Jane Journeys On | Page 2

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.... Yes, it's a new story, but I don't know what it's
about. I'll ask her at dinner.... How's your mother, dear?... Oh, that's
good! That's what I always use and it never fails to relieve me. You
give her my love, won't you? I'll have Jane call you up when she comes
out for dinner."
The story simply would not start. It lay inert in the back of her brain,
listening for the telephone and Aunt Lydia's softly padding footfalls,
and at last she gave it up and got out the paper she was to read on "The
Modern Irish Dramatists" before the Tuesday Club that afternoon and
went carefully over its typed pages.

"Oh," said Aunt Lydia at the dinner table, her plump face clouding over,
"I'm sorry the story didn't go well! It wasn't because you were
interrupted, was it, dear? I was especially careful this morning. You
know, I believe, without realizing it, you're just the least mite nervous
about your program. I know I am myself, though I know, of course,
you're going to do just beautifully."
Three and a half hours later, thirty-four matrons and spinsters were
warmly asserting that she had. They smiled up at her where she stood
on the shallow little platform with approval and affection, and the
Chairman of the Program Committee said she was sure they were all
deeply indebted to Miss Vail for a most enlightening little lecture. "I
am free to confess," she said, smiling, "that it is a subject upon which I,
personally, have been ignorant, and I believe many of our club ladies
would say the same."
Jane, looking down into their pleasant, best-family faces knew this was
the fact. The word "Irish" conveyed to most of them only the red-armed
minions in their kitchens; the boys who ran noisily up alleyways with
butchers' parcels; the short-tempered dames in battered hats who
came--or distressingly did not come--to them on Monday mornings,
and who frequently bore away with them bars of perfectly new soap;
and the chuckles and sobs and moonlit whimsies of Yeats and Synge
and Lady Gregory did not, in their minds, connect up at all.
"And now," said the President, in her sweet New England voice, "I
know you will all wish to express your appreciation both to the
Chairman of our Program Committee, who has arranged so many
literary treats for us, and to Miss Vail for her delightful paper by a
rising vote of thanks." Then the thirty-four ladies of the Tuesday Club
clutched at their gloves and handbags and came to their feet with soft
rustlings of new foulards and taffetas and rich old silks, and the
President declared the meeting adjourned but trusted that every one
would remain for a cup of tea and a social hour.
Martin Wetherby's handsome mother took brisk and proprietary charge
of Jane and shared her laurels happily. "Yes, indeed," she beamed, her
gray crêpe arm through the girl's, "I can tell you, we're pretty proud of

her!" She had clearly cast herself already for the rôle of adoring and
devoted mother-in-law, and the Tuesday Club was just as clearly taking
the same view of it.
Jane, in her wine-red velvet and her glowing, gipsy beauty against the
sober blacks and grays and faded cheeks of the gathering, looking like a
Kentucky cardinal alighted in a henyard, felt her smile stiffening.
Sudden and inexplicable panic and rebellion descended upon her; it
seemed certain that if she heard Mrs. Wetherby say "proud of this dear
girl of ours" once again she would scream. She disengaged her arm and
declined tea and little frosted cakes.
"I'm so sorry--it looks so tempting, doesn't it?--but I really must fly!"
She looked earnestly at her wrist watch. "This very minute! Thank you
all so much! You've been wonderful--quite turned my head! But I must
hurry!"
Out in the quiet, pretty street the sense of pursuit fell away from her
and she was smiling derisively at herself when she reached Sarah
Farraday's house and passed through the side garden to the studio. An
hour with old Sally would be good for her.
Sarah was tenderly dusting her severe-looking upright piano and
putting away a pile of lesson books, and turned gladly to greet her.
"Jane, dear! Why, how did you get away so early? Didn't they serve tea?
I was just sick