Jane Lends A Hand

by Shirley Watkins

“Called on him!”

“Well, I thought someone ought to see what he was like. And he was very nice. What I’ve been wondering is what he does with himself all the time. He says he wants solitude, and that he doesn’t want to have to see any people, but I think that’s all nonsense. I think he’s bored to death with himself.”

“Do you know what?” said Annie Lee, “I’m going to ask mother to invite him to our party. If he doesn’t want to he doesn’t have to come; but everyone else in Frederickstown is invited, and its all so informal and everything, I don’t see why we shouldn’t ask him too. It would be perfectly all right, because I think father knows him. I know father used to know Major Sheridan, because I’ve heard him talk about when they were in the Spanish American war.”

This idea became popular immediately. Even Amelia had no objections to make, and was in fact already making certain mental improvements on the costume she had planned.

But Lily was silent. Amelia’s criticism of her behavior had wounded her to the quick, and with a sober face she began quietly to take off her finery, as if some of the fascination had evaporated from that dashing Spanish comb, and even from the thought of scarlet heels.

[CHAPTER VIII—JANE LENDS A HAND]

Mr. Sheridan, like Achilles, had been sulking for a remarkably long time. It is true that some men and women are able to nurse a grievance for life; but Mr. Sheridan was too young, and too healthy not to find himself, at the end of some eight weeks, thoroughly bored, restless and dissatisfied with himself. He was not ready to admit this yet, however. He believed that he had proved conclusively that it was in every way the wisest thing to withdraw in lofty disgust from the arena of human affairs, and while his present course of life had the charm of novelty, he was unwilling to admit that he was possibly mistaken. For a time he rather enjoyed the rôle of the misanthrope, and cynic. But it was not his natural character, by any means, and notwithstanding the fact that he believed that he did not want to have anything to do with anyone, he found his new rôle exceedingly tiresome to play day in and day out without an audience. Peterson, who was as bored as he, and who could not understand “what had gotten into Mr. Tim,” was sour and unsympathetic; and finding the need of someone as confidant, absolutely imperative, the embittered recluse of five-and-twenty, resorted to writing long letters to his one-time boon companion, Philip Blackstone, in which he poured forth his uncomplimentary opinions of human nature, gave lengthy descriptions of his states of mind, and accounts of his mode of living. Phil, a hearty young man, who loved horses and dogs, who was quite helpless without his friends, and hated writing letters, responded tersely enough, inquiring what was the matter with him anyway. The correspondence died out. Mr. Sheridan tried to devote himself to books, but the long, unbroken hours of silence in the musty old library depressed him terribly. He took long walks, and long rides for exercise, but his own thoughts were dull company. He rode through the woods and the idle, untilled fields of his own estate, and was struck by the contrast between his own barren, unkempt lands with the thriving farms of his neighbors. It occurred to him to go in for farming in the spring, to plant corn and wheat, and to get cows and horses, to build barns and paddocks, and to rent out part of his land to some of the thrifty, shrewd young farmers, the newly married ones. The idea delighted him; he wanted to talk about it, to get the opinions of some of the intelligent land-owners of the neighborhood, and to air his own notions. But gradually his enthusiasm waned again. He was getting lazy and listless. Every effort seemed useless to him. He began to feel very much abused because no one was interested in him. Miss Abbott had treated him very badly, even Peterson was as cross with him as the old servant’s good manners would allow, Phil scolded him in his short dry letters, and finally had stopped writing altogether, and that bright little red-headed girl had never come to see him again. When he walked through the town he felt abused because everyone seemed to be having a better time than he. They all knew each other; the women stopped to chat on their way to market, the men talked local politics and business in the doorways of the warehouses; when he passed they touched their hats respectfully, and stared after him curiously, as if he were something that had dropped from another planet. He was in a chronically bad humor. That the world in general had taken him at his word, and left him entirely alone put him still more at odds with it, and the fact that he knew he was living idly and uselessly put him at odds with himself. If he had stopped to consider, he would have discovered very quickly that he was not heart-broken as he imagined at all; he was simply angry. He tried to excuse himself for his aimless existence by arguing that no one cared what he did, and that it was impossible for a man to keep up his enthusiasm about anything when there was no one to please but himself. He told himself that everything was the fault of the heartless Miss Abbott; but as a matter of fact if he thought a great deal about Miss Abbott’s unkind treatment, he thought surprisingly little about Miss Abbott herself. He was quite shocked one day to discover how blurred her very features had become in his memory. A lot of fair, curly hair—which somehow changed to smooth black tresses when he tried to represent it in his fancy—a rosy, coquettish face, and the arch, self-confident smile of a girl who had begun to learn when she was less than sixteen that she was beautiful and irresistible. But all the features of that pretty, imperious face were indistinct, and when he tried to picture it very clearly, he found to his dismay and amazement that he wasn’t thinking of that face at all. Another one had replaced it, a shy, demure little face, the features of which were very distinct indeed, so distinct that he could not doubt for a moment to whom it belonged. This was rather an alarming discovery to be made by a young man who had definitely decided that all women were henceforth to be indignantly and strictly avoided. And it was with dismay that he found himself repeatedly thinking about a certain brief accidental conversation that he had had with the timid, black-haired maiden in the field.

“Dogs are so intelligent,”—and then they had spoken of the relative intelligence of cats. Not a very brilliant conversation, certainly, and it piqued him a little to think that he had not been able to say something more interesting and original; yet the girl had listened as intently as if every word he had uttered was a mine of wisdom.

On the other hand, it was certainly quite possible that all girls were not as treacherous as the beautiful Miss Abbott. Here he pulled himself up short, and displeased at his own weakness, firmly resolved not to waste another thought on Lily. It was all the fault of that little red-headed Jane, who had popped in on his solitude, and roused his interest in Lily Deacon by flattering his vanity.

One morning, early in Christmas week, Peterson brought him a note. Mrs. Webster had couched her invitation in the ceremonious, courtly style of her generation, reminding him of the friendship that had existed between her husband and his uncle, and expressing her hope that he would give them the pleasure of his company on New Year’s Eve.