“I will pull up, Jane. It is not as bad as story-tellers make out. But I will pull up; I promise you; and I’ll begin from this day.”
Jane Preen did not like to remind him that he had said the same thing many times before; rather would she trust to his renewed word. When a girl is in love, she has faith in modern miracles.
Valentine held her to him very closely. “You believe me, don’t you, my darling?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Down came a voice to them from some remote path near the house, that was anything but a whisper. “Jane! Jane Preen! Are you in the garden? or are you upstairs with Julietta?”
Jane stole swiftly forward. “I am here, Clementina—it is cool and pleasant in the night air. Do you want me?”
“Your boy is asking how long he is to wait. The horse is fresh this evening, and won’t stand.”
“Has the gig come!” exclaimed Jane, as she met Miss Clementina. “And has Sam brought it! Why not Oliver?”
Clementina Chandler shook her head and the yellow ribbons which adorned it, intimating that she did not know anything about Oliver. It was the servant boy, Sam, who had brought the gig.
Jane hastily put on her bonnet and scarf, said good night, and was helped into the gig by Valentine—who gave her hand a tender squeeze as they drove off.