips. 
 
 "What does it matter?" the girl asked herself 
 a dozen times; "it's nothing! The man fought 
 against drink and conquered the habit. You 
 couldn't do that even though you do eat quietly." 
 
 But it did matter all the same; it jarred and 
 irritated her and she welcomed the days when he 
 did not come in to dinner. 
 
 Jan's box of books from school had not yet 
 arrived, and so far the only English book she had 
 been able to find at Pentre was the Bible, and she 
 was reading that through. But, worst of all, 
 there was no one to talk to. David Jones seldom
 
 168 JAN 
 
 opened his mouth except at meal-tiines and then 
 only to feed. Sarah's conversation consisted 
 largely of exhortations to eat more, and remarks 
 about the weather and the advisability of Jan's not 
 sitting on the grass, nor in the full sun, and such 
 like matters of importance. 
 
 Jan had sought out Bessie Richards of her school 
 days, and had found her buxom and matured, 
 but to everything Jan said Bessie replied with a 
 giggle "Lor! Miss Jan, you don't say so!" 
 
 Jan knew that among her own people Bessie 
 wasn't like that: she was a sharp and shrewd busi- 
 ness woman in the market, one of the best hands 
 at butter-making in the countryside, and the 
 possessor of a rich contralto voice. But the two 
 girls were on different planes, and Jan found 
 herself talking down to Bessie in her efforts to 
 make conversation, while Bessie giggled and 
 giggled and fell back again and again on her stock 
 phrase. 
 
 Then Billy Williams that hero of the old 
 school from whom a word or two was quite an 
 honour! Jan met him on the way home, loading 
 hay a late second crop and stopped to speak to 
 him. Billy Willie he was now was no fool. 
 He was leader in the choir at the chapel and had 
 had the prize at a Local Eisteddfod for Bass Solo. 
 But he had not a word to say to Jan, and the girl 
 went back to Pentre depressed and puzzled to find 
 it much earlier in the day than she had hoped.
 
 JAN 169 
 
 It was all different even the stream or per- 
 haps, after all, it was only she who had changed? 
 
 Jan found Sarah in the house. "I've made a 
 pancake or two for your tea, Miss Jan you'll 
 like that, won't you?" 
 
 "Sarah, you spoil me." Jan tried to sound 
 pleased. "Look how fat I'm getting." 
 
 Sarah's well-lined face relaxed into a smile. 
 "Fat, indeed," she echoed shrilly, "there's non- 
 sense you're talking, Miss Jan. But I do want 
 you not to be fretting while you're with me." 
 
 * ' Fretting, Sarah ? ' ' Jan was startled. 
 
 "You were looking a bit sort of quiet, Miss 
 Jan," Sarah went on, earnestly, "and I wanted 
 to say as if you were fretting to go to the Parade." 
 
 "Sarah you're an idiot!" said Jan. "What 
 more could a person want than that" she waved 
 to the open doorway the farmyard and the hills 
 beyond, "and pancakes." 
 
 Jan had meant to say "and you," but changed 
 because it wasn't fair to tell so big a lie to so dear a 
 soul as Sarah. 
 
 Sarah beamed at the answer. "It's a fine free 
 life for you, Miss Jan," she said with satisfaction. 
 Then, with a change of tone, "That servant girl 
 of Mrs. Owen's who came for butter left a letter 
 for you." 
 
 "Aunt Annie wants to know will I go to supper 
 there to-night," Jan said, when she had read the 
 note.
 
 170 JAN 
 
 "You please yourself, Miss Jan," said Sarah, 
 "indeed, perhaps you had better go, unless you'd 
 like to come to the Prayer Meeting along of Davy 
 and me." 
 
 It was John who had suggested the invitation. 
 He hadn't seen Jan except hi the distance since 
 the first night. He had proposed bringing her 
 down to tea the next day, but his mother had 
 said: "Better let her settle down," hi such a 
 meaning way that John gave in instantly. 
 
 He had been at home now seven days or was 
 it seven years, and seven days in Canada? 
 
 His coming had been a mistake, he told him- 
 self, or, to be more correct, it had not been a 
 success. 
 
 His father and mother were, of course, delighted 
 to see him, and all that sort of thing he acknowl- 
 edged that but there was no doubt he upset the 
 routine of the house, and that upset his people. 
 Henry didn't smoke, and John never seemed 
 to be without a pipe or cigarette in his mouth, 
 and one evening in the garden, when the midges 
 were buzzing round, he offered his case to 
 Annie. 
 
 "You have one, Mother," he said, "and keep 
 the brutes away." 
 
 Annie was inexpressibly shocked, firstly that 
 John should say such a thing, and secondly that 
 she should have been brought into such a silly 
 joke. John discovered that most of the things
 
 JAN 171 
 
 his mother didn't quite understand were given the 
 benefit of being "silly jokes" before they were con- 
 demned as being "not quite nice." 
 
 "Please don't say that again, John, even in 
 joke," she said. 
 
 "Joke!" he protested. "I meant it." 
 
 "That will do, John," Henry broke in, and John 
 grinned to himself in the twilight. "It is all so 
 like what it used to be." 
 
 Annie bore his smoking in the house in silence 
 that is, she didn't actually speak about it, but her 
 actions shouted disapproval. John's cigarette 
 was a signal for his mother to fetch a bowl of water 
 and place it ostentatiously in the grate, to take 
 away the smell. A moment later she would push 
 a saucer toward him (the house did not boast an 
 ash-tray) and once she sprayed some toilet vinegar 
 on a cushion. 
 
 "I can't expect Mr. John not to smoke," she 
 said with dignity to the maid when John had be- 
 taken himself and his cigarette to the garden, 
 "so we must put up with it, and shake the curtains 
 well to-morrow." 
 
 John's unpunctuality annoyed Henry. If meals 
 were fixed for certain times, why not conform to 
 those times? John, regarding this as a holiday, 
 was usually late for breakfast, and at the sound 
 of the gong, which meant a meal was served, inva- 
 riably disappeared for a wash. 
 
 The two men were ill at ease together, like dogs
 
 172 JAN 
 
 circling round one another in antagonistic neu- 
 trality. 
 
 "We won't worry you to-night, dear," Annie 
 said on the first night, "but to-morrow you must 
 tell us all about everything," and she nodded and 
 smiled toward John. 
 
 John did his best next day and gave the skeleton 
 of a narrative, omitting all the parts that mat- 
 tered. 
 
 He told them the size of the homestead 640 
 acres a square mile between the four of them, 
 and about the house built in the middle to meet 
 Government requirements. 
 
 "You never told us about the house, John!" 
 Annie interrupted. 
 
 "Oh, surely I sent you a photograph?" 
 
 "Oh, no, dear, you only sent a picture of some 
 shed or other." 
 
 "That was the house," said John, gravely "it 
 was about the size of the big hen-house, only more 
 firm and better built." 
 
 Annie turned to her husband. "Is he joking, 
 Henry?" she asked. 
 
 Henry shook his head with the same unreason- 
 able irritation toward his son he'd so often felt 
 toward his brother. 
 
 "Had you nice friends, dear?" was Annie's next 
 inquiry. 
 
 John gave an amused guffaw. "Oh, rather," 
 he said, "the best any man ever had."
 
 JAN 173 
 
 "Then why are you laughing?" asked Henry, 
 distantly. He was very jealous for his wife's dig- 
 nity. 
 
 John saw his mistake at once. "It was the 
 word 'nice/" he tried to explain. "I don't think 
 you'd like them, Mother they're big, rough, 
 tender-hearted chaps but I can't quite explain," 
 he finished, lamely. 
 
 "I quite understand, dear," said Annie, "that's 
 quite all right." 
 
 John gave more explanations during his week at 
 home than during the whole seven years of his 
 absence, and each one left him more exhausted 
 than the last. 
 
 He spent the week being re-introduced to people 
 to Mrs. Griffiths to Willie to everyone in 
 Brynavon that mattered. Unbeknown to his 
 people, he also picked up his acquaintance again 
 with several of what his mother called "not re- 
 spectable people." At each fresh meeting he was 
 struck by the fact that nothing had changed to 
 any appreciable extent. He didn't know what he'd 
 expected, but he thought there would have been 
 some difference except the passage of seven years. 
 
 The news that he wrote caused his people very 
 considerable astonishment. He broke it to them 
 one morning at breakfast. He wouldn't have 
 mentioned it then but that he was more than 
 half an hour late, and Henry had said, "Why on 
 earth can't you come to time?" and Annie with
 
 174 JAN 
 
 her fatal inability to hold her tongue added, 
 " You must try, dear, not to annoy your father." 
 
 John kissed both his parents good morning. 
 It was the only demonstrative thing he ever did, 
 and it never failed to please Henry, but the frown 
 of annoyance was still there, and his mother's lips 
 as she poured out his coffee were pursed up with 
 disapproval. 
 
 Outside the weather was glorious: from the 
 breakfast room John could see the hills blue in 
 the distance and the river winding like a silver 
 thread till it reached the sky. He remembered 
 that as a little boy he had thought all rivers 
 flowed into the sky, and those were the rivers 
 people passed over into Heaven when they died. 
 He had, in a rare expansive moment, told his 
 mother, and she thought it silly, which it was not, 
 and untrue which it was. So she took John to 
 "Step Across" where the river flows into the sea 
 and showed it to him and said, "Now do you 
 understand, John?" 
 
 And the boy, standing on the shore, turned his 
 back on the sea and saw the river winding back- 
 ward to the sky. 
 
 "I see, Mother, dear," he said, "it flows into 
 the sea, and starts in the sky. That's how the 
 new-born babies come. " 
 
 Annie had been quite upset at such foolishness. 
 
 "John, dear!" Annie's tone was really exasper- 
 ated, "your bacon will be quite cold."
 
 JAN 175 
 
 John started, and came back to the present. 
 Well, he'd have to tell them some time; it only 
 meant one more explanation; so he told them then 
 and there, and eventually it created the diversion 
 he had hoped, though Henry received the news at 
 first in his usual silence. 
 
 " That's very nice, dear," Annie purred, "it 
 must run in my family. I remember my brother 
 wrote a story once it was very pretty we all 
 thought so. I don't know what he did with it." 
 
 Henry did know: he'd seen him burn it after the 
 "Editor had regretted" for about the tenth time, 
 but Henry knew, too, the art of keeping silent. 
 
 Besides, Annie was apt to drain a subject: her 
 contribution was often the last, because what she 
 said was, as a rule, so much beside the point that 
 no one liked to speak after her. 
 
 "I called myself Owen John," volunteered John, 
 in an effort to rouse his father. 
 
 "Fancy that, tch, tch!" clicked his mother, 
 though it is uncertain what she meant. 
 
 "I'd like to see something of yours, John," said 
 Henry, in what he supposed was a non-committal 
 manner. 
 
 "Oh, rather yes, Father! You can see exactly 
 how far I've got when I tell you I've kept a copy of 
 every blamed thing I ever wrote," and before 
 Annie had time to disapprove the adjective, John 
 had gone. 
 
 Upstairs he mopped his brow. "Whew!
 
 176 JAN 
 
 what a life, and what a fool I am! I'm never like 
 this except at home." 
 
 He dumped the pile of magazines on to the table 
 by his father with a bang that made the china 
 clatter. 
 
 "Shall I fetch Jan here to-day?" he suggested. 
 
 "Not to-day, dear Mrs. Griffiths will be here 
 or let me see Emily's going up for butter she 
 shall take a little note and Jan shall come here to 
 supper and then on to the Prayer Meeting with 
 us." 
 
 John hoped he wasn't included in the plural, 
 because he disliked hurting his mother, but any- 
 how the great thing was to get Jan there. 
 
 Henry was late at the office that morning for 
 the first time hi thirty years. His wife kept re- 
 minding him, too, but he waved her aside and 
 read on. 
 
 "I was detained," he announced to Mr. Grif- 
 fiths who had been on the point of sending Willie, 
 now superintending clerk, up to enquire if anything 
 were wrong. 
 
 "Care to have a look at this?" Henry said to 
 him during the morning, handing him a magazine. 
 
 "Thank you, sir!" Willie was always deferen- 
 tial. 
 
 "There's a story in it by my boy 'Owen John' 
 he signs himself." 
 
 "Oh, thank you, sir. That will be doubly inter- 
 esting."
 
 JAN 177 
 
 "Nincompoop," thought Henry, watching Wil- 
 lie's sloping form retire. "John'd make two of 
 him." But he sighed: it would have been a fine 
 thing, too, if John had been a steady, dependable 
 fellow, content to live at home, willing to 
 learn, anxious to please John. It was not think- 
 able! 
 
 Henry happened to mention John's writing to 
 most of the people he met during the day, and one 
 man Henry never liked him remarked: "Well, 
 indeed, your brother was a clever chap, too, wasn't 
 he now?" Confound the fellow! John belonged 
 to him not to the other John. 
 
 Jan was nearly late for supper. "I met that 
 Griffiths boy," she said. "How he has altered 
 I think everyone has changed." 
 
 "And I think no one has except me," said 
 John. 
 
 "And you've changed more than any one!" was 
 Jan's reply. 
 
 "Come to supper now," Annie called them. 
 "How do you do, Jan? I thought you weren't 
 coming." 
 
 Jan never felt quite at ease with Aunt Annie, 
 who ran her eyes up and down the girl, and the 
 result apparently was so seldom quite satisfac- 
 tory. Jan's frock to-day was a thin white crepe 
 with a high waistline, and cut in a V shape at 
 the neck. It was very simple and hung loosely 
 on Jan's slim figure.
 
 178 JAN 
 
 "Jan!" whispered Annie as they nearecl the 
 dining-room door; "here, dear." 
 
 Jan turned, and Annie slipped a brooch into her 
 hand. "You'd better wear it," she whispered 
 with a glance at the girl's bare neck. 
 
 Jan could have killed her aunt, but she pinned 
 the brooch on without altering the shape of her 
 dress, and went into supper with a heightened 
 colour. 
 
 There was a certain loathly type of food which 
 Jan associated with her aunt's table. It included 
 meat done with jelly cold parsnips, semolina 
 pudding, and coffee made entirely with chicory. 
 To-day, like a pentecost of horrors, they had all 
 her pet abominations, and for the first time she 
 appreciated the farm, where at any rate the food 
 was above criticism. 
 
 It seemed to Jan, too, that Annie never stopped 
 talking. Sarah, praise be, was quiet! John 
 watched the thoughts and emotions flitting across 
 her mobile face, but he said very little. 
 
 "Sarah would have given these to pigs at 
 Pentre," thought Jan, toying with the obnoxious 
 parsnips. 
 
 "Are you settling down nicely, Jan?" her aunt's 
 voice broke in. 
 
 "Yes, thank you, Aunt Annie." 
 
 "And this meat to the dog if he'd have eaten 
 it." 
 
 The last sentence was not spoken aloud.
 
 JAN 179 
 
 "You're not dull there?" 
 
 "No, thank you, Aunt Annie." 
 
 "And you find plenty to do?" 
 
 "Yes, thank you." 
 
 "And your uncle now do you " 
 
 "It's time to be going," Henry announced, 
 pushing back his chair. 
 
 "There's a Prayer Meeting on," John explained, 
 because Jan looked so bewildered. 
 
 She pushed back her plate with relief the semo- 
 lina hardty touched. 
 
 "Are you going?" Jan shot out the question 
 with big, wondering eyes fixed on her cousin. 
 
 " I'll stay with you," said John, gravely. " Let's 
 go to the garden." 
 
 "But " began Annie. 
 
 John caught his father's eye he was a little 
 boy again, appealing against these woman-made 
 laws. 
 
 "Oh, let them be, Annie," Henry muttered. 
 
 "This garden is the happy hunting ground of 
 all the midges in Brynavon," John told Jan, "try 
 a cigarette?" 
 
 "All right if it won't make me sick and will 
 keep them off. Let's sit down. When are you 
 going away?" 
 
 "How did you guess?" John looked hard at 
 his cousin, but she did not seem to see him. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know and, after all, who would 
 stay unless "
 
 180 JAN 
 
 "You're not unhappy, Jan?" The hand he 
 touched was cold. 
 
 "No only John/* she broke off, "have you 
 ever read 'Aurora Leigh?" 
 
 John nodded. Jan was sitting on the grass, 
 her hands clasped round her knees, her big eyes 
 fixed on his face. 
 
 "Well, it comes there about God giving the 
 thing you want and then your not wanting it." 
 
 "God thrusts the thing we ask for in our hands 
 The glove with gauntlet in't." 
 
 he quoted. 
 
 "That's it! I've always wanted to be free 
 and now, everyone tells me I am free. But I'm 
 not, ami?" 
 
 "No." John spoke quickly and with decision. 
 "Neither of us are yet! Freedom doesn't consist 
 of living anywhere nor doing anything, I'm sure of 
 that. It's inside a person, not out! God! If 
 one only knew what it meant!" 
 
 "And when do you go away?" 
 
 "To-morrow!" John answered, though he 
 hadn't known it till that moment. "I feel if I 
 stayed another day I'd go mad." 
 
 "You've only been a week and it's your home," 
 she reminded him. 
 
 "It's the home of my people," he corrected her. 
 "I don't fit into this picture." 
 
 Jan sprang up and confronted him like a little
 
 JAN 181 
 
 fury. "I hate you!" she panted. "I hate you! 
 The gods give you everything. God gives it to 
 you, if you like that better, and who are you to 
 sneer and not to fit! And I'd give everything 
 to have people of ray very own here now with me. 
 Oh! what wouldn't I give." 
 
 After Jan's outburst there was a silence which 
 lasted till Annie returned, and again all the way 
 to the farm when John took her home. For he 
 was really annoyed with her; she ought to have 
 known better than to speak like that ought to 
 have known him better, too. 
 
 Jan didn't mind whether he were vexed or not. 
 She was angry with herself for displaying her feel- 
 ings even to John, so the two walked in preoccupied 
 silence to the gate of Pentre. 
 
 "Good-night, Jan," John said. A word from her 
 and he would unbend. 
 
 "Oh, good-night, John" Jan woke with a 
 start from her reverie "good-night and good- 
 luck." 
 
 It wasn't until she was ready for bed that she 
 remembered that she had not kissed him good- 
 bye. 
 
 John left for London next morning, after a very 
 painful scene with his people, and in the end nearly 
 missed his train by dashing at top-speed up to 
 Pentre. 
 
 "Jan!" he panted when she came toward him. 
 "Jan, you rorgot
 
 182 JAN 
 
 "What?" she cried with a glance at her wrist 
 watch. "Oh, John, you'll miss it." 
 
 "Good-bye, darling," he said, kissing her. 
 
 "Good-bye, John." 
 
 "Now again for last night!" 
 
 "Good-night for last night and all the nights, 
 John, dear." 
 
 Jan watched his tall figure tearing down the 
 lane. He stopped at the corner and waved, and 
 Jan kissed her hand to him. Assuredly she was 
 growing up. 
 
 John came home again for a few days at Easter, 
 just after Jan had moved to the house on the 
 Parade, and before he went back she had prom- 
 ised to be his wife.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 JAN waved good-bye to John with a sense of 
 relief, and as she left the station and walked 
 up the hill, found herself reckoning how long 
 it would be till his next visit, not from a desire to 
 see him, but prompted by a sense of elation that it 
 must be a good while before he could come again. 
 
 Of course she loved him, but she always had done 
 so it was nothing new he was John, and she was 
 Jan, and that was enough and there was nothing 
 more to be said. But the fuss of the last week had 
 disconcerted her. For instance, Aunt Annie had 
 kissed her innumerable times and had called her 
 "my dear little daughter," and Jan had felt sick, 
 and held up an ungracious, cool cheek in return. 
 And suddenly she wanted to cry, because the people 
 whose real daughter she was were enjoying them- 
 selves together somewhere, and it seemed a long 
 way off. 
 
 Then Uncle Henry looked at her furtively; she 
 could feel his eyes upon her as she moved to and 
 fro, till she felt like an animal in the marketplace 
 before the appraising eyes of a bidder. But he 
 said nothing, which was even worse than Aunt 
 Annie's saying too much. 
 
 183
 
 184 JAN 
 
 "Teh! tchl You are cousins, of course I'm 
 sure I don't know. Well, there!" and her aunt 
 had kissed Jan again loudly. It was uncom- 
 fortable, but Uncle Henry's eyes were positively 
 eerie. But, then, how could Jan or any one else 
 guess at the passion of jealousy and painful anger 
 raging behind Uncle Henry's quiet manner? He 
 had loved John with all his heart; he had spent 
 troubled days and sleepless nights planning for the 
 boy's future, scheming to give the lad a chance, 
 groping to understand what was passing in his 
 mind. And the result had been so far blank, abys- 
 mal failure. 
 
 John was a sealed book he had grown from 
 youth to manhood in a strange land, and after an 
 absence of seven years had stayed a bare seven 
 days at home, and now, as a crowning evil, was 
 engaged to Jan. If she had been demonstrative 
 Henry could have forgiven her; if John had been 
 cool, Henry would have loved her, too; but Jan 
 accepted all John gave her with apparent indiffer- 
 ence, making no effort either to attract or to hold 
 him. 
 
 It made Henry wince with pain to see John with 
 her to watch the light in his eyes as Jan came 
 near, and to hear the inflections in his voice when 
 he spoke to her. He would have given years of 
 his life if anything he could do would have awak- 
 ened some response in his son. 
 
 Annie had made a thousand pretexts for leav-
 
 JAN 185 
 
 ing the two together, with a wealth of nods and 
 smiles and meaning looks, which had amused John 
 and been lost on Jan. 
 
 Altogether, Jan's thoughts were in a chaotic 
 state, and she was rather relieved to see Willie 
 Griffiths coming toward her. 
 
 "Good morning, Jan." 
 
 "Hallo, Willie! Why aren't you in the office? 
 I'll tell Uncle Henry." 
 
 Willie was one of the few people in Brynavon 
 with whom Jan felt entirely at home he and Mr. 
 Evans, the minister the same who had refused 
 to teach her Scripture many years ago. 
 
 Willie was restful he was as devoid of ideas as a 
 young man in full possession of his senses can be. 
 He had been to college at Aberystwyth and passed 
 his examinations well, because he had common 
 sense and a retentive memory. He took his 
 Welsh B.A., which Mrs. Griffiths assured people, 
 
 in confidence, was "really equivalent to " 
 
 She always stopped here because she was very 
 vague what it was equivalent to, having left 
 school herself from Standard VII, and passed 
 her life with a closed mind. 
 
 As a daily proof of his mental powers Willie 
 never opened a book, except works of law; he 
 gave his whole interest to gardening, fishing, and 
 the building of model pig sties (he spent a whole 
 afternoon explaining to Jan how he dovetailed 
 boards) and the collection of old Welsh china.
 
 186 JAN 
 
 Jan argued from this last hobby that he must 
 have ideas, only hidden deep down, but she liked 
 him all the better because of their depth. 
 
 Willie stood smiling sheepishly down at her. 
 Her joke was the kind he liked: it is so flattering 
 to be thought a bit of a dog! 
 
 "I've left the office early because I'm going to 
 run the little car into the country on business 
 for the firm, of course." 
 
 Jan looked up quickly. "Where are you go- 
 ing?" she demanded. 
 
 "Well," he said, confidentially, "really I'm going 
 to Caerfon and it is for the firm, but I'd thought 
 we'd come back through the woods by the 
 stream." He stopped. "At least I thought I 
 mean if you would if you'd like 
 
 "Me? Oh, Willie! Like? I should think so!" 
 A less conceited man than Willie might well have 
 been flattered by her eagerness, but he'd met 
 Jan before "straws and drowning men" and 
 that sort of thing. 
 
 "I thought, perhaps, you'd be feeling a bit 
 down Jan, you know," he stumbled on. 
 
 "What time? " asked Jan, ignoring his last words 
 as silly. 
 
 "Oh, as soon as possible any old time that 
 suits you." 
 
 Jan thought for a minute or two. If she were 
 to ask Aunt Annie, there would be difficulties; 
 therefore she decided not to ask.
 
 JAN 187 
 
 "Half an hour from now?" she suggested, "and 
 will you come for me to Pentre?" 
 
 Jan covered the ground to the farm in record 
 time, and found Sarah churning. 
 
 "Sarah," she began without preamble, "I'm 
 going to run away." 
 
 "What's that, Miss Jan?" Sarah's face was as 
 stern as the orthodox guardian's should be. "How 
 do you mean?" 
 
 "I'm coming back to supper," Jan hurried on. 
 "Sarah, dear," she coaxed, "be a saint and give 
 me dinner and send down this note to Aunt Annie 
 to break the sad news to her." 
 
 And Sarah, who would have worked herself to 
 the bone if Aunt Annie had been ill or had needed 
 her, wasn't proof against the temptation of help- 
 ing Jan to evade her aunt. Perhaps Jan knew 
 this at any rate, she had a very good lunch. 
 
 "What time will you be back, Mr. Griffiths?" 
 Sarah asked when Jan, wrapped around with rugs, 
 was settled in the car. 
 
 "Seven," suggested Willie. 
 
 "Very well," Sarah agreed, "only" she held 
 up a warning finger "mind you're to time." 
 
 Willie spent the drive talking to Jan about the 
 stream in the woods. He had fished there once, 
 and landed a very decent-sized trout. He ram- 
 bled on about how he played and caught it; how 
 much it weighed about his tackle about trifles, 
 and Jan sat back and without listening much en-
 
 188 JAN 
 
 joyed it all, as one enjoyed the hum of bees as a 
 background to one's thoughts. 
 
 John had been a very tiring person last week; 
 Jan felt like taut elastic after a short time in his 
 company she lived in fear of snapping. Willie 
 created no tension, and he admired Jan im- 
 mensely; he felt rather a good talker in her com- 
 pany. 
 
 At Caerfon Willie did his business it took 
 quite a quarter of an hour, and Jan sat in the car 
 outside and vegetated. 
 
 "Excuse me," a man interrupted, lifting his 
 hat, "isn't it Miss Owen?'* and Jan, looking up, 
 found herself face to face with Dick Goodyer. 
 
 "Yes, and you're Clare Goodyer's brother," 
 said Jan; "how are you?" 
 
 "I'm very fit, thanks, and I've to congratulate 
 you. Old John is one of the very best." 
 
 "Thank you," said Jan, "but how did you know 
 about it ? John tell you ? ' ' 
 
 Dick laughed. "John and I dig together in 
 Town he must have told you only I'm taking a 
 well-earned holiday now." 
 
 "I don't believe," said Jan, "that you ever did a 
 stroke of work in your life. You don't look like it." 
 
 "That's libellous, Miss Owen. I assure you that 
 I'm an ornament to the Bar briefless, if you in- 
 sist on the truth. Where's John?" 
 
 "He went back this morning.". The sigh Jan 
 heaved was one of relief.
 
 JAN 189 
 
 At that minute Willie appeared, and their in- 
 troduction had the effect of making Dick think 
 Jan a bit of a fool to career about the country with 
 a half-wit; and of rousing Willie's slow wrath that 
 Jan should make herself conspicuous in the main 
 street of Caerfon where everyone knew him by 
 talking and laughing to such an arrant nincom- 
 poop as this chap Goodyer looked. 
 
 Whereas Willie was no fool merely simple- 
 minded and short-sighted Dick nothing but a 
 little "precious" with leanings toward Bohemia, 
 and Jan ready to grasp at anything as a distrac- 
 tion from the heavy atmosphere of the Parade. 
 
 The afternoon was an unqualified success. 
 Willie caught two trout, and couldn't have been 
 more pleased if they had been salmon. Jan 
 wandered about and picked flowers, and ate the 
 chocolates Willie had brought her, and forgot 
 everyone, and remembered only the warmth and 
 the light playing among the fresh young leaves 
 the smell of the damp moss and the faint, delicious 
 scent of the primroses. 
 
 And they enjoyed themselves so much that the 
 time slipped by and they were late in starting 
 back. 
 
 "Never mind," said Willie, "we'll manage all 
 right. I'll put the little beggar to it." 
 
 But the "little beggar" didn't play up. It 
 grunted, snorted, and groaned, slowed and bucked, 
 and at last stopped, with a sickening air of finality.
 
 190 JAN 
 
 Willie got out. "You'll find another packet of 
 chocolate in the left pocket," was all he said. 
 "No, I won't have any, thanks." 
 
 Jan finished the chocolate before she spoke 
 again. "Can I help?" 
 
 She had to repeat the question twice because 
 Willie was lying under the car, and as his refusal 
 was emphatic she sat where she was, mooning 
 and dreaming happily, oblivious that the trees 
 were throwing long and ever longer shadows and 
 that the sun was sinking over the hill. 
 
 When it had gone altogether, Jan gave a little 
 shudder, and opened the door of the car, and at the 
 same moment, Willie crawled out, with a goodly 
 supply of oil on his person and a frown on his 
 face. 
 
 "Can't be done, Jan," he announced; "we shall 
 have to foot it. Can you? I'm most awfully 
 sorry." 
 
 "Yes, of course; how far?" 
 
 "A seven-miler, I'm afraid can you manage? 
 I say I am sorry." 
 
 "Rather," Jan cried, "I'm a champion walker." 
 
 Together they pushed the little car to the side, 
 and Jan contributed to the general discomfort by 
 tearing her skirt and making her hands dirty. 
 
 "I'll bicycle back as soon as we get home; I guess 
 it'll be all right till then," Willie said. "Come 
 along." 
 
 Jan did think of saying she'd walk alone and
 
 JAN 191 
 
 send someone out to Willie, while he stayed with 
 the car, but she knew that Willie wouldn't let her 
 go alone, and that if he would she wouldn't dare 
 do it. 
 
 She was a fairly good walker, but seven miles 
 are always seven miles, especially at the end of a 
 day, when they are nearer eight. 
 
 Willie began to pall on her. He asked her every 
 five minutes or so whether she were feeling very 
 tired, and she said: "Oh, no, thank you!" The 
 only other remark which he observed with the 
 same punctuality was that he did hope her people 
 wouldn't be anxious, you know, and he was most 
 awfully sorry. 
 
 It reminded her of the time she had stayed with 
 Miss Blakeborough's married sister, and the hus- 
 band had said every morning at breakfast 
 "Marmalade, my dear?" and his wife had an- 
 swered every day, "No, thank you, dear! I don't 
 like it." Jan used to long for her to take some one 
 morning, just to make a break. 
 
 And suddenly she thought of John. He'd have 
 exploded into a thousand curses, but he'd have 
 tinkered up the car somehow they'd never have 
 walked home. One thing about John was that 
 he was effective he always got there in the end. 
 He might tease, annoy, irritate, and anger, but 
 he'd never be a bore. 
 
 Then Willie went lame with a blister and limped 
 along manfully, and Jan laughed not at him, but
 
 192 JAN 
 
 at the situation; and Willie laughed, too, and said 
 it was dashed funny, but he didn't think so. Jan 
 had begun to pall on him. 
 
 Up the hill to Capel Seion they tramped 
 down the road to the forge and over the level 
 crossing where in days gone by Jan had put crossed 
 pins on the track, and the express train had flat- 
 tened them into baby scissors. Only Sarah had 
 stopped it because she said it was dangerous. 
 
 "Only one hill more, though a long one, and then 
 the lights of Brynavon twinkle on the plain 
 and there's only the last lap." 
 
 "Thank goodness," said Willie; he was walking 
 with one shoe off now, but the grit had worked 
 through to his sock. 
 
 "What is the time?" asked Jan. 
 
 " Half -past nine," Willie admitted, but if it had 
 been past midnight, his tone could not have been 
 more lugubrious. 
 
 Aunt Annie and both maids were in the hall 
 and Sarah. Henry, in the dining-room, was 
 sitting before the fire, but he didn't begin to read 
 till he heard Jan's voice in the hall. 
 
 Willie's reception was very cool, in spite of his 
 apologies. 
 
 "The car broke down," he repeated, "and we 
 had to walk. I am most awfully sorry, Mrs. 
 Owen." 
 
 There was a frown on Sarah's face which Jan 
 didn't like to see a deep furrow between the
 
 JAN 193 
 
 eyebrows, showing not anger but anxiety. Aunt 
 Annie reminded her of a flustered hen and could 
 be dealt with later. 
 
 "Oh, Sarah," said Jan, sinking on to a hard chair 
 in the hall, "I am tired." 
 
 "You'll go straight to bed then, Miss Jan if 
 I may be so bold, ma'am." Sarah turned to Mrs. 
 Owen, who nodded a stately acquiescence. 
 
 So there wasn't much scolding that night, but 
 Jan was helped to undress and had supper carried 
 up to her, and Sarah fussed round generally, and 
 enjoyed herself immensely. 
 
 Jan was so seldom amenable to petting, and 
 Sarah still remained childless, except for that 
 first one and Jan. 
 
 But Annie was, however, a stickler for duty 
 and discipline, and her lecture lost nothing by 
 being kept a night. 
 
 " Good morning," she said in a perfunctory way, 
 when Jan appeared at the breakfast table. "I 
 am most vexed with you, Jan. So thoughtless, 
 and what will John say? Your uncle is very 
 annoyed with you." Henry drank his porridge 
 milk noisily. He looked impassive, but then he 
 always did, except with John. 
 
 Jan said nothing it was a fish day haddock 
 and she didn't like haddock, so she toyed round 
 with her food, turning it over and over. But 
 Annie was roused this morning on John's be- 
 half, if you please.
 
 194 JAN 
 
 "Now, Jan, eat your breakfast it's very waste- 
 ful the way you leave good food, and they say 
 the mustard people make a fortune out of what is 
 left on plates; and the idea of your going off 
 without a word. Just a note! Teh, tch, tch! 
 Poor boy!" 
 
 "Do you mean Willie's blistered foot?" Jan 
 asked with studied insolence, pushing the plate 
 aside. 
 
 "I meant John!" snapped her aunt, "and why 
 don't you eat your fish? " 
 
 Jan ignored the question but opened her eyes 
 wide. "Poor old John," she said, "what's the 
 matter is he ill?" 
 
 Annie rang the bell with most unnecessary 
 vigour. "More milk, please," she said to Emily. 
 
 Jan put on her hat, when the meal was over, with 
 flaming cheeks and tingling ears. She had brought 
 it on herself. Aunt Annie had given it from the 
 shoulder this time, pouring forth a tirade to the 
 effect that young girls, more especially young girls 
 who were engaged, and in particular young girls 
 engaged to her son John, did not gallivant about 
 the countryside with other young men and come 
 home at all hours of the night 1 There was a great 
 deal more or, perhaps, it was only the same ex- 
 pressed in different words. In the end, Aunt 
 Annie had drawn herself up for her peroration: 
 "Believe me, Jan, it is not respectable." 
 
 Jan read Classics three mornings a week with
 
 JAN 195 
 
 Mr. Evans, the Methodist minister, and her name 
 was entered for Girton for October. He wasn't 
 perhaps much of a classical scholar, but he had 
 the feeling and he knew quite enough to teach Jan, 
 and the hours spent with him over the "Bacchse" 
 and "Medea" "Plautus" and "Virgil" were the 
 happiest she spent in Brynavon. 
 
 This morning she was like lead; she was heavy 
 and dull, and at last the old man closed his book 
 with a slam. "We'll try again to-morrow," he 
 said, standing up to dismiss her. "You're not 
 with me to-day." 
 
 Jan didn't move: she had hardly heard what he 
 had said all the morning her mind was running 
 on Aunt Annie's closing words. 
 
 "Mr. Evans," she said, looking up at him, 
 "I'm thinking. I don't mind about right and 
 wrong, but it's those things which aren't either 
 but just take colour from the people who do 
 them or from other people's opinion I can't 
 explain." 
 
 But Mr. Evans gathered her drift. News 
 spreads quickly in a small town, and everyone 
 knew that Willie Griffiths' car had broken down 
 and Jan Owen had come home walking, and Mrs. 
 
 Owen He knew the Mayor's wife, too, and the 
 
 Mayor, and he was fond of Jan. 
 
 "You can't get away from it," he said, deci- 
 sively, "no one can. In what we call convention 
 there's no room for original thought. Will you
 
 196 JAN 
 
 bring your 'Plautus' on Thursday? We'll start 
 the 'Rudens' shall we?" 
 
 Jan stood up and walked to the door. "Yes, 
 thank you. 'Plautus,' you said, Mr. Evans. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 But the minister blocked the way. "Listen 
 here, girl fach," and laying his hand on Jan's arm 
 he said, "I'm old enough to be your grandfather, 
 and I remember well your father coming to me 
 about you, and your mother, poor girl." 
 
 "Oh!" Jan's face dimpled into smiles, and Aunt 
 Annie and the rest vanished into thin air. Here 
 was someone who really knew who was a link 
 between her and her people. "Tell me all about 
 them," she cried. "I've forgotten so much : as I go 
 on they seem to go back!" 
 
 "So I will tell you but another time. About 
 your question the things you can't do stand like 
 a barrier. It's easy enough to get over it, but," 
 he spoke impressively, "it's impossible to get 
 back." 
 
 "Then one is always caged?" said Jan. 
 
 "Yes, always, but the cage is big enough not to 
 gall, and those outside would give their lives to 
 be in." 
 
 It was a confirmation of Miss Rivers's "freedom 
 within the law," only at school the rules had been 
 hard and fast. In Brynavon they were vague 
 and nebulous up to the point where you hit your- 
 self against them, and then they hurt you. Oh,
 
 JAN 197 
 
 Aunt Annie was a fool, and John and Willie, and 
 the biggest fool of all was Jan, but she couldn't 
 be expected to admit that. 
 
 Jan's life from Easter to October was like a dark 
 road, illuminated at long distances by flares. 
 That is, her "rows" with Aunt Annie were the 
 only breaks in the monotony. She could have 
 been fairly contented if she had been allowed 
 to work; but Girton had grown to be a vexed 
 question. Aunt Annie thought it a waste of time 
 for Jan to go to college, now that she was engaged, 
 and Sarah, when appealed to, said: "Miss Jan 
 must please herself." John wanted to get mar- 
 ried in the autumn; Henry's contribution was si- 
 lence; and Jan, like the obstinate little mule she 
 was, refused to listen to reason. 
 
 Miss Blakeborough even wasn't helpful. She 
 wrote to Jan in reply to the girl's perplexed letter: 
 "You must decide for yourself, only do remember 
 that if dogs don't follow the scent, they lose it." 
 
 Jan crumpled the letter up and threw it hi 
 the fire. She was difficult to live with at present 
 moody, irritable, and unhappy. 
 
 In September John came down for a week, and 
 things went wrong from the beginning. 
 
 Annie went to meet the train, and Jan forgot the 
 time and arrived a minute late and then said: 
 "Cheerio, John how are you? I believe you're 
 fatter." 
 
 Annie didn't say more than a word or two about
 
 198 JAN 
 
 Jan*s being late, but just enough to spoil the walk 
 home, and when after supper she said: "Now you 
 children had better have a short walk," Jan 
 answered: "I'm not going, thank you I'm tired 
 I'm off to bed. Good-night ! " 
 
 The next morning Jan went to Mr. Evans for 
 Latin and John loafed about the garden, and lis- 
 tened to his mother's complaints, though she would 
 have said she didn't mention Jan to him. 
 
 "Let's go to Step Across," said John at lunch. 
 "I'd like to see the sea. Come, Jan?" 
 
 "All right, I don't mind. Let's bathe, shall 
 we?" 
 
 "Certainly not!" said Annie. "It's not safe 
 on an outgoing tide." 
 
 "I've done it before," Jan argued. 
 
 "You wouldn't have done it, my child, if I'd 
 been there," John cut in. "There's the dickens of 
 a current, and I should have to rescue you. 
 Headlines in big type: 'Shocking Bathing Fatality 
 on Welsh Coast two lives lost!" 
 
 "John," said Henry, with startling sharpness, 
 "drop it." 
 
 Step Across is a tiny village on the mouth of the 
 river. When the tide is out, the sands stretch 
 for miles, and the whole population of the hamlet 
 turn out cockling, and little boats ply up and down 
 the stream, which looks in parts narrow enough to 
 step across. Only it isn't really. But on the turn, 
 the sea rushes in with a sweep filling the whole
 
 JAN 199 
 
 bay, and justifying the claims of the village to be a 
 seaside resort. Bathing is safe enough on a full or 
 incoming tide but on the ebb there is a strong 
 current seaward, and year by year a certain toll of 
 human lives is paid by the foolhardy, the head- 
 strong, and the weak. 
 
 The train runs from Brynavon to Step Across 
 in twenty minutes, yet both John and Jan found 
 the time long. 
 
 Jan knew she was behaving badly, and the 
 knowledge made her worse. John knew it, too, 
 but expected things to clear up. He'd been the 
 same way himself, and could sympathize, but he 
 was growing the least bit impatient. 
 
 "Let's go along to the rocks," said Jan. 
 
 "Righto! Look, Jan, at that little chap out 
 there I like the brown sails." A fishing smack 
 was riding gallantly out at sea, and John stood 
 watching. 
 
 "Like to go out, Jan?" he asked, suddenly, 
 "that is if I could find old Sammy? He'd lend me 
 the boat." 
 
 For a moment, Jan wavered. "I'm going to 
 bathe," she said in a would-be careless voice. 
 
 "Oh, no, darling sorry, but the tide's well on 
 the ebb." 
 
 "It's only just turned, excuse me, and it's 
 perfectly safe." 
 
 "Nonsense, Jan, look for yourself. You can 
 see it's running out fast."
 
 200 JAN 
 
 "I'm going to bathe, anyhow please let me 
 pass.'* 
 
 John didn't move. 
 
 "Jan, darling, don't be silly. You can't bathe 
 to-day; it's not safe. Let's go fishing. Come 
 on." 
 
 Jan planted her feet firmly, like an obstinate 
 little animal. 
 
 "John, you may as well make up your mind to 
 it. I'm going to bathe. I'm a very strong swim- 
 mer, as you know." 
 
 They stood facing one another; then, suddenly, 
 John changed his tactics. 
 
 "Jan, please don't bathe. I ask you not to. 
 Just to please me. Will you?" 
 
 "If I give in now," thought the girl, "I shall al- 
 ways have to! I must make a stand." 
 
 "I'm sorry," she said, aloud, "but I'm going 
 to bathe." 
 
 But when she stood on the slab in her bathing- 
 dress a few minutes later, the water seemed grim 
 and menacing in spite of the sunlight, and a little 
 human life could so easily be a plaything for the 
 cruel waves, to be snapped and tossed aside. 
 
 John came and stood beside her. The danger 
 wasn't great there was a tide, of course, but he 
 was a very powerful swimmer it was Jan who 
 was a danger to herself. 
 
 " Come back, darling," he urged. 
 
 "Stand away, John," she cried, and dived in
 
 JAN 201 
 
 a slim, curved figure cutting the water. She 
 sported for several minutes swam and dived 
 then shook the water off her and ran away to dress. 
 
 John sat on a rock and smoked and looked out 
 to sea, but he didn't see the view he was thinking 
 too hard. 
 
 Five minutes later, Jan appeared, her short hair 
 rough and damp, her face aglow, and her eyes 
 gleaming. 
 
 John looked up as she came toward him but 
 did not speak or smile, and Jan stood beside him 
 for a minute or two in silence, rubbing her hair. 
 
 "All square, John?" she asked at last, with an 
 uncanny shy feeling, laying her hand on his knee. 
 She'd won, but had it been worth it, and any- 
 how, what was the matter with John? 
 
 John took the pipe from his mouth, knocked 
 out the ashes, and put it back in his pocket before 
 he answered. 
 
 "Not quite yet, Jan give me your hand." 
 
 Jan thought he was going to shake hands, but 
 John held it, and slowly pulled off the ring he had 
 given her. 
 
 "Now we're quits," he said, gravely. 
 
 "John!" Her face WAS so frightened that he 
 nearly returned it to her straight away. 
 
 "You see," he went on, still holding her hand, 
 which went suddenly cold, "you don't care a 
 tinker's curse for me no, you don't, not really. 
 You are fairly willing to use me to get away from
 
 202 JAN 
 
 Brynavon. Well, I'm not going to be used for 
 that see? I'm going to set you free." 
 
 For a moment she thought he was joking, but 
 one glance at his face removed that impression. 
 
 "And, Jan," he went on, "remember this: 
 you can always have the ring if you want it 
 but by God! you'll have to ask for it this time." 
 
 Jan pulled her hand roughly away. "Good!" 
 she cried, "the ring can be yours for ever I'm 
 glad to be free of you. Yes, ever so glad." 
 
 And then she spoilt the effect by bursting into 
 tears. 
 
 "Have mine!" said John, when she had searched 
 in vain for the handkerchief, which had been blown 
 into the sea. 
 
 Jan took it and dried her eyes. 
 
 "Thank you, John," she said, trying to laugh, 
 "this this makes you one up."
 
 CHAPTER Xin 
 
 JAN began her life at Girton by falling down in 
 the passage. Many people do I believe: the 
 floors of the New Whig are parquet and pol- 
 ished, and it is said to be possible to pick out in 
 Cambridge, by their walk, the men who lecture 
 at Girton. They move with the slow, deliberating 
 movement of a broody hen treading on eggs, and 
 Agog, with his sore, bastinadoed feet, could not 
 have made his way more delicately than they do. 
 
 Jan blushed, sprang up, and was taken along by 
 a snub-nosed boy hi buttons, to be introduced to 
 the Mistress. But the gingerly way she walked 
 was indicative of her outlook for the rest of the 
 term. She was rather suspicious of her ground, and 
 any friends she made owed that privilege to their 
 own exertions rather than to her encouragement. 
 
 John had given her a bad blow, and she had 
 made a solemn vow that it was the last he or any 
 one should ever have the chance of giving. 
 
 So she held herself aloof in body and in spirit, 
 and found things very dull. 
 
 "How do you like being here?" Jan was asked 
 at one of the innumerable tea-parties she attended 
 the first term. The hostesses were two Third 
 
 203
 
 204 JAN 
 
 Years the visitors, freshers, with a Third Year 
 to act as chucker-out in case the guests stayed 
 too long. 
 
 "Oh, I like it," Jan answered in her best affected 
 manner, "no one cares about any one else whether 
 they live or die it's lovely." 
 
 There was polite laughter at her reply, but when 
 the party was over the chucker-out went back for a 
 second tea, as was the way in the good days. 
 
 "Her nose is out of joint," she said with her 
 mouth full, "and she wants to pretend it's not!" 
 
 Fairly shrewd guess that and now look at Jan's 
 letter to Sarah: 
 
 DEAR SARAH: 
 
 It's lovely here, and I want you to come up some time to see 
 my room. Cambridge i* wonderful, and Mona McEvoy, 
 my friend from school, is up here, too, and I believe the Good- 
 yers have moved somewhere near. 
 
 Of course I'm awfully busy, but I'm enjoying it. 
 
 Love from 
 
 JAN. 
 
 But when the letter was finished, Jan sat staring 
 straight ahead of her. 
 
 There were a few facts she hadn't mentioned 
 such as that her tutor thought her reading list 
 very slight; that amid every inducement to work 
 Jan felt disinclined for anything but dreaming, 
 or that there was somewhere inside her a sullen, 
 aching pain, like when the live coal fell on her 
 hand when she was making toast.
 
 JAN 205 
 
 John, of course, was preposterous: whatever 
 she had done, it wasn't fair to dash back to town 
 without a word, without giving her a chance. She 
 wasn't sure what she wanted the chance for. To 
 give the devil his due, he had made things as easy 
 as possible for her in Brynavon. So he ought! 
 
 "Jan and I have been talking things over, 
 Mother," he had said to Annie in front of Jan, 
 "and we both feel we have made a mistake. You'll 
 understand that we don't want to discuss it, 
 either of us, won't you, dear, and that, of course, 
 it makes no difference to Jan's and my affection 
 for each other?" And then he had gone back to 
 town next day, and hadn't said good-bye, though 
 Jan had hung round in the garden waiting, and 
 had missed going to Mr. Evans. She had heard 
 him say, "Oh, say good-bye to Jan for me, will 
 you, Father?" and Henry had given the message, 
 "John asked me to say good-bye." It was curi- 
 ous that his anger at Jan's engagement was noth- 
 ing compared to his anger when it was broken, 
 but as Aunt Annie said often, "With men, you 
 never can tell well, there!" 
 
 Jan dug her pen into the blotting paper viciously, 
 and broke the nib. 
 
 She didn't care an atom what John said or did, 
 she didn't even hate him; she was indifferent; 
 and to show it she pulled out the photograph he 
 had given her and stuck it in the middle of the 
 mantelpiece.
 
 206 JAN 
 
 There was a knock at the door and Mona ap- 
 peared. She was a tall, angular girl, whose good 
 looks consisted in her appearance of good health 
 and temper. 
 
 She had masses of sandy hair coiled into a 
 tight knot at the neck, blue eyes, and more freckles 
 than should fall to the lot of any one person. She 
 was nearly always happy, and invariably good- 
 tempered, with a child's mind and the loyalty of a 
 dog, and an unlimited capacity for enthusiasm. 
 She played hockey and tennis on the hard courts, 
 and swam, and spoke at Debate, and was regular 
 at lectures, and changed every night for Hall, and 
 was all that a keen, intelligent fresher ought to be. 
 
 Jan didn't like games, and when she found 
 that the water in the swimming bath was only 
 changed once a (let's leave that) she wouldn't 
 put a toe in. 
 
 The first debate had been on the original sub- 
 ject of "Genius versus Common Sense," and Jan 
 had refused to go; she said there were no two 
 points of view on the subject. 
 
 So she pursued her way in lonely splendour, 
 and came to the conclusion that the role of altar 
 is dull unless others play up and bring offerings. 
 It took her the best part of a term to discover 
 this, and yet there are still cynical people who cavil 
 at education for women. 
 
 "My dear, why didn't you come to Hall?" 
 Mona asked.
 
 JAN 207 
 
 "Hall!" Jan looked down at the little clock 
 on the desk. "Have I missed it? I never heard 
 the bell!" 
 
 Mona laughed indulgently. "My dear Jan, you 
 must be in love." 
 
 It was a silly thing to say, Mona admitted it 
 afterward, but really there was no need for Jan to 
 have made such a scene, and carry on like a fish- 
 wife. It made a person look such a fool to be 
 taken up literally like that. 
 
 Mona stood with her hand on the door-knob, 
 rather annoyed. "Very well, then, Jan, there's 
 nothing more to be said," and went out, slamming 
 the door behind her. 
 
 The draught caught a big photograph standing 
 in the middle of the mantelpiece and blew it on 
 to the floor. 
 
 "All right!" grunted Jan. "This thing's a 
 nuisance, anyhow," and, picking up the photo- 
 graph, she threw it on the fire. 
 
 Mona went straight back to her own room. 
 She lived in Chapel and Jan in Woodlands 
 though they have changed the names now to 
 North and East, or something equally futile, 
 and Jan was pretty much annoyed about it when 
 she went up the other day, and found someone 
 swanking in her room just as she used to swank. 
 
 Mona sat down to work. Every evening from 
 eight to nine she had read "Medea" with the 
 help of a dictionary and Professor Gilbert Mur-
 
 208 JAN 
 
 ray's translation or is "version" the better word? 
 For some people think there's more Murray than 
 Euripides in the Professor's work, and that that 
 is the reason of its great popularity among stu- 
 dents. Mona was a very poor scholar and had 
 never got further than Medea's speech that 
 "the weariest way that a man may wend is forth 
 from the home of his father." 
 
 Then she had begun again, because she had 
 read of some illiterate man who attained to Greek 
 scholarship through reading one book until he had 
 steeped himself in it, and the language had burnt 
 itself into his memory and consciousness indelibly, 
 and then, suddenly, the mist had cleared away, 
 all the Greek language lay before him like open 
 country a problem no longer, for he knew how to 
 read the map. 
 
 The idea had taken Mona's fancy, and here she 
 was again the twenty -ninth night in succession- 
 reading "Medea." 
 
 There was a bang on her door a kick rather 
 than a knock and Jan appeared, with a pearly- 
 white face bathed in perspiration, and venomous 
 words on her tongue. 
 
 "My hands are hurting like Hades," she an- 
 nounced, showing two ugly surface burns. 
 
 "However did you do it, Jan?" Mona asked, 
 as ihe hurried her along to the Assistant House- 
 keeper. 
 
 "I'm beastly hungry," said Jan, though that
 
 JAN 209 
 
 didn't answer the question and, anyhow, the 
 photograph had been saved. "Come round to 
 Tray." 
 
 "Tray" is an institution which time has swept 
 away. Long ago, when the world was young 
 and all, the authorities were solicitous for the per- 
 fect health of young life entrusted to their care, and 
 supplied to each student a tray with saucepan, 
 milk and cocoa, roll and butter. And the students, 
 equally solicitous, supplied jam and cake and 
 "trayed" at nine with an astonishing vigour con- 
 sidering Hall at seven. 
 
 Jan sat with her two bandaged hands on her 
 lap, and Mona waited on her. 
 
 "Oh, by the way, who d'you think I saw in 
 Cambridge this morning?" Mona passed Jan a 
 roll. 
 
 "I haven't the slightest Don't burn the 
 
 milk, Mona." 
 
 "Don't be an ass, Jan," Mona grinned, "con- 
 sidering your hands. Well, anyhow, Clare Good- 
 yer. She's staying with her sister who married a 
 man at John's or Caius " 
 
 "Emmanuel," said Jan. 
 
 "Yes, of course. How did you know? And 
 Clare said would you and I go there to tea on 
 Sunday?" 
 
 "All right I don't mind much." 
 
 "Mind, indeed!" echoed Mona. "I'm awfully 
 keen to go. I met a girl who stayed with the
 
 210 JAN 
 
 Goodyers and she said that the brother, Dick 
 Goodyer, is simply ripping." 
 
 "He's all right," said Jan, in a patronizing way, 
 "he was very friendly with J , with my cousin. 
 
 "But he won't be there now, will he?" 
 
 "Oh, no he's in town. They dig together." 
 
 So it was disconcerting when Mona and Jan 
 arrived at the house on Sunday afternoon that 
 the first person they met was Dick and the second 
 John. 
 
 And since Jan blushed like fire, and stammered 
 with surprise, it was doubly disconcerting to see 
 John as cool as a cucumber and as kindly as a 
 benign old gentleman to a shy child. 
 
 "I didn't expect to see you here," Jan turned 
 to Dick, after greeting John brusquely. 
 
 "No? We're only up for the day. John is in- 
 corrigibly lazy and I just managed to snatch a 
 day from my arduous labours, eh, John?" 
 
 But John was laying himself out to entertain 
 Mona, and delighted giggles showed that his ef- 
 forts were being appreciated. 
 
 "Let's sit down," said Jan, choosing a seat 
 from which John was easily seen. 
 
 "How do you like Girton?" Dick was no fool, 
 but even if Jan weren't attending, she shouldn't 
 give herself away. 
 
 "I love it, thank you. I forget where you 
 were!" 
 
 " I honoured Caius," said Dick, gravely. Either
 
 JAN 211 
 
 John ought not to play the fool or Jan should 
 learn to look less like a stray dog. It was an ab- 
 surd situation. 
 
 "Are you going to Wales for Christmas?" he 
 went on. 
 
 "No, I'm going to stay in town with Miss 
 Blakeborough in her flat." 
 
 "Shall we do a theatre or two?" 
 
 "Thanks awfully. I'd love to," Jan answered, 
 only half hearing what he said. 
 
 "Look here, Dick," John lounged across the 
 room, "you can't monopolize Jan I'll introduce 
 you to Miss McEvoy. Come along." 
 
 Dick suffered himself to be led away and Jan's 
 heart beat furiously, as, the introduction over, 
 John came toward her. But at that moment 
 Clare disengaged herself from a group at the other 
 end of the room and reached her first. 
 
 "My dear!" she said, "you have grown thin. 
 Girton doesn't agree with you, does it, Mr. Owen?" 
 
 "There never was very much of Jan," answered 
 John, wondering for the hundredth time whether 
 he had done right or not, "and how do you think 
 I'm looking?", 
 
 "I've never seen you better!" Jan shot out. 
 "You've not lost much sleep." She decided to 
 find out the best stuff to make fat. How she 
 hated John! 
 
 John grinned. "Thank you, Jan," and then 
 Clare talked all the time, till John said: "Jan,
 
 212 JAN 
 
 what do you think is the matter with Miss Mc- 
 Evoy? She's making distress signals to you." 
 
 "She thinks it's time to go," said Jan, slowly, 
 standing up, "and so do I." 
 
 "We'll come along a bit, shall we?" It was 
 John's suggestion, but Jan did think Mona needn't 
 have been quite so blatantly glad about it. For 
 her own part she didn't relish the thought of that 
 t6te-a-t6te along the flat, never-ending Hunting- 
 don Road. 
 
 But she found the walk worse than she had ever 
 imagined 'longer and more tedious, as she 
 tramped beside Dick Goodyer, straining her ears 
 to catch the sound of John's voice in the darkness 
 behind her. 
 
 When she got back she tore the charred photo- 
 graph to bits, and spent the rest of the evening 
 piecing it together again, and though she made a 
 very creditable job of it, she kept it in her drawer. 
 
 "I'm not engaged to John any longer," Jan 
 volunteered to Miss Blakeborough the first night 
 of the Christmas vacation. She was sitting curled 
 up on the Chesterfield and the Head lounged in an 
 armchair opposite her, hi the flat at Westminster. 
 
 "No?" The Head was purposely non-com- 
 mittal. "What was the matter?" 
 
 "Perhaps, really, it's more truthful to say John's 
 not engaged to me," admitted Jan, "but I don't 
 want to be either. Still, he did break it, but I am 
 glad."
 
 JAN 213 
 
 "Good," said the Head, sitting upright, "then 
 everyone's pleased." 
 
 "I suppose so yes." Jan's tone was doubtful. 
 "Sometimes I don't know what I do want." 
 
 " I know what you need," said the Head, drily, as 
 she opened a book, "but you're too big to get it." 
 
 "Well, he needs it, too," retorted Jan, angrily, 
 "and more than I do, and I don't know what you 
 mean, anyhow." 
 
 Jan was finding it hard to be honest with herself. 
 She missed John dreadfully but she didn't want 
 him, not unless he was with someone else, and 
 
 anyhow, of course, since he didn't want her It 
 
 was a chaotic muddle and spoilt things, because 
 she couldn't forget him. 
 
 Dick turned up and he and Jan went off to two 
 or three theatres. 
 
 But it wasn't much fun taking her out, because 
 however they began they always ended by talking 
 of John. 
 
 Once Jan met him in the street, but he was 
 striding along, head on high, and didn't see her, 
 and though she walked that way every day at the 
 same time, she never saw him again, and at last 
 Willie Griffiths happened to mention in his letter 
 that "old John is home again, but, of course, you 
 know that." 
 
 Jan spent the whole of her first year in finding 
 her feet. She mooned about a good deal and 
 read prodigiously good, bad, and indifferent
 
 214 JAN 
 
 stuff in no way connected with her "shop," and 
 in the First Year's Mays was classed a low third. 
 
 "I've read an awful lot of English," she sug- 
 gested to her tutor, who said, untruthfully, that 
 she had expected a Second, but as far as Jan could 
 gather that wasn't considered altogether good 
 enough in view of the fact that she was supposed 
 to be reading Classics. 
 
 In the long vacation Jan forgot that Girton, 
 Cambridge, England, even Wales existed. She 
 went to Switzerland for the first time and was as 
 badly bitten as any one could be. 
 
 It was Miss Blakeborough's suggestion, though 
 Sarah helped, and they stayed at a tiny village 
 in the Engadine a few miles from the Italian 
 frontier and not far from a gay little town. 
 
 They didn't trouble the town much, except for 
 tea at a wonderful patisserie; in fact, they did very 
 little. A short walk up to some spot whence there 
 was view, and then Jan flung herself on the grass 
 and looked and feasted her eyes simply existing. 
 
 "It's good enough just to be," said Jan one 
 morning. "I don't want to do anything.'* 
 
 She was sitting on a rock in the middle of a 
 stream, eating an apple. Her shoes and stockings 
 were on the bank beside her hat, and now and 
 again dangling a long white leg she dipped her 
 foot into the rushing water, and then pulled it 
 out quickly because it was so cold and sent shivers 
 all up her back, and the little stream dashed on
 
 JAN 215 
 
 importantly in the way little streams have, trying 
 to pretend that it was really something of a moun- 
 tain torrent. 
 
 Jan drew her knees up to her chin, and munch- 
 ing her apple looked down on the chalets in the 
 valley with dreamy, quiet eyes. She was more 
 contented than she had been for years. 
 
 "I think," she said over her shoulder, though 
 without looking behind her, "that a life like this 
 really is free, don't you?" 
 
 Miss Blakeborough, to whom she thought she 
 was speaking, had just turned the bend of the path 
 and was out of earshot, but a man who was pass- 
 ing stopped, and looked at her with a superior 
 smile on his lean face. He was of medium height, 
 with rough gray tweeds which were too big for 
 him, bold, piercing eyes, and a weak mouth. His 
 hair, which was longer than is usually worn, was 
 blown about by the wind, and enhanced his gen- 
 eral appearance of scantiness. 
 
 "Free!" he said with a disagreeable little laugh; 
 "you know nothing of freedom." 
 
 "I didn't speak," said Jan, turning quickly on 
 him. 
 
 "Oh, pardon me, I heard you," the man an- 
 swered, "but you are doubtless one of those who 
 worship at the shrine of convention, and therefore 
 cannot understand or appreciate freedom in the 
 true and complete sense of the word. Free!" he 
 laughed again, mockingly.
 
 216 JAN 
 
 "I'm happy to amuse you," said Jan, coldly, 
 and looked him up and down in her most detached 
 way. After all, she was a Girton student, with all 
 that that entailed, and to be able to conduct a 
 dignified controversy with bare head and legs and 
 a half-eaten apple in one hand argues some ability 
 and a pleasing disregard of Mrs. Grundy. 
 
 " I laughed," said the man, " because you're play- 
 ing with freedom, like a child pretending to drive 
 by holding the reins. Why, your kind are slaves 
 to orthodoxy, bound by the closest ties to con- 
 vention, fettered and hampered at every turn." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, and I really don't 
 very much care." Jan's tone was icy. 
 
 "There you are," said the man. "Will you be 
 free?' said I, 'No an I love my bounds,' quoth 
 she. Good-bye stick to your Paradise of Fools 
 perhaps it's better than none," and with a wave 
 of his hand he passed on down the mountain-side. 
 
 "Impertinent fool!" thought Jan. "I'm as 
 free as he is," but she didn't know how free he was 
 so it wasn't much use saying that. 
 
 Miss Blakeborough was tired that afternoon and 
 stayed in the hotel garden, but Jan went out alone. 
 On the hillside she came upon a crucifix from 
 which the image of the dying Lord looked down 
 with half-veiled, agonized eyes on the passersby. 
 
 Jan gazed at the figure with repugnant interest. 
 Her religion was rather nebulous. Her father 
 had started it years ago, after the rebuff the old
 
 JAN 217 
 
 minister had given him, and he had taught Jan the 
 Commandments, and told her all the stories he 
 could remember Adam and Eve Noah, Moses, 
 Joseph, Daniel, Jonah. Jan could remember she 
 had wept bitterly about the baby Jesus not hav- 
 ing a proper bed, and the first wet afternoon had 
 made a shrine in the coach-house, and Sarah had 
 made her pull it down. "There's no 'arm done, 
 Miss Jan, but it won't do." Jan-John had been the 
 baby, and Jan had pulled off her hair to indicate 
 an infant's bald head. 
 
 There had been Scripture lessons at school, the 
 Parables "the field is the world and the seed is the 
 Gospel" kind of lesson, and later the Acts Paul's 
 missionary journeys, and Nehemiah's building of 
 the Walls of Jerusalem. But religion qua religion 
 had appeared to Jan very dull church on Sunday, 
 and Wednesday evening Prayer Meeting, with 
 Temperance and Watcher's Band thrown in. It 
 had to be practised in daily life, of course, because 
 unless the majority of people were honest, truth- 
 ful, and decent-living, society couldn't exist. 
 
 After the Mays, Jan had got hold of a book on 
 the Jesus of History, trying to show that the God- 
 head had really been man, and was as much an 
 historical personage as other great figures. The 
 book had entranced Jan, and as she looked at the 
 crucifix, it struck her afresh that the image was 
 that of a man in mortal suffering, and He 
 had brought it on Himself He had chosen He
 
 218 JAN 
 
 had been free to choose. That shrinking, dis- 
 torted figure stood for Freedom. 
 
 She started impatiently and moved on. It 
 didn't matter where she began, she always re- 
 turned, not to freedom, but to the perplexing dis- 
 cussion of how to attain it. 
 
 Two peasant women with large bundles on their 
 backs came slowly up the hill, halted before the 
 Cross, and laid aside their burdens; then, having 
 made their reverence, knelt hi prayer. 
 
 Jan watched them at their devotions and stood 
 looking after them till they disappeared out of 
 sight, and then made a furtive bob to the figure on 
 the Cross. "If only You would speak and tell me," 
 she said, "it would make such a difference." 
 
 She was very late for dinner that evening. She 
 had been thinking of the Christ on the way home, 
 and turned into the little church to look for a 
 Bible, to see if she could find out why He had let 
 them crucify Him. But when she arrived she 
 remembered that there are not Bibles scattered 
 about in a Catholic church so her walk had been 
 in vain. 
 
 But the church was quaint and cool and Jan 
 went in. 
 
 The Cross again and its burden! That symbol 
 of suffering seemed to dominate the whole place. 
 
 She slipped into a pew and leant forward, gazing 
 into the shadows. " Show me what it is, as well as 
 how to get it," she whispered.
 
 JAN 219 
 
 As she came out Into the sunlight, she wondered 
 whether any one had seen her. She was Protestant 
 and she went up to the little Catholic chapel to 
 pray; that was free enough from orthodoxy, surely. 
 
 "Jan," said Miss Blakeborough after dinner, 
 "I want to introduce to you the son of an old friend 
 of mine. I met him this afternoon Mr. Ronald 
 Waring Miss Owen." 
 
 Jan turned, to find the man she had spoken to 
 on the mountain standing at her side. 
 
 "I saw Miss Owen this afternoon," he said, 
 promptly. 
 
 "This morning, you mean?" Jan remarked with 
 an insolent indifference. 
 
 "No, this afternoon," Waring persisted. "I 
 was sketching on the hillside and just turned into 
 the chapel to have a look round, but I saw Miss 
 Owen there. Funny thing Protestants can't 
 help praying in Catholic churches. It makes 'em 
 feel broad-minded and heterodox, like a maiden 
 aunt in Paris." 
 
 "I think," said Jan, afterward, "he's quite the 
 loathliest little toad I've ever met." 
 
 All the same she took an extra long time dressing 
 next morning, and sat where she thought no one 
 could miss seeing her. 
 
 But Ronald Waring passed by, immersed in the 
 morning paper, and Jan, after a minute, followed 
 like a child enchanted by the Piper's music.
 
 THE clock on the mantelpiece struck one. 
 John pushed back his chair and stretched 
 himself. On the table by his side lay sheet 
 upon sheet of closely written manuscript, but he 
 had finished to-night, thank goodness. At the be- 
 ginning, writing had seemed to him a pleasant, clean 
 way of earning a livelihood, provided that ideas 
 flowed, and editors took his stuff. But the begin- 
 nings of success had whetted his appetite, and 
 every fresh acceptance goaded him on to further 
 work, until the last contract, that is really the 
 first he had ever had, chained him to his desk in 
 the little house in St. John's Wood, and kept him 
 hard at it until the small hours of the mornkig in 
 the middle of August. And what an August, too! 
 Day after day the sun rose in a cloudless sky and 
 poured its scorching rays down on London. The 
 pavements were so hot that they hurt the feet of 
 the passersby, the water in the canal shrank to half 
 its usual depth, and an unhealthy smell pervaded 
 the neighbourhood. The earth in the small gar- 
 dens was baked to a brick-like substance and the 
 plants wilted and died. 
 
 And John stayed on in town and worked, be- 
 220
 
 JAN 
 
 cause he had accepted a contract for six stories at 
 50 each, the editor to reserve the right of refusing 
 two, should they prove unsuitable. 
 
 It was a stupendous lift-up for him. It might 
 not be the kind of pay that the demi-gods in fiction 
 received, but so far his stories had been about the 
 two-guineas-a-thousand style, so even if London 
 had been twice as hot and stuffy and the canal's 
 smell worse than it was, John would have stayed. 
 
 But he had finished at last, and glad as he was to 
 have it over, he was half afraid the work wasn't 
 good, because he liked it so much. That was al- 
 ways the trouble: he couldn't help admiring his 
 own work not because he thought it was good, 
 but because it was his own. 
 
 Work had been the stand-by during the last 
 year. 
 
 All his life he had meant to marry Jan, all his 
 life he had been hi close touch with her, if only by 
 letter, so it had left a big blank when, after the 
 engagement was broken, Jan drifted away and 
 passed out of his life altogether. He might have 
 written to her; he might have behaved differently 
 when he saw her that time in Cambridge, but he 
 couldn't. Jan wanted him back if she wanted 
 him at all on her terms; he wanted her on his. 
 
 The problem had aged John. He thought it 
 out in the long hours of the night when he sat 
 smoking and gazing into the fire, or when unable to 
 sleep he had paced half London. John had wor-
 
 222 JAN 
 
 ried his father Jan worried John but if Henry 
 had known, he wouldn't have felt avenged, only 
 wildly and madly indignant with the girl. 
 
 But by the end of a year, John had come to the 
 conclusion that Jan must go her way; he wouldn't 
 attempt to influence her. Did he love her? That 
 was rather a foolish question, because he loved Jan 
 as naturally as he breathed. At present she was 
 wrong and foolish and inconsiderate and lots of 
 other things which were annoying, but then she 
 was Jan and therefore he loved her. 
 
 And if things never came right, if Jan never came 
 back to him; well, anyhow, Jan would have been 
 free aye and he would be free, too. He'd fight it 
 out somehow his love for her shouldn't bind him. 
 
 A knock at the door interrupted his sombre re- 
 flections, though young men crossed in love ought 
 not to consider at one o'clock in the morning when 
 they have finished the last story of their first con- 
 tract. 
 
 Dick Goodyer came in, robed in a wonderful silk 
 dressing-gown of scarlet and blue. 
 
 "I saw your light and heard you tramping. 
 Finished?" 
 
 "Yes, thank the Lord," said John. "Have a 
 cigarette?" 
 
 "Thanks." Dick took one, and flung himself 
 into a chair. 
 
 "What a sight you look, man!" said John, dis- 
 passionately. "Scarlet women and peacocks and
 
 JAN 223 
 
 blue moons all mixed. What made you buy such 
 an infernal thing?" 
 
 "Pretty sauc-ee, isn't it? There was another of 
 green and yellow, but it struck me as bilious; and, 
 talking of sights, my boy, you'd do well enough 
 for a freak show. You look as washed-out as you 
 jolly well can." Dick's slim body seemed the pic- 
 ture of repose, but under the inertia his mind was 
 working. 
 
 Thankless job interfering with another fellow's 
 girl, but from all accounts Jan was making a pretty 
 average ass of herself in Switzerland. 
 
 John waited with more patience than he usually 
 showed, though why the devil old Dick couldn't 
 choke up what he'd got to say, right out, instead 
 of sitting there like a broody hen, beat him. 
 
 "I've finished to-night," John said aloud. 
 "Three months on the six of 'em, not bad. Lord! 
 how glad I'll be to get away." 
 
 Dick sat up. "Where are you going home? " 
 
 "No the Mater and Father are going to the 
 Wells they go every year. They drink waters 
 that smell like bad eggs, and get up early, and 
 Father plays golf, and Mother goes up to the Club 
 House to tea. Jolly good for those who like it I 
 don't I back the sea every time." 
 
 "What about goin' abroad for a bit? Switzer- 
 land now!" 
 
 John threw the stump of his cigarette in the 
 waste-paper basket.
 
 224 JAN 
 
 "If you've anything to say, Dick, say it, and 
 have it over," he remarked. Of course, he was 
 always going to leave Jan alone, but, naturally, he 
 wanted to know. Confound the fool ! Why didn't 
 he get on? 
 
 Dick stood up and leaned against the mantel- 
 piece for support moral and physical. "Not my 
 affair, you know, only Clare wrote me this morn- 
 ing. She'd heard from Jan, and Jan's pretty well 
 6prise, don't you know, with some fellow out 
 there, and I didn't know whether you'd want to 
 cut in." 
 
 "No!" said John after a pause. "Jan's free to 
 do what she likes. Is the fellow all right? " 
 
 "In my opinion he's a putrid sort of ass long 
 hair and dirty nails, a Bolshevik-Nihilist-Fabian 
 rolled into one. Only I gather he talks more than 
 he acts. He's a Cambridge man, too third year 
 in my first." 
 
 "What's his name?" 
 
 " Waring R. L. Waring I don't know what he 
 does for a living when he's at home. Talks, I 
 guess." 
 
 "Umph!" John rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Thanks for telling me," he said at last, "but 
 it's not my affair. I haven't any right to interfere. 
 Miss Blakeborough's with her." 
 
 "Yes oh, rather. So long! I'm off to bed 
 now." 
 
 The door closed behind Dick, but opened again
 
 JAN 225 
 
 almost immediately. "I'm off to Wales to-mor- 
 row, you know sea and all that. Come along." 
 
 "I'll see," said John;" thanks. Good-night." 
 
 Dick went to bed feeling qualified for the Dip- 
 lomatic Service. He'd given old John his chance, 
 and John didn't want it, so then he had given Clare 
 the chance, which she did want. And if John 
 came to Laugharne and bathed and boated and 
 prawned and walked, surely it was up to Clare to 
 do the rest. 
 
 John didn't sleep for hours after Dick left, and 
 when he did, he dreamed of a picture in his mother's 
 spare room at home, of the man from Macedonia 
 crying: "Come over and help us." Only the 
 man had Jan's face, and Macedonia had for a back- 
 ground some fine Alpine scenery; and when, in his 
 dream, John answered the call, the man with 
 Jan's face turned and said, coldly: "What dirty 
 nails you have!" and John awoke, and for the first 
 time in his life, went and had his nails manicured. 
 
 'Til come with you," he told Dick, "if you'll 
 wait till to-morrow." 
 
 "Can't let the others know. You come to- 
 morrow and we'll come in to meet you Clare or 
 I"; and the diplomatist went off, in the best of 
 spirits, for there is no good opinion so well worth 
 having as one's own. 
 
 John loitered about restlessly, but he devoted a 
 certain time to making inquiries about Mr. Waring, 
 and the result of his labours did not please him,
 
 226 JAN 
 
 and the clothes he packed in his bag were more 
 suitable for an Alpine holiday than for Wales. 
 Lastly he telegraphed Miss Blakeborough, giving 
 nothing but his address, and went off on his holi- 
 day without any pleasurable anticipation. 
 
 Clare met him at the station. 
 
 "Hallo!" she cried, "I'm so glad you've got 
 here. Will you trust yourself to me? Dick was 
 stopped coming at the last moment." 
 
 "Good enough," said John; "I'm thankful to 
 leave that wretched tram. There were ten of us 
 in the carriage just like a family party -all so 
 chatty. I said I had a wife and seven children. 
 Then they asked their names and I got stuck! " 
 
 "Come along!" Clare laughed, "you do look 
 as if you needed a change." 
 
 "Working," explained John, as he stepped into 
 the car after Clare; "someone must work." 
 
 "What d'you think of the car? It's Father's 
 and mine. He pays, I drive ! " 
 
 "Fine car and finer idea! Do you drive much? " 
 
 "No." Clare's tone was a little dubious, and a 
 tiny frown settled on her forehead. "Not much, 
 but I'm getting on." 
 
 Now the first part of her answer was strictly 
 true the second open to question, but she'd 
 been so keen to meet John that Dick hadn't 
 objected. 
 
 Laugharne is a tiny village nine miles from the 
 station snuggled on the crook of the hillside.
 
 JAN 227 
 
 The road from the station is hilly, and when you 
 bicycle, you walk most of the way because the hills 
 are too steep to ride up and too stony to ride down. 
 Besides, they are always clipping the hedges and 
 you get a thorn in your back tire and puncture it, 
 and that means walking the last lap, which is flat. 
 There is not much traffic, and it is as well, since 
 the roads are too narrow for two vehicles to pass 
 one another in comfort. 
 
 Clare had forgotten all these things before she 
 started, but was doubly conscious of them with 
 her passenger by her side, and she was so nervous 
 that the course of the car would have broken a 
 snake's back. 
 
 And the pity of it all was that John hardly re- 
 membered who was with him. Half his thoughts 
 and all his interest were in Switzerland. 
 
 Clare's nervous little laugh roused him. "Near 
 thimg," she gasped. 
 
 "Very," said John, guessing she had scraped the 
 cart they'd just passed; "like me to drive?" 
 
 "No, thank you, we're getting on finely. I'd 
 never hear the end of it from Dick if you drove." 
 
 They were going down a gentle slope which de- 
 veloped into a steep hill, leading down into the 
 only village through which they had to pass. The 
 road was bad with cunning twists and turns, and 
 Clare drove carefully, though gathering speed. 
 
 Suddenly from the side, where no opening was 
 visible, a cow appeared and stood with madden-
 
 228 JAN 
 
 ing irresolution in the middle of the way. Clare 
 sounded the horn and turned the car sharply, and 
 the startled cow gambolled like a lamb. Then 
 Clare lost her head, turned the car again and again 
 to avoid the animal, drove full tilt into the wall, 
 and was thrown. She threw a neat somersault and 
 came down sitting on the grass the other side of 
 the wall. John was less fortunate. He landed 
 on his back, also in the field, but he caught his 
 head an ugly crack on a stone and then lay still. 
 To add to the general discomfort it began to rain- 
 in the hopeless downpour fashion it affects by the 
 sea. 
 
 Clare stood up and then ran to John. 
 
 "John," she cried, fumbling with his collar, 
 "John, John." 
 
 But John didn't answer, and his white, drawn 
 face and closed eyes terrified her. 
 
 "John," she wailed, "do wake up." 
 
 Help came in the shape of the butcher's cart,, 
 and the butcher himself, with greasy hands, lifted 
 John, dragged him to the cart, and drove him 
 home. 
 
 Clare followed, scared to death. If John were 
 dead, she had killed him and she would never know 
 another minute's happiness in all her life. What 
 would she say to Jan? What could she say to 
 Dick? What could she do for herself? 
 
 In the back room behind the shop she sat quite 
 still not daring to move. She had wired Dick
 
 JAN 229 
 
 to come and then if John had not stirred, if he 
 
 were really dead She bit her lip; tears filled 
 
 her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. 
 
 "There, now, come you!" soothed the butcher's 
 wife, Mrs. Lloyd, "the doctor's with him. He'll 
 come all right in the end come you!" 
 
 Clare sipped her tea gratefully, forgetting that 
 she didn't like the sugar which her hostess had 
 ladled in, in an access of hospitality. 
 
 "Thank you!" she said, "I do hope he will." 
 
 "He's a fine big fellow for you," continued 
 Mrs. Lloyd. 
 
 "Yes," Clare sighed, "he is, isn't he?" 
 
 In the country districts of Wales and Eng- 
 land, too, for all I know to the contrary a girl 
 has one string to her bow or none. And if a man 
 and maid go out together, there is only one inter- 
 pretation; namely, that they are courting. There- 
 fore, nothing was more natural than that Mrs. 
 Lloyd should think that John and Clare were 
 sweethearts; otherwise why were they out to- 
 gether? The reasoning was very simple. 
 
 And so when the doctor appeared and said that 
 John was conscious, Mrs. Lloyd led the way up- 
 stairs to the room where John lay, and bustling in 
 first said in a cheerful voice: "You'll do nicely 
 now, sir, and I'm bringing your sweetheart up to 
 see you." 
 
 Clare blushed furiously and advanced into the 
 room.
 
 230 JAN 
 
 John stretched out a limp hand from the bed. 
 "Darling," he said, "Jan, darling!" 
 
 Clare turned white and her lips trembled. 
 
 "Jan's not here,*' she said, softly, "it's Clare; 
 don't you remember. I was driving you." 
 
 John let his hand fall. " Clare yes, of course. 
 Don't fret, Clare it's all right." 
 
 John rested a day or two, and Clare was glad; 
 she, too, needed time to compose herself. For one 
 breathless hah* second she had thought that John 
 was speaking to her before Jan's name followed 
 to show unmistakably whom he meant. But sup- 
 posing he had meant Clare, she knew that she 
 would have 
 
 There are some mistakes at which a merciful 
 Providence allows only one spectator. But Clare 
 herself knew and that was bad enough. 
 
 On the third day John came downstairs; on 
 the fourth, walked to the beach and bathed, and 
 at the end of the week everything except the car 
 was running smoothly again, though Clare avoided 
 John whenever she could without being remarkable. 
 She felt as if he must have guessed what she 
 thought, though she knew he didn't. Whereas 
 John had been hardly conscious when he spoke, 
 and had quite forgotten what he had said, but 
 he couldn't help seeing that Clare was shy with him, 
 and put it down to her still feeling rather foolish 
 about the accident. 
 
 And so he sought out Clare to put her at her
 
 JAN 231 
 
 t 
 ease, and she fought shy of him, and Dick, from his 
 
 pinnacle of diplomatic superiority, watched and 
 wondered. There was no doubt at all that old 
 John was getting keen. 
 
 Taste is indisputable poems and proverbs and 
 sayings and saws prove it time and again. And 
 on no point is it more indisputable than on the 
 subject of pleasure. 
 
 One man risks life and limb in the pursuit of 
 sport; another gives money and health to some 
 literary hobby, while a third tickles his palate 
 with the dainties of asceticism. A woman enjoys 
 herself in the display of a constantly changing 
 wardrobe: her sister is rooting round like a tramp 
 in the oldest clothes she can find. 
 
 And though cockling isn't to everyone's taste, 
 those who enjoy it well, they do enjoy it. 
 
 The long stretch of sand at Laugharne is famous 
 for cockling. The tide covers it twice a day, and 
 on the ebb a band of cocklers go forth, with an 
 instrument like a spud, and baskets; and, for the 
 professionals, donkey carts wait to carry the 
 cockles back to town. 
 
 Cockling isn't a sport because the cockles lie 
 hidden snugly in the wet sand, and wait to be 
 found. It is like diamond mining on a small 
 scale. 
 
 "I'd enjoy it more," said John, "if I could find a 
 few. Lack of success like this is blighting my 
 young life!"
 
 232 JAN 
 
 He was squatting on his haunches, with bare legs, 
 sweater, and shorts. His knees were sandy where 
 he had knelt to delve, and so were his hands. 
 
 Clare was digging a little way off. "How many 
 have you got now?" She didn't raise her head, 
 and John could only catch a glimpse of a sunburnt 
 serious face, and small curls blowing about. 
 
 "Half a dozen, perhaps, and we've been here 
 about an hour." 
 
 "Then what are you grumbling about?" de- 
 manded Dick. "I've four, and since cockles cost 
 threepence a pint and I've been grubbing like a pig 
 for an hour, I strike!" 
 
 Dick straightened himself and held out the 
 cockles. 
 
 "You're a slack brute," John said, dispassion- 
 ately; "go on man, stick to it not for glory- 
 but for the sake of the " 
 
 "Are you going home? " Clare cut hi. 
 
 "Yes," from Dick. "No," from John. 
 
 Clare looked from one to the other. 
 
 "That settles it, my dear!" Dick picked up his 
 empty bag. "You stay. Our little visitor is 
 happy. Ta-ta don't overdo it," and he saunt- 
 ered off diplomatic again. 
 
 "Lazy devil," quoth John. "No, I forgot 
 let's begin once more. Lazy little fellow that's 
 the way, isn't it? Who says these blamed cockles 
 aren't cute?" 
 
 "I think a little farther on, by the Point, is a
 
 JAN 233 
 
 good pitch," Clare suggested, "and when the tide 
 comes in, we can climb up and go home over the 
 hill." 
 
 "Good enough I'm really warming to it now. 
 It isn't as though I hadn't caught any. The fever 
 of cockling is getting into my blood." John 
 turned to her, smiling. 
 
 "I've been thinking," said Clare, seriously; 
 "are you sure your head's quite right again?" 
 
 "Judging from my conversation you mean?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "No, John you are absurd. Only, you can 
 guess I've been pretty nervous." 
 
 "Right as rain don't worry any more and, 
 anyhow, it wasn't your fault." 
 
 They walked in silence for a minute or two and 
 then John spoke again : 
 
 " I've had a letter from the farm you know, the 
 fellows on the farm in Canada. They're mad on 
 my going back there, if only for a bit." 
 
 "Yes?" Clare's voice was absolutely level. 
 
 "I don't know I can't make up my mind. 
 I'm just faintly beginning to get on here but 
 oh, I don't know it doesn't matter much." 
 
 "I should think it did matter very much." 
 
 "That's only because you're kind. In a way, 
 it's difficult " He hesitated and stopped. 
 
 It was difficult, too, to explain that he didn't 
 care to leave Jan yet. If she were going to play 
 the fool, she needed someone, not to interfere
 
 234 JAN 
 
 but to be ready to come forward, supposing she 
 needed it. 
 
 For instance, if she quarrelled with Miss Blake- 
 borough, where was she to go, since she hated 
 Brynavon? Clare might take her if Mrs. Goodyer 
 were willing, but it was no use disguising the fact 
 that Jan, even as a visitor, was not an unalloyed 
 pleasure. Still he could ask if and in case. 
 
 They cockled for some time with rather better 
 success. 
 
 "Let's sit on the rocks for a bit. We've done 
 enough work for to-day," John suggested. 
 
 "Is there time?" Clare asked. "I promised 
 Father I'd play golf this afternoon." 
 
 "Plenty of time we'll fly home besides, I 
 want to talk to you. If I want a thing, I can't 
 remember other people, can you? I seem the 
 most important person in all the world." 
 
 But after washing hi pools and lighting a pipe, 
 John's wish to talk seemed to have evaporated. 
 
 "We'll have to get on," Clare broke the silence. 
 
 "Wait a minute. Clare, if I go to Canada, 
 you'll write, won't you often? I'll want to 
 know things about everybody the kind of things 
 only you'll tell me." 
 
 "Yes I'll answer your letters." Clare gazed 
 straight ahead of her. The tide had turned and 
 was running in round the Point white sea-gulls 
 stood in lines along the shore, or swept hi curves 
 over their heads, uttering loud cries.
 
 JAN 235 
 
 Clare wished with all her heart that John had 
 never come, or having come that he would go 
 away now. Oh, yes better now than later, and 
 how much she hated Jan, who didn't know the 
 value of pearls ! 
 
 "Clare,'* he went on, "I want to ask you a 
 most important question a great favour. It 
 will mean an awful lot to me." 
 
 John knocked the ashes out of his pipe, though 
 he had only lighted it a few minutes ago. The 
 old feeling of his boyhood was assailing him the 
 overwhelming distaste of speaking of himself. 
 But it was safer in case of accidents. Jan needed 
 to be guarded against herself, and if he told Clare 
 exactly how matters stood, she would help, as a 
 friend of Jan's and his. 
 
 Clare sat quite still waiting, with her heart 
 thumping like a hammer against her side. Then 
 she had been mistaken and John, after all, did 
 care. 
 
 "Please go on, John," she said, "I want to 
 hear." 
 
 John leant forward, and toward her 
 
 "I want to ask you, Clare, if you'd be willing 
 
 
 "At last!" broke in a voice, "I've hunted for 
 you everywhere. John, here's a telegram, and 
 there's too much exercise on this holiday." Dick 
 scrambled down the rocks toward them with the 
 flimsy brown envelope in his hand,
 
 236 JAN 
 
 "Go on, John," cried Clare, "quick!" 
 
 There are more ways of telling than by word of 
 mouth, and Clare's eyes told John what nothing 
 would have made her say. 
 
 "Jan," said John, quietly, "if you'd help me 
 with her." 
 
 "Yes," said Clare. It was the answer she had 
 meant to give, though not to this question. 
 
 "What a way you've come," Dick grumbled, 
 holding out the telegram. 
 
 John tore it open and read, gazing at it for a 
 minute or two. 
 
 "Any luck, Clare?" asked her brother. 
 
 "No," she answered, decisively, "my luck's out 
 this morning." 
 
 "I must go back to town at once. When's 
 there a train?" John was alert and very much 
 awake all his dreaminess and fun had fallen from 
 him. 
 
 "You can catch the mail to-night," Clare said. 
 "Come to lunch now we can still get round the 
 Point." 
 
 John explained to his host and hostess that he 
 was recalled on business, but after lunch he sent 
 off a telegram: 
 
 BlAKEBOROUGH. 
 
 Coming at once. 
 JOHN. 
 
 Later he went to the post office again and sent 
 another this ""time to "Waring" and then he
 
 JAN 237 
 
 played a round of golf with Mr. Goodyer, because 
 Clare had a headache. 
 
 "She's not very strong," said her father, "that 
 little accident upset her more than we know." 
 
 Dick saw John off. "Come back if you can," 
 he pressed. 
 
 "Rather," said John. "It's a top-hole little 
 place." 
 
 "Poor old John," he said at supper; "he didn't 
 want to go a bit. I asked him to come back 
 again." 
 
 Mrs. Goodyer had brought up her children care- 
 fully, especially Clare, and reticence, a maidenly 
 reserve, and pleasant manners, had formed a 
 large part of the educational course. But human 
 nature triumphs over art, and Clare was sore. 
 
 "I think, Dick," she said, "that it's a pity you 
 weren't drowned at birth like kittens." 
 
 "Clare!" reproved her mother. 
 
 "What's up now?" said Dick; "there's no 
 understanding a girl ! I thought you'd like it." 
 
 "There's no plumbing the depths of idiocy in a 
 man," was his sister's retort as she left the room. 
 
 They soon made it up, but Dick never could 
 understand why Clare wouldn't walk toward the 
 Point, considering it is the best walk in Laug- 
 harne.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 JAN sat up in bed, suddenly wide awake. 
 Seven o'clock, her watch told her, and it 
 seemed only a few minutes since she had said 
 good-night to Ronnie and come upstairs to 
 bed. 
 
 But it was the most disgraceful waste of time 
 to sleep at all, considering what the days held in 
 store for her. 
 
 Walks with Ronald talks with him climbs- 
 games meals all with Ronald. It was only 
 three weeks since he had surprised her on the rock 
 and since Miss Blakeborough had introduced him 
 to her. Three weeks of bliss a foretaste of 
 heaven. Jan couldn't think how she had lived 
 before all her life seemed a prelude, and her ac- 
 quaintance with Ronnie the melody. True, the 
 melody was in syncopated time and the harmony 
 not always all it should be. Even in the three 
 weeks there has been quarrels short, but very 
 acrimonious. 
 
 That time, for instance, when Jan had spoken of 
 John. 
 
 "Who's John?" Ronald said, speaking with his 
 mouth full. He was so advanced and free from 
 
 238
 
 JAN 239 
 
 custom that he often dispensed with ordinary 
 manners and trifles of that sort. 
 
 "He's my cousin; he's most awfully clever. 
 You must know him: he writes and calls himself 
 'Owen John'," Jan answered, proudly. 
 
 "Oh, that bounder!" said Ronald. 
 
 Jan stiffened at the epithet so inapplicable to 
 John, but she was learning very quickly that Ron- 
 nie didn't care for arguments, unless he were the 
 protagonist. 
 
 "I believe I have seen some of his stuff. Pretty 
 putrid," he said, loftily. 
 
 "Did you think so? I like it most awfully, 
 and if you don't, you're in the minority," Jan 
 replied with some heat. 
 
 Ronnie smiled with superiority. "Yes? I often 
 am. I find the best brains the free minds the 
 clearer vision among the few who matter." 
 
 "The few who don't like John's work don't 
 matter.' 
 
 Jan was final and annoyed. John was a thing 
 of the past; she didn't care two pence about him; 
 she tried never to think of him, but he was her 
 property all the same, and she wasn't going to 
 allow Ronnie or any one else to run him down. 
 
 Ronnie tried to argue and Jan lost her temper 
 and there was a scene. 
 
 Then there was the time he had jeered at her 
 for being Welsh. It had only been a silly joke 
 " Taffy was a Welshman " sort of style. But Jan's
 
 240 JAN 
 
 face had turned white then flushed to the leaden 
 colour of an ugly bruise and in a rasping voice 
 she had told him what she thought of him and the 
 people like him. Even now she didn't like to 
 think of what she had said that day, and good 
 luck she couldn't remember it all. Ronnie had 
 been as furious as she had but neither could keep 
 up a quarrel which separated them. They couldn't 
 get on without each other. 
 
 The clock struck the quarter, and Jan sprang 
 out of bed, and flung open the window. Then she 
 dressed quickly, because she was going to meet 
 Ronnie for a walk before breakfast, and they had 
 arranged to be at the church at a quarter to eight 
 and he didn't care to be kept waiting. 
 
 She slipped into her bag some chocolate and 
 biscuits and opening the door quietly, crept 
 along the corridor and downstairs, with a delight- 
 ful air of conspiracy. 
 
 The morning walk had been arranged, because 
 people in the hotel were beginning to talk. They 
 looked, or looked away, or sniffed, according to 
 their interest or lack of breeding; and, to be just to 
 them, Jan did give them a topic of conversation. 
 She flaunted Ronnie and herself in front of them 
 with a proud disregard of the conventions that she 
 could not resist. And even Miss Blakeborough 
 was getting fidgety. 
 
 Jan hurried along: she didn't care what these 
 people thought or said. Thank goodness! she
 
 JAN 241 
 
 was free and could do as she liked. Of course, 
 with John 
 
 Somehow John had an inconvenient way of 
 cropping up in her thoughts just now, perhaps 
 because he was the antithesis of Ronnie in every 
 way, even down or up to keeping his hands clean. 
 
 Jan sat on the wall by the church and waited. 
 Ronnie was always late for appointments and this 
 morning was no exception. She stifled the 
 thought that in the old days it had been John who 
 waited, John who arranged so that expeditions 
 were made in comfort, John who fetched and car- 
 ried, who remembered everything; and Jan who 
 sailed in at the last minute and accepted all the 
 good things as her due. 
 
 Jan looked at her watch, impatiently. Ten 
 past eight now. If Ronnie did not come soon, 
 they would have no time at all, because they must 
 be back for breakfast at nine-thirty. The thought 
 of food reminded her of the biscuits. She opened 
 the bag and was dividing them into two piles 
 when Ronnie appeared, looking as though he had 
 slept in his clothes or had not had time to wash. 
 
 "Sorry I'm late I hardly slept at all,'* and 
 Ronnie yawned with a fine display of teeth discol- 
 oured by smoking. 
 
 He said the same thing every morning, and Jan 
 allowed herself the privilege of doubting his ve- 
 racity. 
 
 "I brought some biscuits there are yours."
 
 JAN 
 
 "Ta." Ronnie stretched out his hand and took 
 a couple. His nails did need to be cleaned, and his 
 first and second fingers were yellow with cigarette 
 juice. 
 
 "Isn't it grand ! " He waved an arm to compre- 
 hend the view and knocked down a biscuit. Jan 
 picked it up and fought down the feeling of irra- 
 tional annoyance which Ronnie often aroused in 
 her. 
 
 "Yes, it's pretty good," she admitted, slowly. 
 
 "And think of all those fools lying down there in 
 bed their minds blank their heads solid ivory 
 from the teeth upward their outlooks narrow as 
 the grave." 
 
 Jan shifted. "Miss Blakeborough's there, and 
 she's not anything like what you've said, and I 
 can't think why you always want to run people 
 down. Leave them alone. They don 't interfere 
 with you." 
 
 Ronnie took one of Jan's biscuits. "I hate 
 them and all they stand for." 
 
 "That's my biscuit," Jan interrupted. 
 
 "Communism share and share alike yours 
 is mine," he murmured. 
 
 "Then yours is mine and I'm hungry. So we 
 might as well keep our own. I divided equally 
 I hate messing food." 
 
 "You're always the same," he grumbled. 
 "Your mind is fettered by tiny bonds. You're a 
 Philistine, my dear girl. I thank my God I'm free."
 
 JAN 243 
 
 "But are you? I'm not so sure," she said, 
 angrily. 
 
 Ronnie turned on her, fiercely. "I can go 
 straight ahead to the goal of Freedom. I am un- 
 hampered by convention, and as-dry-as-dust 
 principles. I have thrown aside the empty creeds 
 and foolish beliefs which weigh you down. I go 
 forward with faith into the light to the dawn of 
 the new era to the glorious day." He turned to 
 her, his face distorted with temper, challenging 
 her. 
 
 "All the same I'm not sure," Jan answered sul- 
 lenly. "It's mostly words you don't do things, 
 you talk." 
 
 "Jan!" His voice was so reproachful it might 
 have been Aunt Annie speaking. He was really 
 angry now, his eyes were flashing with something 
 like passion, and his sallow face was flushed. Jan 
 had never seen him so good-looking. 
 
 "Do you know, Ronnie, it suits you most 
 awfully well to look like that. Do keep it up," 
 and she chuckled. It was nothing more than an 
 amused schoolgirl giggle. 
 
 Ronnie slipped down from the wall, tearing the 
 left sleeve of his coat as he did so. 
 
 "I'm mistaken in you," he cried in a hoarse, 
 
 cracked voice. "I thought I thought- " He 
 
 broke off. "Nothing will be served by fruitless 
 discussion. I go. Good-bye." 
 
 "Does he know there's a crumb on his chin?"
 
 244 JAN 
 
 thought Jan, but she didn't risk telling him. " I'm 
 sorry you're so angry," she said, demurely, "but 
 good-bye." 
 
 Ronnie gazed at her in amazed silence for a 
 second or two, looking like a third-rate touring 
 company hero saying "Farewell!" Then he came 
 toward her. 
 
 "Jan," he cried, "I can't live without you. 
 You torment me day and night" (he yawned in 
 proof) "Jan, I do want you." 
 
 Jan was silent: of course she had known he 
 wouldn't go. He was always saying good-bye 
 and coming back again. But suppose he really did 
 go would she mind? Of course she would; 
 she only played with him because she was so sure 
 of him; she forgot that probably he, too, was sure of 
 her. 
 
 "Jan!" he cried again, "you're very cold and I 
 love you, darling, more than all the world ever- 
 more, Jan." 
 
 When John proposed to her, he had held out the 
 ring, and stammered: "Anything doing, darling?" 
 He hadn't mentioned love, taking for granted that 
 Jan knew. Ronnie left nothing to the imagina- 
 tion. When Jan did not speak, he stood before 
 her pouring out impassioned pleas, and ended by 
 falling on his knees and kissing her shoe. Some 
 of the black polish came off on to his mouth. 
 
 But Jan was first moved and finally carried 
 away. She had a sense of power at the sight of a
 
 JAN 245 
 
 man abject before her. The sunshine and colour 
 and the stately snow-capped mountains in the 
 far distance rearing their heads on high till they 
 reached the clouds, all contributed their quota to 
 the romance of the situation. 
 
 Jan jumped off the wall, and laid a hand on 
 Ronnie's shoulder. 
 
 "All right, little man," she said, very gently, 
 "don't worry. I'll marry you." 
 
 Ronnie leapt to his feet and flung his arms round 
 her. He did his love-making so well that a 
 biassed observer, such as John, for instance, might 
 have said he had rehearsed it until he was action 
 perfect. 
 
 Then he led her to the wall again, and they sat 
 wrapt in discussion and forgetting the time. 
 
 Ronnie had his work cut out before him. He 
 managed to convey to Jan, at last, that though he 
 loved her to distraction desperation nay, even 
 to despair he did not want to marry her. He 
 did not believe in marriage it was a degrading 
 custom a desecration by the State of the highest 
 and holiest and the ring a symbol of the woman's 
 servitude. But he loved her he rather harped 
 on this point yes, he loved her more than ever 
 man loved a woman he was hers to the death 
 aye, and beyond. 
 
 Couldn't she, wouldn't she trust him? Their 
 union would be one of perfect happiness, unsul- 
 lied by the sordid hand of law; then: love would be
 
 246 JAN 
 
 free; they together side by side would strike a 
 blow for the glorious liberty of thought and action. 
 
 The prospect was alluring; the freedom, the 
 liberty, the lust for destruction of law fired her 
 imagination. They wouldn't be like other people; 
 what they were doing was for an example. So- 
 ciety would receive them; and if Society didn't, 
 then Jan would be a splendid martyr, a type of 
 wonderful womanhood an apostle of liberty. 
 
 "Will you come away with me, Jan?" he asked 
 for the dozenth time. 
 
 After long discussion, she fenced with a 
 "When?" 
 
 "To-day we'll seize the horns of opportunity 
 we'll fly together on the wings of poetry," Ronnie 
 answered 
 
 "Let's talk sense," Jan said, soberly. 
 
 Ronnie came to earth; it appeared he had 
 planned everything. 
 
 "The 1:20 tram," he said. "Leave it all to 
 me." 
 
 "I'd rather know," Jan said. 
 
 Ronnie had missed trains before now, but she 
 didn't remind him. 
 
 "It's a single-line railway, and the train comes 
 in at one and leaves 1:20. You catch that, and 
 bring as little luggage as possible so as not to 
 attract attention, and I'll join you at the first sta- 
 tion down the line." 
 
 A shadow crossed Jan's face. ""Ronnie," she
 
 JAN 247 
 
 demanded, "if you're not ashamed of what we are 
 doing, and I'm not if I come, why all this secrecy? 
 Let's go off bravely together." 
 
 Besides, though Jan didn't say it, if Ronnie 
 missed the train, and she ran away alone, she'd 
 look such an awful fool. 
 
 "It is better that we go quietly," Ronnie an- 
 swered. "There would be trouble if we told peo- 
 ple they would try to stop us; they would seek 
 to persuade you. Come, darling, and to-morrow 
 we'll tell the world our magnificent secret. Come." 
 
 He bent toward her, his burning, mesmeric eyes 
 fixed on her face. 
 
 "I'll come," said Jan. "Oh, goodness! It's 
 half-past nine now, we must fly." 
 
 But the church was the best part of half-an- 
 hour's walk, and Ronnie was flabby. 
 
 "Till this afternoon," he whispered, pantingly, 
 as he pressed her hand in the hall, "and then " 
 
 The dining-room door opened and Miss Blake- 
 borough came out. 
 
 "Jan," she said, slipping her hand through the 
 girl's arm, "I have ordered breakfast for you in 
 your room." 
 
 Jan allowed herself to be led away. Miss 
 Blakeborough's quietness didn't deceive her. The 
 Head was angry, with a fierce white anger, and 
 Jan was in for it. 
 
 She followed Jan into the room and taking the 
 tray from the waiter, closed the door. The sight
 
 248 JAN 
 
 of Jan's sullen set face made her change her tactics. 
 
 "Eat your breakfast, old girl," she began. 
 
 "Why here?" demanded Jan. "Why not in 
 the dining-room, as usual?" 
 
 "Because, if you want the truth, I dislike your 
 making yourself conspicuous with Mr. Waring. 
 A hotel is a hotbed of scandal, and rightly or 
 wrongly one has to consider public opinion ! " 
 
 "Why?" Jan shot out her question with in- 
 solent calm. 
 
 "There's no use in discussing the whys and 
 wherefores of convention, and I for one don't care 
 to do it with you. But while you are under my 
 care, I don't wish you to behave so so absurdly. 
 See Mr. Waring, by all means, if you want to 
 openly and above board but don't steal out for 
 early-morning walks and moonlight rambles. It 
 isn't done, dear, honestly not!" 
 
 "There is such a thing as opportunity," flashed 
 Jan, and half-regretted the insult a minute later. 
 
 "Quite so," Miss Blakeborough agreed. "But 
 there's a difference between taking and making 
 it. Do be reasonable, Jan, dear." 
 
 "I must be free to do as I like," Jan answered. 
 "You want to hamper me at every turn. I want 
 to go my own way." 
 
 "But that's impossible!" The Head could 
 feel her temper rising. "At present you are under 
 my care, and I am responsible for you, and unless 
 you can undertake to do as I wish, I propose to go
 
 JAN 249 
 
 straight home, and hand you over to your guard- 
 ian." 
 
 Jan laughed a mirthless, melodramatic laugh! 
 The Head could go home when she liked but 
 Jan wouldn't go with her; she'd be free free. 
 She felt a little superior pity for the Head, whose 
 life had been spent within the narrow confines of 
 respectable convention. 
 
 "Will you give me that undertaking, Jan?" 
 The Head was pale, but two patches of colour 
 glowed on either cheek. 
 
 "No," drawled Jan, "I won't That's a fact 
 for you." 
 
 The Head moved to the door. "Then you'll 
 stay here, and we leave to-morrow." A moment 
 later Jan heard the key turn in the lock. 
 
 She flew to the door and shook it, and in a child- 
 ish passion, kicked the panels. 
 
 "Beast!" she panted "beast; I will get out." 
 
 Miss Blakeborough went slowly downstairs 
 and gave Jan's key in at the office. 
 
 John would be here to-morrow, thank goodness! 
 He'd come at once when he got her telegram. 
 
 Was she really, as Jan hinted, a sour-tempered 
 elderly spoil-sport? She wanted Jan to have all 
 the freedom possible, to enjoy every moment of 
 life, but she daren't allow the girl to become the 
 talk of the place. Somehow rumours hung round 
 Wiring's name, and there was nothing definite 
 hints, surprised looks, and raised eyebrows.
 
 250 JAN 
 
 Men didn't like him, Miss Blakeborough noticed. 
 They called him a "bounder" and an "outsider." 
 There had been trouble about a bill, some 
 trifling unpleasantness about cards; nothing only 
 enough to make Miss Blakeborough anxious. 
 
 In the hall she met Ronald face to face. 
 
 "Is Jan about anywhere, Miss Blakeborough?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Jan is in her room. She doesn't feel disposed 
 to go out again to-day," the Head answered, frig- 
 idly. "I don't approve of early-morning meet- 
 ings, Mr. Waring. I'll be quite frank with you. 
 I like everything above board." 
 
 Ronnie's air of penitence was excellent. "I'm 
 so sorry, Miss Blakeborough, but Jan does love a 
 walk." 
 
 The Head took no trouble to hide her contempt 
 and moved away. 
 
 "Cad!" she said, fiercely, under her breath. 
 "Oh, I wish we were going to-day." 
 
 Now Ronnie was no fool, and Jan's "indisposi- 
 tion" did not hold water, so when Miss Blakebor- 
 ough had passed through the door on to the 
 terrace, Ronnie sauntered up to the office. 
 
 "May I have my key, please?" he asked with 
 his special lady-killer smile. The young lady clerk 
 was listening to the telephone and merely smiled 
 and nodded. 
 
 "I'll take it," said Ronnie, and, with great skill, 
 took Jan's as well just to be sure.
 
 JAN 251 
 
 "Thanks awfully," he said, "you're always good 
 to me, aren't you?" 
 
 The lady clerk smiled. 
 
 "Very well, sir," she shouted down the 'phone 
 "a room to-night. Name, sir? Owen thank 
 you." 
 
 Ronnie's eyes glittered with malicious glee. 
 Owen! perhaps it was one of Jan's crowd; per- 
 haps oh, joy! it was the precious cousin and 
 he'd come to-night the train got in at 6 o'clock ' 
 and he'd find the bird flown. 
 
 Ronnie smuggled the key to Jan, who received 
 it with a staccato yelp of pleasure. The only 
 aim in her mind now was to baulk Miss Blake- 
 borough. Ronnie and his love and the fight 
 for freedom had faded. The Head, gazing at the 
 empty room, was the one picture Jan could see; 
 and, sometimes, in spite of her furious temper, that 
 picture was dimmed by a mist of tears. 
 
 "You won't fail?" whispered Ronnie. He had 
 pushed the key under the door. 
 
 "No fear," was Jan's answer. 
 
 The morning flew by, while Jan tramped the 
 bedroom to and fro. It had been so easy to 
 say "yes" on the mountain-side with Ronnie close 
 by her: it was so difficult to go forward alone, even 
 to that future of liberty and freedom. She wished 
 there was someone in the secret Sarah or John 
 had been her confidant in previous escapades. 
 But perhaps they wouldn't understand now.
 
 252 JAN 
 
 Twelve; a quarter past; half past; a quarter to 
 one. The chimes of the clock sounded like blows 
 on an anvil each blow sealing her down. 
 
 "Now or never," Jan deliberated. 
 
 "Now," she decided, and thrusting her purse 
 into her pocket and one or two photographs into her 
 handbag, she opened the door and stepped into 
 the corridor, slipped down a back staircase, and 
 the next minute was running along the road to the 
 station at full speed. 
 
 She took a ticket to the next station only- 
 after that, Ronnie must decide she was in his 
 care, then forever. 
 
 She was so engrossed in her own thoughts, so 
 nervous and abstracted, that she failed to notice a 
 tall man who had stepped off the train and was 
 watching her with curious intentness. 
 
 "God!" said John Owen, stepping back against 
 the wall, "she's not surely she's not 
 
 He did not formulate his fears; he knew at once, 
 as well as if he'd been a party to the arrangement, 
 where Jan was going. 
 
 There was a furtiveness about her a look on 
 her face which was unmistakable. That and the 
 figure he had seen on the platform a station or 
 two down the line a long-haired, untidy, loose- 
 boned man gave John his clue. 
 
 Jan hurried the length of the train and had just 
 settled down in the far corner away from the 
 platform when John sauntered up.
 
 JAN 253 
 
 " Hallo ! " he cried. " I thought it was you." 
 
 Jan did not faint nor go into hysterics, but she 
 would have liked to have done both. It would 
 have been an easy way out. 
 
 "Hallo!" she answered; "this is a surprise I'* 
 
 "Where are you off to? I can't have you 
 running away like this my first day." John 
 thought if he could stop her going to-day they 
 would be able to fix up something^to-morrow. 
 
 But the time was so short, it was one-fifteen 
 now. 
 
 "Sorry, John.*' Jan's voice wasn't steady. 
 "You ought to have let me know you were com- 
 ing." 
 
 "And would that have made a difference?" he 
 asked. 
 
 Jan shook her head : they always understood one 
 another, these two. Old John knew all right 
 she saw that at a glance. 
 
 "No nothing could have made a difference," 
 she answered. 
 
 "Jan, come out at once, darling. Don't you 
 see don't you realize what you're doing? It's 
 irrevocable Jan, he's not worth it." 
 
 The whistle blew. 
 
 "No," said Jan. 
 
 "Jan," he urged," come out come out." 
 
 " Good-bye," Jan cried. "Oh, John, good-bye," 
 but John's answer was to jump into the slowly 
 moving train and sit down opposite her.
 
 254 JAN 
 
 Jan knew then she was beaten; three people 
 cannot elope together; it's too absurd, and ridicule 
 can kill even romance. 
 
 Ronnie saw it, too, in a flash. He did not cut a 
 heroic figure at the sight of John, and when the 
 train left the station it bore Ronnie away alone. 
 Jan stayed behind with her cousin. 
 
 John's explanation to Miss Blakeborough was 
 incoherent, and Jan was not helpful. As far as 
 the Head could gather, John had fetched Jan to go 
 to the station to see Mr. Waring off and they'd then 
 taken a walk. * 
 
 Jan listened in silence while John talked at 
 dinner. He was very big and strong and clean, 
 and why hadn't Ronnie put up some sort of fight 
 for her if he loved her so? not if, but since he loved 
 her so! 
 
 That evening two things happened which Jan 
 never forgot. The first was that the proprietor 
 came to speak to them as they sat in the lounge. 
 
 "Did Mademoiselle know ze address of Mon- 
 sieur Waring? Monsieur 'ad gone but 'e 'ad not 
 settle 'is bill." 
 
 Jan tried hard to believe that it was forgetful- 
 ness and failed. At that minute a stout blonde 
 lady tapped John on the arm. "Introduce your 
 cousin to me," she said. 
 
 John stood up. "Jan," he said, "may I intro- 
 duce you to Mrs. Ronald Waring?" 
 
 Jan went to bed early but she did not sleep.
 
 JAN 255 
 
 If she had gone away with Ronnie, she would not 
 have been free, but hobbled all her life. Ronnie 
 had deceived her John had saved her; but though 
 she might in time pardon Ronnie, she could never 
 forgive John.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THANK you, Emily, that will do ; you needn't 
 wait. Oh, Emily," Mrs. Owen raised her 
 voice as the maid moved to the door, 
 "you've forgotten the water. Always pour out 
 the water before you go." 
 
 "Yes, mum." 
 
 "And take both hands to that jug. I've told 
 you time and again the handle is cracked. There, 
 thank you." 
 
 "Yes, mum." 
 
 Henry cut and recut his mutton into the small 
 dice which he trusted were most easily digested, 
 and ate in silence. 
 
 "I met Mrs. Griffiths downtown this morning," 
 his wife's voice ran on. "I popped into market 
 for a few minutes, and as I was coming out there 
 she was." 
 
 Henry made sufficient sound to enable Annie to 
 deduce that he was attending. 
 
 "Very big she is getting, poor thing. It must 
 be hard for her to go about now with that size. 
 And Willie's face is better and they are off to 
 Laugharne to-morrow. He's had a nasty boil on 
 his cheek." 
 
 256
 
 JAN 257 
 
 Henry pushed back his plate. He was squeam- 
 ish about food and Annie was exact in descrip- 
 tions of ailments. 
 
 "Doctor Harris lanced it " 
 
 Henry felt he must stop her. 
 
 "Jan is home again," he announced by way of 
 diversion. "I've seen her." 
 
 Willie's face was forgotten instantly, thank 
 goodness, while Mrs. Owen held her fork poised 
 half-way to her open mouth. 
 
 "Jan? Never, Henry! When did she come?" 
 
 "Yesterday!" 
 
 "Did you ask about John?" 
 
 If Henry had ever despised his wife, he would 
 have done so now, but instead he announced, 
 quite sharply for him: "Certainly not you 
 heard from John this morning. You know he 
 sailed yesterday. There's nothing more to know.** 
 
 "Yes, of course, dear only I thought per- 
 haps " Annie's tone was deprecating. 
 
 "He's so often talked about going back to Can- 
 ada, the only wonder is he hasn't done so before. 
 Shall I ring? " Henry dismissed the subject. 
 
 "Please, dear!" 
 
 While Emily removed the plates, Annie was busy 
 thinking how she could manage to run up to 
 Pentre that afternoon. She would ask if Mrs. 
 Jones could spare her a little more butter this 
 week, and it would be only right to see Jan. And 
 it was a curious thing, but somehow John did seem
 
 258 JAN 
 
 to think a lot of that girl, though, of course, 
 everything was over between them, and there 
 was nothing in it. Still John had been to Switzer- 
 land. Yes, and Emily was too busy, so she'd go 
 herself to Pentre. 
 
 "Why on earth ask that girl about John?" 
 thought Henry. "Of course, she knows if any one 
 does. I'm sick to death of roast mutton, and why 
 on earth can't Alice serve something besides rice? 
 If Jan's playing with John That board meet- 
 ing finishes before four." 
 
 "Rice, dear?" 
 
 "A little, please." 
 
 "I always think there's nothing like a nice rice 
 pudding." 
 
 "Nothing," agreed Henry, gravely, with inward 
 appreciation of the truthfulness of Lewis Carrol. 
 
 Henry's invariable habit was to read the paper 
 after lunch while Annie rested in her chair 
 "just forty winks, you know" and about three 
 o'clock he'd say: "Well, good-bye, now, I must 
 be going, Annie," and she'd open her eyes. 
 
 "Will you be in to tea at five, dear?" 
 
 But to-day Henry made his usual remark im- 
 mediately after lunch, and when Annie had 
 brushed him and seen him off, she went straight 
 upstairs and put on her outdoor things. 
 
 "Bring me that little basket, Emily. I'm going 
 up to see Mrs. Jones of Pentre, and if she can spare 
 me some butter "
 
 JAN 259 
 
 "She knows well enough Mrs. Jones won't give 
 'er more. It's Miss Owen she's after," said Emily 
 to Alice the cook. 
 
 "And they are telling that Miss Owen won't 
 look at Mr. John," Alice replied. 
 
 It was a hot afternoon and the roads were dusty. 
 Still Annie plodded on probably John had sent 
 some message by Jan, she told herself, knowing 
 it to be untrue, and she'd like to hear it before she 
 went to the Wells on Monday. All the really best 
 people waited till September, so it was such a good 
 thing that the rooms she and Henry always took 
 were engaged for August. And she wouldn't 
 tell Henry she had been here: it would be a pity 
 to vex him. 
 
 The half-wit Harold opened the door, and stood 
 staring at Mrs. Owen with a loose-hanging jaw. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Jones in?" Annie inquired in her best 
 Parade manner. 
 
 Harold retired round the door and his place was 
 taken by a stout farm girl who clattered in clogs 
 across the stone floor. 
 
 "Mrs. Jones," repeated Annie, "or Miss 
 Owen?" 
 
 The girl clattered back again. "Mis O-wen," 
 she called, "Miss O-wen you're wanted." Then 
 with a sudden remembrance of manners: "Will 
 you please to come in, mum?" 
 
 Annie sat in the spotless kitchen and admired 
 the old oak dresser with its abundance of willow-
 
 260 JAN 
 
 pattern and lustre, and a minute later Jan ap- 
 peared, her frock covered by a large white pina- 
 fore, her face very pale, with big hollows under her 
 eyes, and every inch of her alive and quivering. 
 
 "Hallo, Aunt Annie," she cried. "Of course 
 you've heard isn't it lovely?" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean, Jan," Annie 
 answered, soberly, though she was afraid; she 
 didn't approve of patched-up engagements, and 
 Jan was difficult. Still, she wanted John's hap- 
 piness 
 
 "Why, Sarah's baby, of course it's a girl 
 and it's to be called Sarah Jan at least I say so. 
 It had just come by the time I'd arrived. Wasn't 
 it too sweet of Sarah? If you like I'll run up and 
 Bee whether she may have visitors." 
 
 "Let her come up if she likes," said Sarah, wear- 
 ily. It was such a wonderful thing to have a 
 baby to be proud of that she had no wish to flaunt 
 her happiness. She wanted it all to herself, to 
 hug it to her in amazed delight. "But let her 
 come up if she wants to," she repeated. 
 
 "Sarah will be very pleased to see you," was 
 Jan's version, "only we mustn't stay long nor 
 tire her." 
 
 Mrs. Owen tiptoed into the room with more 
 noise than if she had walked ordinarily. 
 
 "Well, Sarah," she said, in a piercing whisper, 
 "this is a surprise." 
 
 Sarah smiled, "Please to sit down, Mrs.
 
 JAN 261 
 
 Owen," she said, and suddenly she was so proud. 
 Her voice trembled and her work-scarred fingers 
 drummed nervously on the patchwork counter- 
 pane. 
 
 Sarah Jan Jones had been born in holy wedlock 
 with Mrs. Hughes, now corpulent and having for- 
 gotten old scores, in attendance. If that wasn't 
 enough, Miss Jan had arrived home suddenly, 
 and had hardly let the baby out of her arms all 
 day; and then the Mayor's wife was the first visi- 
 tor. Annie was given her full status in Sarah's 
 mind for this occasion. Oh, Sarah Jan was all 
 right; she was starting fair. 
 
 "I'm in charge," said Jan, picking up the bun- 
 dle of clothes from beside Sarah. "Mrs. Hughes is 
 resting. Now, zen, Sarah Jan lovins look at me, 
 sweetness. Isn't she the image of me, Aunt Annie, 
 bless her." 
 
 The baby's eyes were closed, its little face red 
 and mottled, and there was a mouse-coloured down 
 on its tiny, soft head which Jan held against her 
 cheek. 
 
 "If she's as good as you, Miss Jan " began 
 
 Sarah. 
 
 "She'll be a hundred times better, the beauti- 
 fuls, won't you, Sarah Jan?" 
 
 "It's too soon to say yet," said Annie, "but I 
 hope- 
 Jan laid the baby down. "Sarah's tired," she 
 interrupted. "Mrs. Hughes will be back in a few
 
 262 JAN 
 
 minutes, I expect, so let's go downstairs and have 
 tea.'* 
 
 Aunt Annie said afterward that she had never 
 heard Jan talk so much before. All during tea 
 she chattered about Sarah and the baby and Miss 
 Blakeborough and Switzerland. "Oh, and John 
 came home with us. He is a rolling stone. An- 
 other cup, Aunt Annie, and a pancake? And the 
 first morning in London when I said to Miss Blake- 
 borough: 'I must say good-bye to John,' 'He's 
 gone/ she said: 'didn't you know? He's left for 
 Liverpool and sails for Canada to-morrow.' " 
 
 Jan's volubility should have put Aunt Annie 
 on her guard; the truthfulness of her statement 
 would not have deceived Henry, for instance. He 
 would have known that there was something un- 
 derneath it. 
 
 Yet it was true, as far as it went. All through 
 that long journey down to Basle, and thence to 
 Boulogne, Jan had sat still in the corner of the 
 carriage staring out in the darkness and think- 
 ing, thinking, thinking. She could see clearly now 
 the awful danger she had escaped. Ronnie had 
 played with her round the mouth of a bottomless 
 pit, and it wasn't her fault she wasn't engulfed. 
 The Head was angry, and bringing her home in dis- 
 grace, and John ought to say something. He 
 hadn't spoken a word to her all the way. Jan 
 hadn't given him the chance. The train tore 
 through the darkness and hour by hour the girl
 
 JAN 263 
 
 had sat pale and wide-eyed. What an awful 
 hash she had made! Other people didn't find 
 things so difficult. She had burnt her boats this 
 time; the Head would never forgive this. What 
 about those two watching her from "the other 
 side?" They'd be pretty sick; and why didn't 
 John speak to her? 
 
 Then someone touched her, and Jan turned to 
 find Miss Blakeborough standing beside her. 
 
 "Cheer up, darling," she whispered, sitting 
 down and putting an arm round Jan; "it will be 
 dawn soon." 
 
 "You've had heaps and millions of opportunities 
 with men," came in a muffled tone from Jan. She 
 was making reparation as best she could. 
 
 The Head smiled in the darkness; it was a typical 
 apology. 
 
 "Try and sleep now," she said, "lean against 
 me." 
 
 "I meant to go away with Ronnie," said Jan. 
 "Oh, how I hate John!" 
 
 The Head could feel Jan's tense body vibrating, 
 but she didn't speak. 
 
 "I'm so thankful!" went on Jan, "it would 
 have been awful I didn't know but John! 
 Oh, I do hate John!" 
 
 "You didn't hate John when he came to you in 
 trouble at school, when you were a little girl," 
 whispered the Head, "it's just the same now." 
 
 Jan shook her head.
 
 264 JAN 
 
 "John liked me then! No, It's all different 
 now," she persisted. 
 
 "Perhaps you are, but John's not. John 
 wouldn't change, whatever happened." 
 
 Jan pondered over this for the rest of the night, 
 one hand clasping Miss Blakeborough's. 
 
 If John had come in now it would have saved a 
 lot of trouble, but he was in a smoker, two doors 
 up, fast asleep. 
 
 About seven o'clock he woke and tiptoed along 
 the corridor. Miss Blakeborough was dozing 
 and Jan sat so still he thought she was sleeping. 
 Then the tram stopped and John leapt out for 
 some coffee, and because he was slow he got into 
 the back part of the tram, and found too late that 
 the front part only ran to Boulogne the back 
 part to Calais. He wired Miss Blakeborough to 
 Boulogne, but Jan, who had screwed up her cour- 
 age to determine to speak to him, thought he was 
 avoiding her. And then John's train had been 
 late, and when he did arrive in London, Jan was 
 in bed. 
 
 "Did she leave a message for me?" he asked 
 Miss Blakeborough the first thing. 
 
 "She's expecting to see you," the Head prevari- 
 cated. 
 
 John's face relaxed into a slow smile. "Not 
 much of a liar yet, are you? " he said. 
 
 He stood for a minute or two, thinking hard. 
 "I know," he said, suddenly, "there's a boat to-
 
 JAN 265 
 
 morrow please tell her I've gone. She knows 
 my address, and thanks most awfully." 
 
 Miss Blakeborough nearly wept with the pain 
 John's handshake gave her, and when he had gone, 
 she did weep, worn out with anxiety and relief. 
 And to crown it all, Jan appeared with huge, 
 moony eyes surrounded by deep shadows. "I 
 want to speak to John, please," and Miss Blake- 
 borough had to tell her John had gone. 
 
 So you see, Jan's account to her aunt was 
 strictly truthful, only abridged, and when Jan 
 came home, baulked and sore, and found a baby, 
 she made for it and poured out love as if it were 
 water. It is comforting to remember that every- 
 one has been a baby once, and that we have all had 
 our day in evoking quantities of very precious love. 
 
 "We're going away on Tuesday, but if you can 
 come down do," said Aunt Annie as she rose to 
 
 go- 
 
 "I won't leave Sarah, thank you, but I'll be 
 
 here when you come back. I don't go up to Cam- 
 bridge till October. Why, here's Uncle Henry." 
 
 Mr. Owen turned into the farmyard, and if he 
 was pleased to see his wife, his face belied him. 
 But he was astute Jan had to admit there were 
 no flies on Uncle Henry. 
 
 "I guessed you'd be here, Annie, to see the 
 baby." He'd met David Jones and heard of 
 Sarah Jan for the first time five minutes ago. 
 "So I thought I'd come and fetch you."
 
 266 JAN 
 
 "Hownice of you, dear/' Annie cooed, nervously. 
 "I'm just coming. Good-bye, Jan." 
 
 "Jan knows nothing of John," said Annie, when 
 they were out of earshot. " He never even told her 
 he was going." 
 
 "Umph!" grunted her husband. That con- 
 firmed his fears; so John was still waiting for 
 her. 
 
 Jan tried hard to live these days without think- 
 ing. She spent most of the time in Sarah's room, 
 nursing Sarah Jan as much as was allowed. She 
 used to sit for hours on a low chair in front of the 
 fire, with the babe lying across her lap, and it was 
 then that she came nearest to peace. But John 
 haunted her sleeping and awake. She found that 
 he was the standard by which she judged other 
 men, and although she didn't know it, no one came 
 up to his level. 
 
 She didn't want him, she told herself, but she 
 did want him to want her. And, anyhow, why 
 hadn't he spoken? If only 
 
 When the baby was three weeks old, Jan had 
 a surprise visit. Clare, Dick, Mona McEvoy, 
 and Willie Griffiths descended on her one morning 
 in a car and stayed to lunch. For when Clare 
 found she was following the wrong trail as far 
 as John was concerned, she wired for Mona 
 McEvoy and made eyes at Willie Griffiths. And 
 very sensible, too, for when milk is spilt the only 
 thing to do is to get some more.
 
 JAN 267 
 
 "Mr. Griffiths is teaching me Welsh," said 
 Clare, "only I'm so stupid, I'll never learn." 
 
 "/ think you're most awfully good at it," Willie 
 answered, smiling fatuously. 
 
 "Say something," said Jan. 
 
 Clare first demurred and then mouthed out a 
 string of unintelligible jargon. 
 
 "Jolly good, isn't it?" said Willie. 
 
 "Rather!" said Jan. "What's it meant to be?" 
 but only Dick and Mona saw the joke. 
 
 Mona's method of appreciation was to laugh 
 almost incessantly at everything that was said 
 to her. Dick's lightest words were treated as gems 
 of wit, and even Willie's efforts received all the 
 encouragement he could reasonably expect. 
 
 "They're not like this with me," thought Jan, 
 watching Clare pretend to be helpless, and listen- 
 ing to Mona's high giggle; "and the boys like 
 them all the more for it. What on earth would 
 John think of me?" (Tut, tut, my dear, he 
 doesn't think of you at all in fact, the number of 
 people who do ever think of you is very small !) 
 
 "For the second time, Jan," Clare said in a 
 clear, distinct voice, "will you come down next 
 week-end? It ought to be pretty good fun. Will 
 you still be there?" she asked, turning to Willie, 
 with elaborate carelessness. 
 
 "I will," announced Willie, like a man at the 
 wedding service. 
 
 "Rather, thanks awfully," said Jan. "I'd like
 
 268 JAN 
 
 to Sarah will be all right by then. Oh, would 
 you like to see Sarah Jan?" 
 
 No one was enthusiastic except Jan herself, but 
 she fetched the baby, and showed it off proudly. 
 
 "Isn't it too lovely?" she asked. "Aren't you 
 too beautiful my wee?" 
 
 Dick and Willie were openly bored, Clare and 
 Mona secretly so, because Jan seemed to forget 
 them and talked baby nonsense, and the child 
 wasn't even awake. But Jan had to have some- 
 one to love, and these four paired off so comfort- 
 ably without her. 
 
 "You can't ever bet on Jan," was Dick's verdict 
 on the way back to Laugharne. "I'd have sworn 
 she wouldn't have touched a kid with a barge-pole 
 and there she was soppy." 
 
 Willie stood up for her. " She's always been like 
 that only with dogs before. She'd talk by the hour 
 to an old poodle, Dio, they had down at the ' Plas.' " 
 
 Clare had no intention of listening to Willie 
 talk on any subject but herself, and at this point 
 she claimed his attention and Dick devoted his 
 to Mona, so everybody was happy. 
 
 That night Mrs. Hughes left and David Jones 
 came home drunk for the first time for years. He 
 wasn't violent, only stupid, and Jan tried to pre- 
 tend not to notice. But it was a bitter humilia- 
 tion for Sarah, and the next morning she was very 
 poorly, though Jan couldn't persuade her to stay 
 in bed.
 
 JAN 269 
 
 "If you're not better, Sarah'* Jan was nursing 
 the baby by the fire "I shan't go to-morrow, so 
 make up your mind to it." 
 
 Sarah looked at her for a minute. 
 
 "Miss Jan," she said hi a voice that went up 
 and down, "come here close to me girl fach. 
 You must go. I'll get him straight again by 
 myself. I can't bear you should see him like that 
 and the baby tell me you'll go." 
 
 "I'll go," Jan promised. 
 
 But she didn't, after all, because that evening 
 Sarah Jan was restless and hot, and Sarah became 
 frightened when no soothing could hush the little 
 wail. 
 
 "I'll fetch Doctor Harris," said Jan. 
 
 "It's raining," said Sarah, "and Davy's not 
 back yet." 
 
 "I'll go," said Jan; "I'll take the bicycle I 
 won't be long. Don't be frightened, Sarah, she'll 
 be all right. Babies are often ill." 
 
 When Doctor Harris arrived the baby was ly- 
 ing still and Sarah made a motion to hurry him, 
 and fainted. 
 
 Jan sprang forward and snatched the child, and 
 Doctor Harris laid Sarah on the couch. 
 
 But when he came to look, Sarah Jan's little life 
 had flickered out, and she lay in Jan's arms with 
 the wonderful dignity which belongs to death. 
 
 Sarah read it in their faces as soon as she opened 
 her eyes.
 
 270 JAN 
 
 "She's gone," she said, but there was no ques- 
 tion in her tone only assertion. 
 
 "Sarah, dear!" Affection was the only sym- 
 pathy Jan dared to give. "Dear, dear Sarah." 
 
 "It made me very happy," Sarah mused; "it's 
 a grand thing to be married and to be a mother. 
 Give her to me, Miss Jan." 
 
 The tears ran down Jan's cheeks as she handed 
 the tiny still form to its mother, but Sarah's eyes 
 were bright and dry. 
 
 "I'd have made things here all right again 
 before she grew to notice, wouldn't I, Miss Jan?" 
 she cried, suddenly. 
 
 Jan heard the door open and uneven footsteps 
 cross the kitchen floor and she knew of what Sarah 
 was thinking. 
 
 "Of course you would, Sarah quite, quite 
 right. You're wonderful, dear, you always have 
 been wonderful." 
 
 Then Sarah broke down. "Oh, Miss Jan," she 
 sobbed, "I couldn't bear it alone; I'm so glad 
 you're free to be with me." 
 
 Jan's prayers that night were short but pithy. 
 "Thank God I'm free," she said over and over 
 again. 
 
 Then she rose from her knees, and, opening a 
 drawer, took out an old photograph. 
 
 "And thank you, John," she said, bowing a 
 belated acknowledgment to her cousin's smiling 
 eyes.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 IT WAS Jan's twenty-first birthday and a fine 
 morning in November, and she snuggled down 
 into the pillows, listening to the footsteps in the 
 next room with the exquisite pleasure of knowing 
 that she needn't get up yet. 
 
 She had come down from Girton in June, with a 
 poor second in the Classical Tripos to her credit, 
 and now she was sharing a flat in town Camden 
 Town incidentally with Clare Goody er and Mona. 
 
 Mona was teaching in a L.C.C. Secondary 
 School, hence the noise in the next room, for the 
 young idea shoots early in the day. Clare was 
 attending a Domestic Economy Course at King's 
 College, for no very definite reason except to live 
 hi London, and Jan was working in a government 
 office because she didn't know what to do while she 
 waited. She would have been put to it to explain 
 what she was waiting for, and would have been 
 angry at the question, and trailed the red herring 
 of "duty to the country" across the path. 
 
 The advertisement had said, "Women Clerks 
 urgently required for Government Departments," 
 and Jan had applied and been interviewed by a 
 man who looked at her, and by a woman who 
 
 271
 
 272 JAN 
 
 asked questions and talked of a "narrow path to 
 hoe." She explained that she meant the mo- 
 notony of the work, and when Jan had been in the 
 office a short time she agreed with her, only she 
 thought the description euphemistic. 
 
 She was impressed the first morning because Mr. 
 Perks, the head of the room, said he was glad she 
 had come and she would be a great asset, and 
 they were up to their eyes in work, and perhaps 
 she would like to come back about two o'clock 
 and by that time he'd have found her something 
 to do. 
 
 He drifted in from lunch soon after three, and 
 seemed surprised to see her, and told off the boy 
 clerk, Simmons, to show her how to make out a 
 tender form. So Simmons came and leant over 
 her, and talked in the best Civil Service lingo, and 
 he had had onions for his lunch. Oh, yes, the path 
 of duty is very hard, even at 3 a week. 
 
 Jan did very little for the first month and then 
 the work began to pour in. It stood about in 
 high piles on all the tables, on the floor there 
 were dockets everywhere and Jan worked for 
 all she was worth and found out the rules of the 
 Service: 
 
 (1) Take no responsibility, 
 
 (2) Shift blame, 
 
 (3) Accept good work in silence, and blame 
 bad. 
 
 It took her some time to master the intricacies
 
 JAN 273 
 
 of staff. The head of the room she knew, he was 
 Mr. Perks but there was a head of the branch, a 
 Mr. Fisher, and then a superintending clerk over 
 two branches, and above that an assistant director, 
 Mr. Protheroe. But he wasn't a proper assistant- 
 director, only acting, and a deputy director could 
 turn his decisions down any day. 
 
 In the dim distance loomed a director with so 
 many thousands a year private income that he 
 served his country for love and had a secretary 
 to sign his checks and rang for an assistant secre- 
 tary to ring for a messenger to mend the fire. 
 
 And of clerks, temporary and assistant and 
 second-class, and examiners and junior contract 
 officers there was no end. 
 
 They were all men living on the edge of enough, 
 but never getting inside. 
 
 An unexpected doctor's bill worried them, a 
 holiday had to be schemed for if taken; they had a 
 leaning toward alpaca coats for office wear, and 
 nearly all had a grievance. 
 
 It would have been dull enough for Jan if she 
 hadn't been interested in mankind, and a good 
 listener. And the man has yet to be born who 
 can resist the temptation of talking about himself. 
 Bowerman, the typist, told her about his baby, 
 and how his wife had had to be sent away for a 
 time to a nursing home, and how difficult it was 
 to pay the fees and find someone to look after the 
 boy on 4 a week. Simmons, the boy clerk,
 
 274 JAN 
 
 turned the telephone upside down so that Jan 
 could reach it, though the others had to stand with 
 their knees bent to speak into it, and put a small 
 radiator on to her desk "to 'eat the place where 
 your 'ands will be,*' he explained. 
 
 That was in exchange for a good half hour when 
 they should have been working, but Simmons 
 spent it in demonstrating a new mouse-trap he had 
 devised with a spring which, according to him, 
 made death positively pleasant for the mouse. 
 
 Perks found her interested and sympathetic 
 about his costing schemes and his belief that every 
 clerk who saved the Government more than a 
 certain amount ought to have a percentage of what 
 was saved, and she would listen while he dilated 
 on what a dirty little skunk Protheroe could be. 
 A lad in the corner, "a perfect little lady, " borrowed 
 books from her and lost them, and a man in the 
 next department showed her a letter from his 
 girl, who broke off relations Mondays and Thurs- 
 days, but made it up again in between times. 
 
 "Are you awake, Jan, and many happy returns 
 of the day." Mona stuck her head round the 
 door. 
 
 "Thanks of course I'm awake with you and 
 Clare stampeding like elephants about the place. 
 What's the time?" 
 
 "Nearly eight; I must fly. I'll be home early; 
 it's my free afternoon. "
 
 JAN 275 
 
 "Cheerio I'm getting a half day, too. Ob, 
 bring me up my letters there's a saint!" 
 
 There were the usual greetings from Aunt 
 Annie; a tiny compressed note from Sarah to her 
 dear Miss Jan, and a letter from Miss Blake- 
 borough inviting her to the flat for Christmas. 
 There was a card from Willie Griffiths saying he 
 was in town and might he call, and during break- 
 fast a telegram from Dick Goodyer and that was 
 all. 
 
 " Damn ! " said Jan ; and by the way she slammed 
 about no one could have known that she had 
 reached the age of freedom and independence, and 
 had received kindly congratulations from friends, 
 though some relations had been silent. 
 
 She stopped on the way to buy a cake for office 
 tea, and arrived ten minutes late to find both Mr. 
 Protheroe and Mr. Fisher in the room, and Perks 
 turning over the books in a fury. 
 
 "Ah!" said Mr. Protheroe, "here is Miss Owen 
 at last." 
 
 He lived in Essex, and the only available train 
 landed him at Charing Cross by nine-thirty, so he 
 was a stickler for punctuality, and that suited 
 Perks, whose baby couldn't sleep after six o'clock. 
 It was the one point they had in common. 
 
 "1072 A, Miss Owen Circuit Breakers," rapped 
 out Perks. "What did we pay last time and who 
 got the contract? I can find no entry." 
 
 "I know I entered it," Jan said.
 
 276 JAN 
 
 "It's not there," said Mr. Protheroe. "I've 
 looked myself." 
 
 Mr. Fisher gazed in abstracted silence at the fire. 
 Curse women, privatim and seriatim ! His branch 
 was always making mistakes and Protheroe was 
 the very devil. 
 
 "May I see?" said Jan, taking the index from 
 Perks' hand. 
 
 It was opened at "B"- Breakers; and there 
 was no entry. Jan turned the pages quickly to 
 "C" Circuit Breakers; there it was: "1072A- 
 Willard & Dabbs 6.10.0 each for 1,000: deliv- 
 ery to commence in three months and continue at 
 rate of 75 per week the contract to be com- 
 pleted by- 
 
 "Here, sir," said Perks. 
 
 Mr. Protheroe looked at the entry. He was a 
 little man with glasses on the tip of his nose and a 
 nanny-goat beard which he was always pulling 
 with one hand. He suffered from nerves, and 
 his department suffered with him. He was fond of 
 saying, "I hope I am broad-minded enough," 
 to do this or that, and no one cared to contradict 
 him because they did all hope that his petty, shal- 
 low little policies would one day grow broader, 
 and until then it was useless to say anything. 
 
 "This is very bad, Miss Owen," he announced; 
 "an entirely wrong entry." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Jan, "they did get that contract. 
 I remember Mr. Dabbs came up I saw him."
 
 JAN 277 
 
 She remembered quite well, because Mr. Dabbs 
 had made a mistake and called her a "devilish 
 pretty girl "and asked her out with him. Jan re- 
 membered quite well what she had said to him and 
 so did Mr. Dabbs. 
 
 "I am quite aware of that, Miss Owen" the 
 little man's tone was pompous "it is the entry 
 that is wrong it should be under B Breakers 
 not C. Are all your books in this digraceful 
 muddle, Perks?" 
 
 Last week had been a rush and Perks hadn't 
 got home till ten any night, and Mr. Protheroe 
 knew it, but that was the only allusion he made 
 to it. 
 
 "If you can't look after your branch, Fisher, 
 it's not much good your having one"; he turned to 
 the unoffending Mr. Fisher, and then passed out, 
 leaving two men with a lower vitality for their 
 day's work. 
 
 "Once mix up Mr. Protheroe with a toad and 
 you'd never separate them," was Jan's contribu- 
 tion. "But don't mind him," she cried, turning 
 on the two men, "you know it was my mistake, 
 nothing to do with either of you though I'm 
 ever so sorry, but how could I know?" 
 
 Mr. Fisher laughed and Perks said : "Never mind 
 you can't learn everything in three months," 
 but both knew that on Mr. Protheroe's recom- 
 mendation depended their chances of promotion, 
 and that "the disgraceful muddle in the books"
 
 278 JAN 
 
 would remain in his memory like an unloved 
 guest. 
 
 Perks explained the books and the situation to 
 her during the morning. 
 
 "You've got to keep on the right side of old 
 Protheroe," he said; "he's not bad sometimes." 
 
 "I think he's appalling," said Jan, "he's not 
 fit to be hi charge of men. He saps all their 
 strength and cheerfulness. He's a dreadful little 
 person." 
 
 "Wait till you've been here sixteen years,'* 
 yawned Perks, "and then see what you think of it." 
 
 Jan looked at him curiously. "You don't 
 really mean that, do you? You haven't spent six- 
 teen long years of your precious life here?" The 
 last word was a condemnation, and Perks stood 
 up for his calling. 
 
 "It's not 50 bad sometimes," he said. 
 
 "I don't know how you can stand it. I simply 
 couldn't put up with Mr. Protheroe." 
 
 "Oh, yes, you could," he corrected her, "if you 
 were in my shoes. I'm thirty-six and I'm married, 
 with two children, and the girl's beginning school 
 next term, and they've both just got over measles, 
 and I want to get 'em away this summer. A man's 
 not free to throw up his work not if he's mar- 
 ried. He's got to consider other people dependent 
 on him, see?" 
 
 "Yes," Jan answered, slowly, "but Mr. Proth- 
 eroe's so so insulting."
 
 JAN 279 
 
 "Of course he is; but this morning was nothing 
 to what he can be. Good Lord! it's part of the 
 game for an 800-a-year man to curse the man who 
 gets 400." 
 
 "I don't know," said Jan, slowly; "it isn't very 
 nice." 
 
 "Nice!" he almost shouted at her. "Really, 
 it's damnable! Look around you in any tube or 
 train any evening of the week, in any A.B.C. or 
 Lyons any day, and you'll see scores of men 
 hundreds of 'em all in the same boat. They're 
 dependent for their living on someone above them, 
 and they've got to dance to his piping or not at all. 
 They're not beastly aristocrats like the miners and 
 railwaymen, they daren't strike. They can't 
 afford it. They mug along somehow God knows 
 how taking good and bad, only a sight more bad 
 than good." 
 
 Perks wiped his face: he hadn't been so emphatic 
 for years. 
 
 "It seems to me it's bad for one's immortal soul 
 to put up with unjustified rudeness." Jan spoke 
 from the youthful security of 300 a year of her 
 own. 
 
 "It's worse for the mortal body not to," he as- 
 sured her. "Pride is a very expensive thing; 
 I can't afford it." 
 
 Jan turned to her work, but her mind wandered. 
 Of course pride was expensive. She had learnt 
 that during the last two years when she had wanted
 
 280 JAN 
 
 a dozen times to write to John and tell him things 
 and hadn't done so. Why didn't John come home 
 or at least write to her? It was so unthinkable 
 that she should write to him first. He would have 
 liked that speech she made at Girton on the Dis- 
 establishment of the Church of England in Eng- 
 land as well as Wales. If she had let him know, 
 he would have written to Sarah about Sarah Jan. 
 As a matter of fact he did, because Sarah told him 
 in her weekly letter about Jan, only Jan never knew 
 that Sarah wrote. But when Jan earned 25/- 
 for writing an advertisement on Bath Salts, she 
 did write a long letter to John, only she tore it up. 
 
 He had missed a lot, she reflected, but since 
 there are always two halves to a dozen so had she. 
 "It's yours for the asking, but by God you'll have 
 to ask," he'd said. Then he could keep his 
 ring. 
 
 The telephone bell rang, and Jan answered it, 
 was assured by the exchange that they were sorry 
 she had been troubled, and got back to her seat 
 as it rang again. 
 
 This time a muffled voice asked for Miss 
 Owen. 
 
 "Speaking," said Jan. 
 
 "Oh, hallo, Jan!" went on the voice, "it's 
 Willie Griffiths this end." 
 
 "Hallo, Willie when did you come up? Don't 
 tell me it's business, because I shan't believe you." 
 
 "Shall I say I came up for your birthday?
 
 JAN 281 
 
 What about lunch? May I come and fetch 
 you?" 
 
 "Rather! One o'clock in the main entrance. 
 Cheerio." 
 
 She hung up the receiver and turned to find 
 Perks's eyes fixed upon her. 
 
 "It's my birthday," she said. "I forgot to 
 give you the cake before." 
 
 " Happy returns ! Twenty-one? " 
 
 Jan nodded. "It's a great age woman of the 
 world, responsibilities, and all that kind of thing, 
 don't you know." 
 
 "Age," snorted Perks, "why, any conductor 
 would offer you a child's ticket. Gad! I wish 
 I'd got my time over again. You've everything 
 before you. It's all up to you; you ought to be 
 able to make what you like of your life. Let's 
 have some cake? No, I forgot it's for tea." 
 
 "You can have some now if you like," said Jan, 
 "if it won't spoil your lunch. Nothing ever spoils 
 mine." 
 
 "Nor mine, and a Dundee cake wouldn't. I've 
 never had enough." 
 
 "Well, you shall to-day," said Jan. "It was 
 meant for the room, but since the others are out 
 at lunch they'll never know. One, two, three, 
 and away. Here's the first piece," and she 
 handed him a schoolboy's wedge, and took a 
 small slice for herself. 
 
 "Now another," she said, five minutes later,
 
 282 JAN 
 
 when all that was left of the first slice was a crumb 
 on Mr. Perks's chin. 
 
 "May I really?" beamed Perks, holding out his 
 hand for a second slice. 
 
 He attacked this with less energy, and toyed 
 with the third slice. "It can't be done," he said, 
 regretfully. "You've destroyed one of the illu- 
 sions of my life, Miss Owen. I always thought 
 I could go on eating cake till further notice." 
 
 "Good for me, then! I've helped you on your 
 way to bliss, that is when you are stripped free of 
 all illusions." 
 
 The real lunch was not such a success as it 
 should have been. Willie was late and absent- 
 minded, and twice he called Jan Clare, which was 
 a silly thing to do. 
 
 "What have you come up for this time?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Er business." Willie gave a laudable imi- 
 tation of a professional gentleman humouring a 
 lady friend. 
 
 "Don't be a silly ass, W T illie," Jan advised him, 
 "and don't be pompous. I know you. Do you 
 expect me to believe that your father or Uncle 
 Henry would trust you?" 
 
 "Why not?" Willie demanded. 
 
 "I don't know," said Jan, untruthfully, because 
 it's difficult to tell your host that he's no business 
 man no nor never will be! 
 
 "Come along to the flat," she suggested when
 
 JAN 283 
 
 they had finished. "By the way, it's Mona's 
 free afternoon. But there's nothing particularly 
 'free' about it, since she sits and corrects books 
 all the time, and she says they nearly all make the 
 same mistakes." 
 
 "Good lor!" ejaculated Willie. 
 
 "I can't think how she can think of sticking to it 
 all her life," went on Jan they were sitting on the 
 front seat of a 'bus "and there's Clare; she 
 says she's going to teach." 
 
 "Good lor!" Willie's stock of exclamations was 
 small, but he varied his tone to meet the demands 
 of the situation. 
 
 "I expect Dick Goody er will blow in some time 
 to-day." 
 
 "Oh, good egg! Nice chap, Dick. I saw him 
 I met him this morning. He said he might 
 drop in." 
 
 "That," remarked Jan with an air of wisdom, 
 "means that he'll come to tea and stay till supper. 
 And Mona will giggle without stopping once, and 
 Clare will say in a bored way, 'Oh, Dick, how ab- 
 surd you are!' and Dick will think he's being bril- 
 liant." 
 
 "Good old Dick!" 
 
 "Of course," continued Jan, confidentially, 
 "it's an awful secret, but I shouldn't really wonder 
 if Dick married Mona, and if he does, all their 
 children will be as grave as judges. And enough 
 to make them."
 
 284 JAN 
 
 Brynavon does not talk of potential babies, nor 
 their likely characteristics, so Willie ignored that 
 part of the conversation. 
 
 "I don't think Clare will ever marry,'* went on 
 Jan. "What's. the matter, Willie? Do you feel 
 iU? It's a jolly old 'bus!" 
 
 "No, thank you Why not Clare, I 
 
 mean?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. She'd want pots of money 
 and a big house, and a husband much cleverer 
 than herself, and society and Here we are." 
 
 "I'm not coming in," said Willie, when they 
 stood on the pavement in front of the flat. 
 
 " Why not? " Jan demanded. " Of course you're 
 coming to tea?" 
 
 "I'm not coming in," Willie repeated, dully, 
 "and I'm going home to-night. Good-bye." 
 
 He didn't wait to shake hands, but fled away 
 like some rabbit, into the dusk of the afternoon, 
 and a girl with her face pressed to the window-pane 
 in the flat saw him go. 
 
 "I thought I saw someone with you." Clare 
 did not wait for the usual birthday amenities. 
 
 Jan was feeling aggrieved. "Yes, but that duf- 
 fer Willie Griffiths He came to the door, and 
 
 then said: 'I shan't come in, I'm going home to- 
 night.'" 
 
 " Why? " Clare knew her man and she knew Jan. 
 There must have been some good reason to turn 
 Willie back from the gate.
 
 JAN 285 
 
 " Goodness knows," Jan answered. " One minute 
 he's as keen as mustard. If you want to know, we 
 were talking of the kind of man you'd marry at 
 least I was. I'd got you a beauty. What on earth's 
 the matter now?" for Clare's face was transfigured 
 with temper, and she stamped on the floor. 
 
 " You idiot !" she gasped. " Oh, you awful idiot ! 
 Why can't you mind your own business?" and Clare 
 slammed out of the room and locked herself hi 
 her bedroom. 
 
 She came back ten minutes later, unruffled and 
 smiling. "You poor dear!" she said at the sight 
 of Jan's troubled face "it wasn't your fault. 
 But I should like to suggest you didn't make quite 
 so free with my name." 
 
 "I'll wire him," said Jan. 
 
 "No, you won't," Clare answered, "you'll do 
 nothing but leave it alone. He'll turn up smiling 
 soon you bet. Let's get tea, Dick and Mona 
 have gone out." 
 
 Willie, meanwhile, had boarded the first train that 
 came along. He told himself he'd been an awful 
 fool to think of Clare "pots of money and society 
 and a strong, silent hero." He couldn't offer her 
 that. Praise the Lord he hadn't made a fool of 
 himself to her. 
 
 And then came the reaction. Jan wasn't every- 
 one, and didn't know every thing; she did not 
 know Clare, for example, half as well as he did, 
 and once or twice he'd fancied
 
 286 JAN 
 
 A child's wail disturbed him. 
 
 "I want a bun," bellowed a boy of four, with 
 the tears streaming down his cheeks. 
 
 "You ax properly, Albert, and maybe as you'll 
 'ave it." The moralist was a stout, elderly woman 
 in rusty black who held a bag of buns well out of 
 the child's reach. 
 
 Albert danced with rage. "I want a bun," he 
 reiterated at the top of his voice. 
 
 "Oh, 'old your noise," quoth Albert's mother to 
 her offspring "give 'im a bun, Ma." 
 
 "Ma" was inflexible. "Say 'please'," she said, 
 fumbling in a promising way in a bag. 
 
 "Please," said Albert, and subsided with hi? 
 teeth hi the bun. 
 
 Just opposite to Willie, on one of the ventilators 
 of the train, the society which prints texts in public 
 places had put: "Ask and it shall be given unto 
 you." The letters were red on white ground glass, 
 and they caught Willie's attention as he raised 
 his eyes about Albert's head. 
 
 Anyhow, he turned up at the flat half an 
 hour later. Clare opened the door, and at the 
 sight of her all the colour left Willie's face. He 
 forgot to say good-evening he forgot his care- 
 fully prepared speech he could remember noth- 
 ing except that Clare was before him and that he 
 loved her. 
 
 "Will you marry me?" he blurted out. 
 
 Clare gave a queer, stifled laugh, and there was a
 
 JAN 287 
 
 look in her eyes like mothers have when they smile 
 at their little boys. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "but can't we discuss it 
 somewhere warmer than the doorstep?" 
 
 Jan arrived back from Paddington cold and 
 annoyed. 
 
 "He hasn't gone by the 4:30, Clare," she 
 shouted from the hall. 
 
 "I told you not to trouble, dear," Clare called 
 back, "Willie is here." 
 
 "In the dining-room?" Jan made for the door. 
 
 "Don't, Jan," Clare urged, "Dick and Monaare 
 there." 
 
 "Where's Willie?" Jan demanded. 
 
 "In the kitchen with me it's all all right." 
 
 The kitchen door closed, and Jan stood in the 
 hall. 
 
 " It's my birthday," she decided, "but the others 
 have had the presents. Oh, how I hate John."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 0, The Parade, Brynavon, 
 
 1 Feb. 19. 
 DEAR JAN: 
 
 Here I am settled down in your old home a staid married 
 woman. I love it all every corner of it, every minute of the 
 day, and although we have about as much money for house- 
 keeping as I used to have for a dress-allowance, we are as 
 happy as the day is long. And I mean to spur Willie on and 
 make him as ambitious as I am for him. 
 
 Your aunt called yesterday. She was very kind and most 
 interested in everything. 
 
 Oh, Mr. Owen has resigned from being president of the 
 Temperance Association, and they have elected Willie. He is 
 so young that I feel it is a great honour. 
 
 We are very comfortable and Mr . Owen has found me 
 two respectable girls. 
 
 Jan got no further. She laid her head on the 
 table and laughed till she cried. 
 
 "Clare will be happy now," she told herself. 
 "Everyone in Brynavon has respectable girls; 
 Clare's tumbled to it already. Hooray ! " 
 
 11, The Parade, 
 1 Feb. 19. 
 
 MY DEAR NIECE: 
 
 I trust you are keeping well, though the weather here has 
 been very unsettled, and your Uncle Henry has had a bad 
 
 288
 
 JAN 289 
 
 attack of rheumatism. His arm was very painful couldn't 
 move without a stick. 
 
 Old Mr. Evans, the Methodist minister, died New Year's 
 Day cast a gloom over us all. 
 
 Young Mrs. Griffiths is settled in very comfortably next 
 door to us. She is a sweet girl and very devoted to Willie, so 
 fortunate for his mother. 
 
 I am thinking of coming to London for a few days next 
 month if I can spare time Some nice respectable hotel, 
 reasonable and with good, plain food. 
 
 No more at present 
 
 From your affectionate 
 
 AUNT ANNIE. 
 
 The Nook, St. John's Wood. 
 
 1 Feb. 19. 
 DEAR OLD THING: 
 
 Here we are again! Being married is the most topping 
 fun. Dickie and I rag all day long. 
 
 He knows piles of people, and we are hardly ever at home. 
 You'll think us shockingly Bohemian, but I love it. 
 
 Would you care to come along next week to "The Climb- 
 ers' Club" with us. Do, if you can it's an awful rag. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 MONA GOODYEB. 
 
 Pentre Fawr, Brynavon. 
 DEAR MASTER JOHN: 
 
 Thank you very much for your letter. I hope you are 
 quite well, the same as it leaves me here at present. 
 
 Miss Jan does not come home much now, but I saw her in 
 London at Christmas time. She is very thin, Master John, 
 and now she is living alone. 
 
 Master John, I hope you will soon come home again now. 
 
 Davy is keeping well and the farm is doing fair. 
 
 Thank you, indeed, Master John, for the brooch. 
 Yours respectfully, 
 
 SARAH JONES.
 
 290 JAN 
 
 DEAR CLARE: 
 
 My best congratulations to you and Willie. I hope you'll 
 both be very very happy. 
 
 I am coming home again soon, as you say to prospect. 
 And then 
 
 Both you and Sarah tell me that Jan is pale and thin, and 
 I can't bear the idea of her living alone. Isn't there any one 
 to look after her? 
 
 How do you like Brynavon? 
 
 My love to you both JOHN OWEN. 
 
 MRS. OWEN, Pentre Fawr. 
 
 DEAR MADAM: 
 
 Sorry to say that I cannot let you have butter this week 
 as usual. Davy is very poorly, and I cannot leave 
 Yours respectfully, 
 
 SARAH JONES. 
 
 DEAR Miss BLAKEBOROUGH : Camden Town. 
 
 I shall love to come to you for half-term. Thank you very 
 much for asking me. Clare and Mona seem very happy in 
 quite different ways. 
 
 I love being alone, especially as I'm not often in. 
 I have sent on the patterns of silk you asked me for. 
 
 Much love, J AN 
 
 DEAR JOHN: 
 
 I am delighted to hear you are coming home. 
 
 Jan is coming to me for half-term. Will you come, too? 
 
 I value your happiness next to hers. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 NESTA BLAKEBOBOUGH. 
 
 Will you come home to me? I am very lonely without you. 
 
 But the last is an extract from a letter which 
 was never sent.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 JAN flung her hat into one corner of the room, 
 her coat into another, and herself into an 
 armchair. 
 
 It was all rot for a facetious press to talk of 
 the "knitting, tea-making girls of Whitehall!" In 
 her office, everyone slaved, with Mr. Protheroe's 
 tongue cutting like a lash. 
 
 Perks had said he wasn't free to say what he 
 thought, but, to-day, Jan had said it. 
 
 It had cost her a resignation, but she reckoned 
 the satisfaction cheap, though the practical utility 
 was doubtful. The question had arisen out of 
 nothing, as most government questions do, but 
 Jan had stayed late at the office for the best part of 
 last week drafting an agreement on the costing 
 question with Willard & Dabbs. 
 
 Perks had a good head for figures but no idea 
 how to present them in intelligible English, and 
 Jan found it difficult to count her change correctly, 
 but wrote a clear, forcible style, and between the 
 two of them they drew up a very decent little piece 
 of work, and Perks took it in to Mr. Protheroe. 
 
 "Humph!" grunted Protheroe, tossing it aside, 
 "I'll glance at it later. And look here, Perks, 
 
 291
 
 292 JAN 
 
 why the devil can't that Miss Owen check better? 
 There's a typing mistake in two letters this morn- 
 ing. You ought to see it." 
 
 Now Perks wasn't the sort of fool to fill other 
 people's breaches, but Jan was rather different. 
 
 "Miss Owen's work is good generally," he said; 
 "she's helped me considerably with that proposed 
 agreement." 
 
 "I'll see it later," grunted Protheroe. 
 
 Mid-day he took it in to the director. "I've 
 rather an idea about Willard & Dabbs," he beg.-in. 
 "Will you look at the draft and let me know what 
 you think?" 
 
 And two days later he returned it to Perks. 
 "The Governor thinks quite well of my little 
 scheme," he announced. 
 
 "What scheme?" asked Perks, tactlessly. 
 
 "That costing scheme for Willard & Dabbs, of 
 course," rapped out the Acting-Assistant Di- 
 rector. 
 
 Perks was silent from amazement, and even 
 Jan, with her opinion of the Civil Service, was 
 dumbfounded. All would have been well if Mr. 
 Protheroe had gone then, but he rather admired 
 Jan in spite of himself. There was a flavour in 
 her caustic speech, and the slow smile she some- 
 times conceded to his jokes was decidedly pleasant 
 to see. 
 
 Now Jan ran a tea-club in her room, partly 
 because she liked a cup of tea herself, and partly
 
 JAN 293 
 
 because the men needed it, and while Mr. Proth- 
 eroe waited the kettle boiled over. 
 
 "The kettle, Miss Owen," piped up Simmons, 
 the boy clerk. 
 
 Jan was in the middle of a column of figures 
 which had come out different three times, and 
 Protheroe was standing in the light. 
 
 "Take it off, please, Simmons," she said, with- 
 out looking up. 
 
 Simmons obeyed, and Mr. Protheroe with no 
 intent but pleasantry remarked: 
 
 " Some people know how to get others to do their 
 work." 
 
 Jan smiled. "That's the way to rise in the 
 Service, isn't it?" she asked, sweetly, and Perks 
 coughed behind his hand. 
 
 Mr. Protheroe preened himself like an offended 
 bird and turned to Perks. "By the way, Perks, 
 I wish you'd have a look at the draft page 2. 
 The Governor would like to see it in the morning. 
 You might get Miss Owen to type it again, unless 
 she can find someone else to do it for her." 
 
 And then Jan lost her temper. 
 
 "If I were what you pretend to think me, I'd 
 be fit to work for you," she blazed at him. "The 
 draft agreement was Mr. Perks' idea you peck 
 all the brains and sap away the courage of your 
 men. You are beneath the contempt of most 
 and the laughing stock of all Contracts." 
 
 She didn't raise her voice, but everyone in the
 
 204 JAN 
 
 room heard every syllable, and Mr. Protheroe had 
 the good sense to go. 
 
 An awful silence fell upon the room, and the 
 lady-like boy in the corner wiped the sweat from 
 his forehead. 
 
 "Whew!" whistled Perks at last, with gleaming 
 eyes. "Well, you have a nerve." Then he sat 
 back in his chair and laughed. 
 
 Jan was very pale and stern. "It's my contribu- 
 tion to the liberty of the subject," she said. "I 
 hate being a shrew, but somebody had to be. I 
 hope it will do somebody good some time." 
 
 She was trembling even now as she thought it 
 over. She had written a resignation before she 
 left and she was well rid of office work, anyway; 
 it would be nice to have a rest before taking up 
 other work, and was the pleasure of tea worth the 
 trouble of getting it? 
 
 Then she dozed off into a troubled sleep and 
 awoke an hour later to find the fire getting low and 
 the room in darkness. The clock ticked loudly, 
 and from the flat below rose the sound of tea- 
 things, the hum of conversation, and now and 
 again a laugh. 
 
 And, suddenly, Jan dug her nails deep into the 
 palms of her hands and grit her teeth. She was 
 wide awake enough now, tingling with some feeling 
 she couldn't define. And she had the whole even- 
 ing before her "and to-morrow and the next day 
 running on to the weeks and years. Life was
 
 JAN 295 
 
 before her like some plastic lump for her to mould, 
 and she was free. 
 
 It was a hateful word a mere mockery. Ap- 
 parently it meant nothing but loneliness. Mona 
 was always saying she wasn't free to do this or 
 the other because of Dickie, but Mona was riot- 
 ously happy. Jan stood up and lit the gas. She 
 wasn't lonely, anyhow, because she always was 
 glad when Mona went home after one of her fre- 
 quent visits, and by the way, did John ever mean 
 to come home? Jan thought of little else but 
 John these days. She knew now that she missed 
 him, she knew that she wanted him! Perks was 
 right every time when he said that pride was ex- 
 pensive, but since John knew all he did, how could 
 she write to him, and why didn't he come home? 
 
 Free! Of course she was free, but sometimes 
 things can be paid for too highly. 
 
 "I'll read," said Jan out loud to herself, grow- 
 ing frightened at the stillness of the room and the 
 haunting insistence of her thoughts. 
 
 She picked up the first book from the table. 
 It happened to be a volume of Christina Rossetti's 
 poems, and opening at random, Jan read from 
 "The Royal Princess": 
 
 All my walls are lost in mirrors wherein I trace 
 Self to right hand self to left self in every place, 
 Self-same solitary figure, self-same seeking face! 
 
 The Princess had known she was captive and 
 had chafed under the restraint. Jan had thought
 
 296 JAN 
 
 she was free. She had meant to rove at will, and 
 really she had been like a bird on a weather-vane, 
 turning this way and that, but always fixed to self. 
 
 Jan flung the book with all her force into a cor- 
 ner, and then was ashamed of herself and went 
 and picked it up, and smoothed the dog-eared 
 leaves in half-deprecating apology to Miss Ros- 
 setti. 
 
 But wasn't John ever coming home? Jan 
 opened the book again in an effort to concentrate 
 her thoughts and quench this question which she 
 couldn't answer. 
 
 Alone by day, alone by night alone days without end. 
 
 Jan got no further, but buried her head in her 
 cushion and cried until she could cry no more. 
 
 A knock at the door roused her, and she took 
 the precaution of turning the lights low so that 
 the visitor shouldn't be able to see her red eye- 
 lids. 
 
 Mona stood on the threshold. "Are you coming 
 with us to 'The Climbers' to-night?" she said. 
 "What a beggar you are, Jan, not to answer my 
 note! Restall is speaking. He ought to be aw- 
 fully good." 
 
 "Who's Restall?" asked Jan, languidly, leading 
 the way to the dining-room. 
 
 Mona gave a high laugh. "Restall! My dear 
 Jan, he's the modern poet." 
 
 "Sorry, I never heard of him."
 
 JAN 297 
 
 "Oh, he's too wonderful, my dear! He writes 
 vers libre, you know; he simply can't stand re- 
 straint or set forms. He must have perfect free- 
 dom, he says." 
 
 Jan pricked up her ears. "If he knows what 
 it is," she said, "I'd like to come. When? Now?" 
 
 "Of course. We'll have dinner at a little place 
 in Soho, and we'll meet Dickie at the club. Buck 
 up, old thing, and get your things on." 
 
 Mona had changed since her marriage. The 
 subtle scent of pedantry which hangs round the 
 conversation and manners of teachers had been 
 swept away by the breezy winds of Bohemianism. 
 The inevitable coat and skirt of the high-school 
 mistress had given place to a sloppy djibbah-like 
 garment of russet brown, while a hat after Liberty, 
 and a long way after, was crammed low on her 
 brow. The effect was not very pleasing, but Jan 
 wouldn't have noticed anything, at least she 
 would have tried not to, if Mona had for one 
 second been natural. But her whole attention 
 was focussed on disassociating her present self 
 from the girl she had been before marriage, like 
 those people who, on entering a new faith, curse 
 the old one which nourished them and their fathers 
 for generations. 
 
 "I never go to church now," she giggled as they 
 made their way toward Soho. 
 
 "Why not?" demanded Jan, bluntly. 
 
 "Alone by day, alone by night, alone days
 
 298 JAN 
 
 without end." The words kept repeating them- 
 selves in her mind: they stared at her from every 
 poster she seemed to hear them from the lips 
 of every passer-by. 
 
 "I simply can't Dickie doesn't nobody does, 
 do they?" 
 
 "All the people who count do," was Jan's 
 laconic reply. "You can't rule out one whole side 
 of intellectual life and still claim to be an all- 
 round thinker." 
 
 "How too amusing you are, Jan," Mona giggled. 
 "Now Restall was awfully interesting last Sunday. 
 He was showing that Christianity isn't really 
 modern. 'It's effete,' he said. There was a huge 
 discussion." 
 
 "There would be," said Jan; "you notice- 
 people condemn religion and dislike it, but they 
 can't leave it alone. If I were good enough, I'd 
 take it up religion, I mean." 
 
 "You! And you've spent all your life kicking 
 against the things religion stands for like restraint 
 and discipline " 
 
 "The point is, if you're good enough, you don't 
 feel them. You rise out of yourself above them, 
 that's what I mean." 
 
 "Lord!" ejaculated Mona, but with no pious 
 intent. If Jan started like this, it didn't augur 
 well for the evening's entertainment. 
 
 "I hope you'll like the club," she said, doubt- 
 fully. " You mustn't let us shock you," she added,
 
 JAN 299 
 
 brightly, with the determination to do so if 
 possible. 
 
 They dined together at a little restaurant which 
 Mona thought dashing and Jan thought dirty. 
 Jan ordered ginger beer and Mona vin ordinaire 
 with about as much alcohol in it as vinegar. But 
 she sipped it delightedly with a self-conscious 
 smirk. "Dick says I'm a terror," she said, 
 proudly, when Jan made no comment on her 
 choice of drinks. 
 
 "Why?" If Jan's father heard, he must have 
 laughed at the idea of his daughter being shocked 
 by any one taking wine. But it was hard luck 
 on Mona, who could not be expected to know of 
 John's bibulous tendencies. 
 
 "My dear!" she said, pettishly, "you're a posi- 
 tive scream. Wait till you're married." 
 
 "What for?" demanded Jan. In all her life 
 John had not once called her a "terror." Did 
 John ever mean to come home? 
 
 "Never, never again," Mona vowed to herself, 
 " will I bring Jan Owen out. She's like lead, and 
 she's getting disagreeable." 
 
 "She's no more Bohemian than the Shah of 
 Persia," Jan decided, indignantly. "She's as self- 
 conscious as as I am." 
 
 "It's time we went," said Mona, "but I don't 
 think, after all, you will like the club." 
 
 Jan didn't. It consisted of some young men 
 and not such young women. The men's hair was
 
 300 JAN 
 
 rather long the women's short. They called them- 
 selves "The Climbers," but their ascents were intel- 
 lectual and had nothing whatever to do with sport. 
 
 A youth who would have been better looking 
 after a Turkish bath was reading a paper when they 
 arrived. The room was fairly well filled and hazy 
 with smoke. 
 
 "It's Restall," Mona whispered when they were 
 seated. 
 
 "Restall?" Jan's tone was blank, but Mona did 
 not enlighten her a second time. 
 
 The gentleman gave a selection from his poems 
 in a bored, tired way. They were not bad, Jan 
 thought, nor particularly good. They were pretty 
 and slight and ineffective. 
 
 "The note of modern poetry," went on the 
 speaker, wearily, "is freedom. Poetry has broken 
 away from the traditions of a stereotyped past. 
 The modems have a verve a spontaneity a 
 freshness all their own." 
 
 He said the same thing in different words many 
 times over, and quoted freely from his own work 
 by way of illustration. 
 
 "I expect you will think I am very daring," he 
 said, "but I must confess my inability to read 
 Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Browning, and the 
 other traditional immortals. If this dismays 
 you, I am sorry. But it is so and I am quite 
 willing to stand the racket which I expect my rev- 
 olutionary outlook will have caused."
 
 JAN 301 
 
 He sat down amid loud clapping and the secre- 
 tary rose and invited a discussion; and thereafter 
 everyone who spoke did so with the pleased assur- 
 ance of being rather the devil of a fellow, while the 
 women were positively roguish. 
 
 Jan felt sick. If they really could not read 
 Browning's "Epilogue to Asolando," nor "The 
 Lost Leader, " nor a dozen other immortal gems, 
 then they ought to deplore it, and strive to hide 
 their shame. She would as soon have boasted 
 that Shakespeare, Keats, or Shelley bored her, 
 as that she had eleven fingers, or chronic dyspep- 
 sia. A lady on her right rose to avow a detesta- 
 tion of Rossetti, Swinburne, Tennyson, and there 
 was loud laughter and applause; another con- 
 fessed that Milton sent her to sleep she simply 
 couldn't keep awake; and there followed an epi- 
 demic of the confessions of the people who could 
 not stand the works of great and mighty men. It 
 reminded Jan of a revivalist meeting when, 
 carried away by storms of emotions, quiet, well- 
 bred people stood up and vied with one another in 
 confessing sins no one had thought them capable 
 of entertaining. At the time Jan had fancied 
 they painted themselves unnecessarily black and 
 that there was a certain emulation among the sin- 
 ners for the chief place. 
 
 " Whatdoyou think of it? "Dick whispered to her. 
 
 "Not much," she whispered back so solemnly 
 that he laughed.
 
 302 JAN 
 
 "Don't be too hard on us all," he said; "your 
 standard is too high nowadays. We're not all 
 Owens and famous authors." 
 
 "If you're trying to be funny, Dick, don't," 
 Jan advised him. "It's not your role." 
 
 "Did you ever trouble to think what your role 
 is, my child, except to weigh us all in the balance 
 and find us wanting?" 
 
 "Hush!" hissed a lady, who was trying to listen 
 to the debate. 
 
 "These are only free-lances here," Dick nodded 
 to the room, as if to excuse their unconventional 
 views. 
 
 Jan sat back in her chair. If this was freedom, 
 then give her chains; none of these people were 
 free; their outlook was more conventional in its 
 unconventionality than Mrs. Grundy's itself. 
 They were posing and playing like children who in 
 the daylight boo at the bogey man in the cupboard 
 under the stairs, but pass by at a respectful dis- 
 tance once the dusk has fallen. 
 
 Out of the gloom a pair of dark eyes met hers 
 and held them. Jan felt her heart quicken and a 
 famt flush rose to her cheeks as she recognized 
 Ronnie. 
 
 In the first pause he came over and sat down be- 
 side her. 
 
 "We meet again after the lapse of years," he 
 began, holding out his hand, but possibly Jan did 
 not see it: at any rate, she ignored it.
 
 JAN 303 
 
 "How is your wife?" she said, coolly. 
 
 It was a crude and immature attack and Ronnie 
 smiled pensively and scratched his chin and ogled 
 at her. 
 
 "I, too, have suffered," he announced, "but you 
 would forgive if you only knew." 
 
 "Too?" cried Jan, rising to the bait "too? 
 What do you mean?" 
 
 "Ah!" Ronnie sighed. "I know now that I 
 treated you abominably forgive me, Jan." 
 
 "On the contrary," Jan answered, suavely; 
 "you treated me handsomely in the end I mean 
 when you ran away from John." 
 
 Ronnie's face was not pleasant to watch. He 
 never had cared for frontal attacks, but Jan was 
 very attractive. 
 
 "Jan!" He dropped his voice to a caressing, 
 familiar note, and laid a hand on her knee. 
 
 "Your chair is on my skirt, please." Jan's clear 
 voice could be heard all over the room. Several 
 people looked round. 
 
 Ronnie sprang up. "I beg your pardon, Miss 
 Owen," he said. "Excuse me"; and he moved to 
 a group of people near by. 
 
 Jan watched him with the same look on her face 
 as, when a child, she had cleared worms out of the 
 way. Everything about him was more accen- 
 tuated than when she had last seen him. His 
 eyes were more piercing, his skin sallower, his hair 
 more greasy, and his nails, if possible, dirtier.
 
 304 JAN 
 
 And if John hadn't come to the rescue (it had 
 
 been "interfered" last time) Oh, Lord! it was 
 
 too horrid to think about. 
 
 A man talking to Ronnie turned and looked at 
 her with raised brows of surprise and Jan felt 
 herself grow hot and cold. 
 
 "A nice little girl," she heard Ronnie's thin 
 voice rising, "I met her in Switzerland, and 
 
 "Hallo, Waring!" a man's voice boomed out, 
 and John stepped from a corner where he had been 
 sitting and smote Ronnie on the back with a 
 friendliness that made his teeth chatter. 
 
 For an instant Ronnie looked at him with no 
 recognition in his eyes. "Owen!" he ejaculated 
 at last, in a voice which was rather like a gasp. 
 
 "Rather!" said John; "you tell your story of 
 Switzerland first and then I'll tell mine." 
 
 "Fire away, Ronnie!" said the man who had 
 looked at Jan. 
 
 "Mine will make you sit up," said John, pretty 
 certain of his man. "You were a gay dog in those 
 days, Ronnie." 
 
 "Don't be a damn fool, Owen," he said, sav- 
 agely, "leave it at that, man." Ronnie knew the 
 circle in which he moved, and he realized that ridi- 
 cule, in John's effective hands, would be a powerful 
 instrument. John could tell the story in such 
 a way as to make Ronnie look nothing but a fool, 
 and an almighty silly one at that! He wouldn't 
 mind being thought sinful, but silly, no!
 
 JAN 305 
 
 "Come on, Ronnie, old man," the others urged 
 him. 
 
 "It's a damn good story," said John, as if re- 
 gretting it should be lost to the world, and it 
 wasn't until Ronnie had moved on for the rest of 
 the evening to a cheerier club where the pace was 
 really well, just a bit that John moved over 
 to Jan. 
 
 And then Dick, the diplomatist, who had en- 
 gineered everything so wonderfully, retired to the 
 far end of the room, and rested on his oars, so to 
 speak. 
 
 Jan hadn't heard what had happened, and she 
 didn't care. John was home John was back 
 again John her John. 
 
 "Hallo, Jan!" said John, sitting beside her. 
 
 "Hallo, John," she answered. "You are you 
 are a breathless person, aren't you?" 
 
 John laughed, but there was a worried line on his 
 face. 
 
 "Jan," he said, suddenly, "have you been ill? 
 You're rather like a shadow." 
 
 "No I'm very fit, thanks." 
 
 "And happy?" 
 
 "Yes!" said Jan. "When are you going back?" 
 
 It was a futile thing to say, but for once Jan 
 was at a loss with John, and in trying to feel her 
 way she blundered. 
 
 John stiffened. "Almost immediately," he 
 said, "and this time for good."
 
 306 JAN 
 
 "I'm going home," said Jan. In another mo- 
 ment she'd disgrace herself. 
 
 "Don't trouble, Jan. I'm off." 
 
 And the next moment John left the club-room; 
 and that was all after more than two years. 
 
 Jan sat still, and could not have been more im- 
 passive if she had been carved out of stone. 
 
 No one took any notice of her, until half an hour 
 later Dick Goodyer came up with a frown on his 
 good-tempered face. 
 
 "Restall has taken Mona home," he said, shortly, 
 "will you come now?" 
 
 "I couldn't tell him, if he didn't see it," Jan was 
 arguing to herself. "I couldn't, since he didn't 
 want me." 
 
 Jan and Dick walked in silence most of the way. 
 
 "What did you do to John? "he demanded, sud- 
 denly. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean." Jan was really 
 startled or she acted very well. 
 
 " What did you do to him? " he repeated. " You 
 must have said something to hurt him like that." 
 
 "I didn't," said Jan, "and you've no right to 
 talk to me." 
 
 "Right!" went on Dick, "and what right have 
 you to spoil a man's life? You drove him to 
 Canada in the first place you send him away the 
 first time he speaks to you. And you're not fit 
 to black his boots." 
 . "It's a lie!" cried Jan "a great, big, damned
 
 JAN 307 
 
 lie. John ran away to Canada from school. 
 That had nothing to do with me." 
 
 Dick stopped in the middle of the pavement, 
 and in three sentences gave the story of John's 
 expulsion. 
 
 "And why wasn't I told before?" Jan asked. 
 
 "How should I know?" retorted Dick. "You 
 knew John; that ought to have been enough." 
 
 "I did know him once," Jan admitted, "but I 
 don't any longer. I I have wanted him to come 
 home, and to-night everything went wrong in 
 a minute." 
 
 "Then it was your fault," interrupted Dick, too 
 angry to be merciful or even mindful of proprie- 
 ties; "if you don't want John, well and good, but 
 don't be so damned cruel about it." 
 
 Jan's face was pearly white, and distorted with 
 an anger as fierce as his own. 
 
 "You're a very fine friend of John's," she cried, 
 "so I'll tell you. John doesn't care a snap of the 
 fingers for me any more. He showed it clearly 
 enough to-night, and I I do care." 
 
 Dick looked at her without speaking for some 
 seconds. "Jan," he said, "I'd like to shake you 
 for being such a blind-eyes." 
 
 "And I'd like to kill you and John," cried Jan. 
 
 "When John went from the 'Climbers' " went 
 on Dick quickly "I dashed after him to his hotel, 
 and he didn't hear me come into his room, because 
 he John, just you think of it had his head down
 
 308 JAN 
 
 on the table and was crying like a kid for Jan 
 and Jan and Jan." 
 
 Jan put up her hand as if to shut out an ugly 
 sight. "Don't, Dick," she said, "oh, don't. Take 
 me to him." 
 
 The taxi fairly flew along the empty streets, but 
 the porter at the hotel told Dick that Mr. Chvcn 
 had gone out, so there was nothing to do but drive 
 home to the flat. 
 
 It was the longest drive of Jan's life. 
 
 Dick pressed her cold fingers. "It will come 
 right now," he comforted her. 
 
 "I daren't wait," she answered. "If I write a 
 note, will you take it to him? He must know to- 
 night." 
 
 Dick kept the taxi waiting while Jan ran up- 
 stairs and wrote with a hand that wouldn't keep 
 still. 
 
 Come to me, please, John. I want you very much. 
 
 JAN. 
 
 "Here you are, Dick," she said, as a footstep 
 sounded on the stairs. But it was John who came 
 into the room. 
 
 "Jan!" he said. "Have me on any terms you 
 like, only have me." 
 
 Jan held out the letter. "Dick was bringing 
 this to you," she announced. 
 
 John read it, and let it drop from his hand as he 
 took a step forward. "Jan!" he said, speaking
 
 JAN 309 
 
 like a child repeating a lesson, "you shall still be 
 free I'll give you all the freedom I can." 
 
 "I'd rather have love," Jan answered. Then a 
 smile dawned slowly over her pale face. "I sup- 
 pose," she asked, with her head on one side, "they 
 are both the same?" 
 
 "You've always had that, Jan," he reminded 
 her. 
 
 "Now I can return it," said Jan, "that's the dif- 
 ference." 
 
 Dick gave them half an hour and then came 
 and fetched John away. 
 
 And Jan squeezed John's hand, and said "Good- 
 night, John," but she put her arms right round 
 Dick's neck and kissed him on the forehead 
 twice. 
 
 Every diplomatist has his day.
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 PUT the best sheets on the spare-room bed, 
 Emily no, the best sheet for the top, and 
 a cotton one underneath. Linen sheets get 
 so crumpled, don't they? So don't forget, a best 
 top-sheet; and, Emily and you'll find the two 
 pillow-shams in the bottom drawer." 
 
 "Yes, mum." 
 
 "You'll find them hi the bottom drawer of the 
 chest. Well, there perhaps I'd better come my- 
 self. Oh, yes, and make up the bed in the little 
 room for Mrs. Jones." 
 
 "Yes, mum." 
 
 Annie bustled away to Emily's relief, and pro- 
 ceeded to the kitchen. 
 
 "Good morning, Alice. Quite nice to see a 
 fine day once more. Now what shall we have for 
 dinner to-night? I want something really nice 
 for Mr. and Mrs. John." 
 
 "Yes, mum." 
 
 Annie stood in thought for some moments, 
 and the shaft of light through the kitchen window 
 falling on her showed the plentiful gray streaks 
 in her brown hair, and the fine network of lines 
 on her smooth skin. 
 
 310
 
 EPILOGUE 311 
 
 "I think I'll just pop downtown to Mr. Thomas 
 myself, Alice, and get him to spare me a leg of 
 lamb; that's always nice, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, mum!" 
 
 "And now what about pudding? What can 
 you suggest?" 
 
 "Rice, mum?" 
 
 "Yes, that will be very nice." 
 
 Annie stopped her husband in the hall. "Can 
 you wait a minute, Henry, and I'll come along 
 with you ! " 
 
 "Certainly, my dear; I'll take a walk round the 
 garden." 
 
 "I'm going to see Mr. Thomas myself this 
 morning. I can't have our young people hungry." 
 
 "Are they coming to-day?" 
 
 "Now, Henry, you surely haven't forgotten 
 that John and Jan come to-day, and the baby." 
 
 "Are they coming to us?" 
 
 "Of course, dear, until the 'Plas' is ready, but I 
 can't make up my mind where to put Sarah. She 
 can't have her meals with us. It's not quite 
 well, there." 
 
 "Who's Sarah?" 
 
 At times Henry was exasperating, but Annie 
 was patient. 
 
 "You know, dear, since Davy Jones died (though 
 I always say he did away with himself) . . . yes, I 
 know he died in his bed from pneumonia fell in 
 the river drunk, most probably Well, where
 
 312 JAN 
 
 was I? . . . well, Sarah left 'Pentre' and went to 
 Jan when, when Well,she'sthe baby'snurse." 
 
 "Humph! I'm sorry I can't meet the train. 
 I'll try and be home by the time they come." 
 
 "Yes, do, dear! I shall go to the station, of 
 course. A mother can't stay away." 
 
 Jan was a mother now, too, Henry reflected, as 
 he waited impatiently that evening for the sound of 
 the car. Yes, and John was bringing home his 
 son, and they would live at the "Plas," and there 
 would be a John Owen again. 
 
 He hoped John would make more of his son 
 than he had made of John. It is a bitter feeling 
 to be a stranger to one's own child. He had failed 
 to understand John right enough, but no one could 
 say he hadn't tried. 
 
 There was the hoot of a motor horn and Henry 
 walked slowly to the door as the car drew up. 
 
 John sprang out and helped out Jan who was 
 carrying the baby. Then followed Mrs. Owen 
 and Sarah. 
 
 "Hallo, Father!" cried John, kissing Henry. 
 
 Depression slipped from Henry's shoulders. 
 After all, a father can't be quite alienated from a 
 grown-up son who kisses him. 
 
 "Hallo, Uncle Henry," said Jan. 
 
 "Don't stand about, Jan," advised Aunt Annie. 
 "Take the boy indoors." 
 
 " How do you do, Sarah? " said Henry. " Had a 
 comfortable journey, I hope? "
 
 EPILOGUE 313 
 
 Henry paid the taxi man and then followed into 
 the dining-room, where Jan sat on the sofa, pulling 
 off the wee woollen coat of her son. 
 
 "Look up at your Uncle Henry, sonny?" she 
 exhorted the baby. 
 
 Henry came over and had the shock of his life 
 when he gazed down at the face of Jan's baby and 
 'saw a replica of himself. 
 
 John gave a bellow of appreciative laughter. 
 "It is funny, isn't it?" he said. "But I've done 
 the best I could for you in the way of a grandson, 
 eh, Father?" 
 
 Henry bent forward and smoothed the baby's 
 soft little head with one finger. 
 
 "Hallo, John boy!" he said, gently. 
 
 "Excuse me," said Jan, holding up her son, 
 "but this is Henry Owen." 
 
 THE END
 
 THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS 
 GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
 
 A ooo