Ainslee's magazine, Volume 16, No. 2, September, 1905

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Transcriber's note: The Table of Contents was created by the Transcriber and placed in the Public Domain.

CONTENTS

The Maintenance of Jane 1 To A Roadside Cedar 26 The Deluge: A Story of Modern Finance 27 Conversations With Egeria 43 Mis-Mated Americans 46 Aftermath 48 The Golden Apple 49 The Master of the Dido 62 Mrs. Evremond 71 The Dog Star 81 As It Ended 88 The Tears of Undine 89 Now's The Time O' Year 102 Pride of Race 103 The Princess' Kingdom 116 The Most Exclusive City in America 125 The Gate 131 The Way of a Man 132 The Incompatibility of the Catherwoods 144 Dramatic Flashes From London & Paris 150 For Book Lovers 156

AINSLEE'S

VOL. XVI. SEPTEMBER, 1905. No. 2.

THE MAINTENANCE OF JANE

By

MARGARET G. FAWCETT

[Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

The total," began Jacob Willoughby, adjusting his _pince-nez_ and regarding with near-sighted attention the scrap of paper he had selected from a little white heap on the table in front of him--"the total is just four thousand five hundred and seventy-six dollars and ninety-seven cents."

The figures froze the features of the Willoughby connection into immobility for a second, but only for a second.

"I agreed to buy her wraps," spoke up crisply Miss Willoughby, a maiden lady of vinegary aspect, who sat on the extreme edge of the horsehair and mahogany chair and glowered at the white heap on the table. "Read the bill, Jacob."

Obediently Jacob searched through the heap and extracted another scrap. "Total, one thousand five hundred and forty-three dollars and eighty-three cents," he announced, ponderously.

If she hadn't been a Willoughby, one would have said that the lady of vinegary aspect snorted. All the Willoughbys, however, prided themselves on never doing anything low. "_That_ for wraps," muttered this one, acidulously. "And she wheedled a set of sables out of Jacob at Christmas time."

Mr. Willoughby coughed deprecatingly and avoided the eye of his wife, a woman with an appallingly firm chin who sat opposite him. She now spoke sharply. "It's Jacob's ridiculous lack of backbone that's to blame for all this foolish extravagance," she declared. "Why did he consent in the first place to Jane's furnishing that expensive flat? Why did he get us to agree to divide the expense of her clothes among us, and make us the victim of her spendthrift habits? For what she calls _lingerie_"--Mrs. Jacob Willoughby pronounced the French word with ineffable scorn, as though it suggested a multitude of moral lapses--"she has run up a bill of---- What's the amount, Jacob?"

Her husband, who was beginning to look crushed, searched with pathetic haste through the white drift of papers, selected another slip and readjusted his _pince-nez_. Suddenly a wave of red swept over his distressed features.

"Well?" queried his wife, sharply.

"She's--she's itemized it!" murmured the unresourceful Jacob, faintly.

Thomas Willoughby, bachelor, who was a trifle hard of hearing, but whose other faculties were very sharp, leaned forward and put his hand behind his ear. "What say?" he demanded, querulously. "Speak up louder, man, can't you?" Thomas, who was sixty, regretted his affliction chiefly because it so frequently prevented his hearing the recital of some fresh deviltry of Jane's.

Mrs. Jacob now interposed. "The total's on the other side," she said, eying her husband suspiciously, and, with a guilty air, he hastily reversed the paper. "The amount is eight hundred and seventeen dollars and sixteen cents," he informed his auditors, lifelessly.

"And just for one season," supplemented Mrs. Willoughby. "It's more than I spend--it's more, I'm sure, than any of us spend"--she surveyed the Willoughby connection virtuously--"in five years."

"Oh, well," gurgled the youngest and most attractive of the Willoughbys that were present, a placid, fair-haired woman, to whom any account of Jane and her doings always read like a page out of a thrilling novel, "she's only twenty-four, you know, and it costs more to live in New York than in the country." The lady sighed. Her country home was luxurious, but in her soul she longed for the flesh pots represented by a New York season. Her husband, however, devoted to his Alderney cows, his Berkshire hogs and his fancy fowls, put his foot down firmly whenever the subject of a town house, or even a brief month at one of the quieter hotels, was mentioned.

"Of course it costs more to live in New York," snapped Miss Willoughby, "and I've contended all along that Jane has no business keeping up that flat in town. In the first place, 'tisn't proper. A young woman with her flighty ideas and without a chaperon or any female relation to give her countenance! Mark my words"--with acrid emphasis--"Jane will yet trail the Willoughby name in the dust."

"Why doesn't she marry again?" queried the Willoughby bachelor, impatiently. "Deuce take it, De Mille's been dead a year and six months. Is the girl determined to wear widow's weeds forever. Gad!" he chuckled, shrilly, "I'd marry her myself to-morrow if I wasn't sixty and her uncle. Not," he added, hastily, for he, like most of the Willoughbys, was notoriously close-fisted, "that I countenance her extravagance. But she needs a husband's discipline."

The depressed Jacob Willoughby here saw an opportunity to put in a word in vindication of himself.

"You all know perfectly well," he began, with dignity, "that when De Mille up and died, just when his affairs were in the most critical condition, and when a little firmness on his part would have kept him alive long enough to save something out of the wreck for his widow, Jane declared that she wouldn't be bored with another husband, and that if the connection couldn't support her in the style to which she was accustomed, she would go on the stage. When I said she might spend her time with us, visiting each of us in turn, you know she flatly refused, and insisted upon an apartment. She said that, though He was a Willoughby Himself"--Jacob repeated this Janeism with peculiar relish--"God never intended relations to be lived with, that they were generally people you'd have nothing to do with if the accident of birth hadn't made them cousins, uncles and aunts." As a matter of fact, when Jane had uttered this impertinence, she had excepted Jacob, but the senior Willoughby was too wise to hint at the exception in the presence of his wife, who was also a Willoughby.

"You should have been firm," she observed, witheringly. "That threat about her going on the stage was all nonsense."

"It was not nonsense," retorted her husband, with unexpected spirit, "and I had to think of the bishop."

Jacob's retort told as he meant that it should, and a painful pause ensued. It was the bachelor Willoughby who broke it. "Well," he exclaimed, pettishly, drawing out his watch, "Jane will be here in five minutes, and dinner in half an hour. The question is, what are we going to do?"

"We are going to tell her," snapped Miss Willoughby, "that the apartment must be given up, and that she must live with each of us in turn. Since she's here--or will soon be here--she can remain a while with you, Susan, and then she can come to me. In the meantime, Jacob can see about subletting her apartment. Hark! There's wheels! Now"--turning to her brother--"be firm, Jacob. Let us"--encouragingly, and glancing in turn at each of the Willoughbys, who, strange to relate, looked ill at ease, if not frightened--"let us all be firm."

The door opened and everybody started. But it was only the butler.

"A telegram for you, sir," he said to Mr. Jacob Willoughby, extending a yellow slip. The latter took it and hastily opened it. "It's from Jane," he announced, glancing up. Did the other Willoughbys imagine it or did his voice express relief?

"Read it," commanded his wife, crisply.

You dear, good people, I'm the biggest wretch on earth. Did so want to get to you before the house party broke up, but there's the Reffolds' dinner for to-night which I had entirely forgotten. Hope to get down for a week end later. Love to all.

JANE.

For fully half a minute not a sound was heard in the stuffily furnished Willoughby library. Then Miss Willoughby, in a voice ominously calm, asked: "Will you kindly tell us the number of words in that telegram, Jacob?"

"Total, fifty," murmured Jacob, reluctantly, dropping the yellow slip on the white heap and surveying it ruefully.

"Fifty!" echoed the Willoughby connection, feebly.

Susan Willoughby, Jacob's wife, was the first to regain her mental equilibrium. "You will write this evening, Jacob?" she questioned, with stony composure.

"I will write this evening," responded her husband, firmly.

The bachelor Willoughby suddenly chuckled. The outraged connection stared at him in astonishment. "I--I was just thinking," he giggled, "that economy doesn't seem to be Jane's strong point."

At its best, the Willoughby connection's sense of humor was the reverse of keen, and the situation was not one, in their opinion, that invited levity. But whatever crushing blow threatened the frivolous member--and Mrs. Susan Willoughby and Miss Willoughby both looked primed--was happily averted by the opportune reappearance of the butler.

"Dinner is served," he announced, solemnly, and Jacob Willoughby sprang with alacrity to offer his arm to the most attractive of the female Willoughbys.

"I will summon the bishop to wrestle with Jane," announced Susan, magisterially, as she led the way to the dining room. And the connection realized that Jane had, indeed, become a problem.

CHAPTER II.

Jane balanced her spoon on the brim of the shell-like cup and smiled at Mr. Scott.

"Yesterday, Billie, I received another of those Willoughby epistles--about my extravagance, you know."

"The idea of anybody thinking you extravagant," murmured Mr. Scott, with an adoring glance.

"Oh, as to that," observed Jane, airily, "I admit I'm extravagant, but I'm purposely so. Listen, my child, and I'll tell you the story of my life. But first let me put a drop more rum in your tea." Mr. Scott held out his cup.

"It does taste of tea," he admitted. "And you know I've always cracked up the flavor of your--er--tea, Jane." She dropped the rum out of a silver filigree bottle with an amethyst in the stopper.

"You see," she continued, thoughtfully, "before my eyes were opened or my teeth cut, those Willoughby relations of mine married me to De Mille because he had money. He was--oh, well, Billie, he was the biggest bore I ever met. However, I saw as little of him as possible, but you can imagine that I did my best to make life miserable for those Willoughbys who blighted my youth. What _are_ you laughing at, Billie? Well, De Mille got into financial difficulties, and selfishly took to his bed. I got the best nurse in town, and went to see him every day. Yes, I did. It was good for me, of course!"--Jane's conversation usually took the form of a monologue. "Finally, he had the good taste to die. When one of the Willoughbys, who came up to town to help me bear my grief, came in and told me that he had passed to a better land, I said: 'Well, God knows best.'" Mr. Scott tittered. "Aunt Susan--that was the Willoughby--assured the family that I was showing a beautiful spirit. As a matter of fact, I really could have danced up and down, I was so relieved. You see, Billie, if the man had ever pretended to love me, I should not have been such a wretch. But he just wanted a good-looking woman to preside over his house, and he wanted to marry into the Willoughby family, and the Willoughby family wanted to get me married to money and off their hands, so it was just a disgraceful bargain, about which your humble servant had no more to say than the dress goods on a bargain counter. When it was discovered that De Mille had left me nothing but debts, I refused to worry, and informed my beloved relations that my support was their business. Otherwise, the stage for Jane, and the Willoughbys' view of the stage is very similar to the devil's view of holy water."

"Well, they've got plenty of this world's goods," commented Mr. Scott, who was quite content to have Jane do most of the talking, an arrangement that suited her to perfection.

"They're rolling in wealth!" she exclaimed, filling her own cup. "But they're as close as bark on a tree, and how to bring them to time after De Mille's death kept me awake nights. I made up my mind to get even with them for marrying me off like a slave, and the first thing I did was to order the most expensive mourning New York affords. I still cling to it, for black is _so_ becoming to me."

"I should think it was," said Mr. Scott, fervently. "You are simply ravishing in that cap."

"The cap was my own idea," observed Jane, sweetly. "The real lace ones are so stunning and so--er--expensive. But where was I? Oh, yes. The Willoughbys held a mass meeting, or convocation, or something, to talk me over. Finally it was decided that they would pay my bills among them--if I was not too extravagant--and that I should spend my time with each of them in turn, handed around from house to house like a poor relation. But it was at that point in their proceedings that Jane rose and gave them an ultimatum."

"I put my money on Jane," spoke up Mr. Scott, promptly.

"You won't lose," answered that young woman. "I rose, wiped my eyes with a handkerchief--black border, two inches; price, three dollars--and spoke my mind. I said that I had married to suit them, and that henceforth I would live to suit myself; that I was perfectly willing they should pay my bills, but that I intended to take an apartment in town and go on living as before. I said it was not my fault that my poor, dear husband--I shed a tear or two--had met with financial reverses and was not able to leave me anything. I said, further, that I would not be dictated to about the size of my bills, that everyone knew I was not extravagant--yes, Billie, I said that with a straight face--and that I was in deep grief, and could not bear any more discussion of my affairs, and so I would just take my leave and send in the bills."

"Bet they were paralyzed," observed Billie.

"That's not the word for it. I left them gasping for breath. But they hate gossip, and that's where I had them. They hate to be called mean, though being mean doesn't worry them. That's the way with some people, you know. So I rented this apartment, moved my things in, drew a few checks on uncle Jacob--the best of the lot, by the way--and here I have lived in my deep grief."

Jane smiled at Mr. Scott and leaned back in her chair.

"That's the first chapter," he said.

"Yes," she answered, "and yesterday's letter, which I'm coming to, is the beginning of the second. This letter informed me that my bills were becoming outrageously large, that I needed a chaperon--fancy a widow in her first grief needing a chaperon, Billie--and the long and short of it is that I must give up this apartment and go and live among them as originally proposed.

"Well?" queried Mr. Scott.

"Well, what?" demanded Jane. "You certainly didn't for a moment think I would do it?"

"No," he responded. "There's a very simple way out, you know. Marry me and let the Willoughbys go to----"

"Thunder," finished Jane. "Oh, Billie, I do appreciate the fact that you love me and want me. And if I loved you, I'd live in a cottage with you--though I hate cottages--and work like a slave. But the awful fact must be faced that I do not love you. I am horribly fond of you, though, Billie, and I wish I could marry you, but I never could make you understand how I hate being married. I was knocked down to the highest bidder, and the experience was too disagreeable to permit me to marry again or to fall in love with anyone."

"But you're flirting awfully with Kingston and Maitland--and there's Dick Thomas--oh, Jane, it's pretty tough on me!" The boy--for Mr. Scott wasn't much more--looked as though he were going to cry.

"Fiddlesticks!" exclaimed Jane, contemptuously. "Nothing in the world would induce me to marry one of those men--or any other. Freedom is the breath of life to me, Billie, but I must have my little recreations. You can't understand--no man can--how flirting to a woman is a justifiable evening up of the sufferings that some women have to endure. Why, I'm leading Jack Maitland an awful existence because he flirted desperately with Betty Lockwood, who loves him to distraction. I'm doing it for Betty's sake, and it's good for him. Betty married Maurice just out of pique." Jane put down her cup. "I'm really trying to do good, in my own way, Billie."

"You should join the Humane Society," observed Mr. Scott, sarcastically.

"The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children will rescue you from my clutches if you persist in coming here all the time," she retorted, severely. "I'll tell you what I am going to do"--changing the subject, swiftly. "I'll answer the Willoughby epistle in person. I'll go down to Rosemount to-morrow and tell them things that I hope will do them good. I do not intend to reduce my bills, or live with them. Whenever I get a letter from them like this last one, I go out and buy something."

"What did you buy yesterday?" queried Mr. Scott, with lively interest.

"A pair of high-boys--genuine colonials! I've no place for them here, of course, but the Willoughbys needed them for a lesson."

"Let me drive you down to Rosemount in my car," said Mr. Scott, with sudden inspiration.

"Um--I'd like the car and the chauffeur, but you, Billie, cannot come. It might cause gossip."

"Let 'em talk, who cares?" exclaimed Mr. Scott, defiantly.

"I do," said Jane, decidedly. "No, you can't come, Billie, but if you'll have the car here to-morrow, at ten, I'll drive down in it, stay all night, and come back the next day."

"I'm afraid they'll persuade you to live with them," murmured Mr. Scott, miserably.

"To think that you would say that to me," said Jane, reproachfully. "I intend to live alone from this time on. I hate living with anybody."

"Wait until you're in love!" warned Billie.

"Yes, I'll wait," responded his hostess, briskly. "A woman who has had my luck would be an ungrateful wretch if she permitted herself to become entangled again. Why, it isn't one woman in ten who marries for money whose husband dies in two years. No wonder I've clung to deep mourning. It's an expression of thankfulness--of the warmest gratitude on my part. No one can say of me, Billie, that I do not realize my blessings!"

Mr. Scott rose and tried to kiss Jane's hand, but she put it determinedly behind her.

"Respect my mourning, my child," she said, rebukingly.

After Mr. Scott had taken his departure, she ordered two suit cases packed, gave orders to her two servants about the care of the apartment during her absence, and telegraphed a lengthy message to the Willoughbys.

CHAPTER III.

It was a glorious May day. Jane, whose sound digestion and general superlatively good health enabled her always to front life genially, even when she was most convinced that it was nothing but a heartless farce, was in rollicking spirits. She let Johnson, Billie's chauffeur, take full charge of the car, while she lay back luxuriously, humming snatches of gay song or planning fresh audacities that would humble the proud spirit of the Willoughbys. But silence for any length of time when there was somebody to talk to was always irksome to Jane.