It was nearly half-past four when the old lady suddenly realized how little of the time she had given to the lesson. Then she made a last attempt to assume her dignity.
“Well, now, my dear. Let me see. I think that if only you will train yourself—so much depends on our own selves, you know, my dear.” And then after a second little discourse, delivered no doubt principally to assure herself that everything she had been saying had had some bearing on Jane’s particular case, she picked up her inevitable knitting-bag, and took her departure.
Jane, remembering her promise to Elise, to return Lily’s patterns, set out toward the Deacon’s house.
It stood just at the top of Sheridan Lane, a sleepy, prim old street, regarded as being rather fashionable and aristocratic, principally because at the lower end of it stood the deserted Sheridan mansion, which, notwithstanding the fact that its owners had not deigned to pay any attention to it in fifteen years, was still one of the prides of Frederickstown.
The quiet street was paved with cobblestones as it descended the hill from Frederickstown itself, as far as the ancient rusty fountain, in whose basin the leaves collected in the autumn, and the birds bathed in the spring; but on the opposite side, where the hill began its rise, the street became simply a white dusty road, leading on through sweet smelling fields, over wooden bridges, where a meadow stream doubled back on itself in loops, past the Sheridan mansion, which marked the limits of Frederickstown proper, and on to the open country.
The branches of the elm trees arched over Janey’s head, and now and then, shaken by a drowsy breeze, the yellowed leaves fell noiselessly.
Through the open window of the Deacon’s little parlour, came the sound of chords struck on a tinkling square piano, followed by scales and arpeggios sung in a sweet, if rather timid and unsubstantial, feminine voice.
“Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah.” Chord. “Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah.” Chord. And so on, patiently up the scale. Miss Deacon was practising. It was a part of her daily program, and never would it have entered Lily’s head to deviate from that daily program, mapped out by her excellent but strong-minded and dictatorial mamma. Singing was a very genteel accomplishment for a young lady, and Mrs. Deacon desired above all things that Lily should be elegant.
Jane leaned on the window sill, and listened to the scales for a little while, watching Miss Lily’s slender throat swell and quiver like a bird’s.
“How pretty she is. If I were as pretty as that, I think I’d be perfectly happy; but she always looks sort of sad. Maybe it’s because she’s always being fussed at.”