Jane Journeys On

Jane Journeys On, by Ruth Comfort Mitchell

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Title: Jane Journeys On
Author: Ruth Comfort Mitchell
Release Date: December 30, 2006 [EBook #20230]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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[Illustration: "SAY, GIRLIE, DIDN'T I TELL YOU I'D PUT THE RAISIN IN IT?"]

JANE JOURNEYS ON

BY
RUTH COMFORT MITCHELL
AUTHOR OF "PLAY THE GAME," ETC.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY NEW YORK :: 1922 :: LONDON
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Copyright, 1918, by The International Magazine Co. Copyright, 1919, by McCall Co., Inc. Copyright, 1916, 1917, by the Century Co. Copyright, 1919, by the Crowell Publishing Co.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

TO W. C. MORROW GUIDE AND FRIEND, WHO HAS SET SO MANY OF US ON OUR WAY

Transcriber's Note:
The Table of Contents is not printed in the book but has been generated here for the convenience of the reader.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

JANE JOURNEYS ON
CHAPTER I
With but one exception, everybody in the upper layer of life in that placid Vermont village was sure that Jane Vail was going to marry Martin Wetherby. The one exception was Jane herself; she was not sure--not entirely.
There were many sound and sensible reasons why she should, and only two or three rather inconsequent ones why she should not. To begin with, he was a Wetherby, and the family went steadily back in an unbroken line to Colonial days; it was their grave old house with the fanlight over its dignified door which had given Wetherby Ridge its name. He was doing remarkably well at the bank; it was conceded that he would be assistant cashier at the first possible moment; his habits were exemplary and he was the most carefully dressed young man in the community. His mother freely admitted at the Ladies' Aid and the Tuesday Club that he was as perfect a son as any woman ever had, and that he would one day make some girl a perfect husband.
Jane, after long and rebellious thought, could find nothing to set down on the other side of the ledger beyond the fact that he was just a little too good-looking, that he was already beginning, at twenty-six, to put on the flesh which had always been intended for him, that his hands were softer than hers, with fingers which widened puffily at the base, and that she nearly always knew what he was going to say before he said it.
She was twenty-four years old, and the immemorial custom of that village gave her a scant remaining year in which to make up her mind. All girls who ran true to pattern were either snugly married or serenely teaching by the time they were twenty-five, and the choice was not always their own. There had been more marriageable maidens than eligible youths in the set, and it was rather, Jane told herself grimly, like a game of Musical Chairs--a gay, excited scramble, and some one always left out. Now, with the exodus of a few and the marrying of many, it had narrowed down to three of them--herself, Martin Wetherby, and Sarah Farraday, who was her best friend during childhood and girlhood; and Sarah, an earnest, blonde girl with nearsighted eyes and insistent upper front teeth, had, so to speak, stopped playing. She had converted her dead father's old stable into a studio by means of art burlap and framed photographs of famous composers, and was giving piano lessons daily from ten to four. This left the field entirely to Jane, and Jane was carrying about with her an increasing conviction that she was not going to do the thing every one expected her to do.
It came curiously to a crisis on a mild and unimportant day in November. Jane spent a footless forenoon in her own room in the green-shuttered, elm-shaded house where she lived with her adoring Aunt Lydia Vail, trying to start a story. Miss Vail took great care to tiptoe whenever she passed her door, and refrained from summoning her to the telephone, but her pleasant old voice, explaining why her niece could not come, was clearly audible.
"Yes, dear, she's at home, but she's at work at her writing, and you know I never disturb her.... Yes, she's been shut away in her room since right after breakfast....