Jane Lends A Hand Part 5

Young Mr. Sheridan might perhaps have grudgingly admitted that the morning was beautiful. It would have been hard even for a young man who had definitely made up his mind to be no longer pleased with anything, to deny that there was something almost pleasant in a day as soft and quiet as that June itself could bring, in a garden all enmeshed in net of stirring shadows, and in a free outlook toward hills that glowed with autumn colors.

The old "home place" wasn't so bad; rather overgrown with weeds and vines and somewhat dilapidated; the roof leaked on the third floor front, and the wooden steps at the back had broken down completely; but this crumbling and tumbling state harmonized with the state of young Mr.

Sheridan's mind. He accepted it with a sort of gloomy satisfaction. This general poetic decay seemed to him quite touchingly suitable to the mood which he fully believed was to color the declining years of his short and blasted life. Mr. Sheridan had convinced himself that he had received a crus.h.i.+ng blow; a blow that no self-respecting gentleman _ought_ to survive for very long. He had convinced himself that he neither could nor should be happy again. He had quite made up his mind that the world was a dreary waste, and all human beings, rascals and base deceivers, whose society a wise man would shun. This unfriendly humor was directed to mankind in general and to the feminine element in particular.

He had awakened that morning-his first in the old mansion-in a gigantic mahogany bed. Peterson, his servant, was kindling a fire to drive the lingering dampness out of the long unused room.

"Good morning, Mr. Tim, sir," said Peterson with objectionable cheerfulness, "I hope sir, ye had a good night?"

Mr. Sheridan eyed the old man with melancholy suspicion. He was loath to cla.s.s Peterson in with the rest of the miserable human race; nevertheless, it was wiser to trust no one absolutely-not even Peterson.

"Oh, well, I suppose I slept as well as I could expect, Peterson. An owl or something woke me up at about one o'clock, and I couldn't get to sleep for hours. But still-"

As a matter of fact, Mr. Sheridan had slept as soundly as a baby, but having been entirely unconscious while he did so, he certainly could not have _known_ whether he was asleep or awake. But his latest fancy was that he suffered from insomnia. Insomnia was the traditional affliction of all broken-hearted lovers, and there was no ailment common to the broken hearted that Mr. Sheridan would allow himself to forego.

"Any letters, Peterson?"

Of course there were no letters. In the first place, who knew or cared that he had buried himself away in this forsaken corner of the earth, and in the second place, what did letters mean to him, who with all the contempt that they deserved had severed his relations with his fellow beings-especially the feminine ones-forever. He must remember not to ask Peterson again if there were any letters. Peterson might imagine that he was so weak as to hope that Miss Abbot had repented of her cruel and barbarous treatment, and under no circ.u.mstances was Peterson to imagine anything of the sort. Why, on the contrary, if Mary, that is to say, Miss Abbot-were to come to him and beg his pardon on her knees, and tell him that she knew she was a wicked coquette, and unworthy of his slightest notice, he would say to her,

"No, Mary-or, No, Madam, what you ask now is no longer in my power to give. My forgiveness is yours-gladly, but neither you nor I can revive-or, but never again, I fear, can that sweet emotion-" or anyhow, something to the effect that while he forgave her gladly-he wouldn't forgive her at all. But magnanimously. He would be very magnanimous.

Nothing could be more crus.h.i.+ng than a lofty and unapproachable kindness.

He would let her know the extent of the damage she had wrought, but she should also be made to feel that he was capable of supporting it without bitterness-to the end.

So engrossed was he in the composition of that final speech of forgiveness and farewell-which he had composed at least a dozen times already-that he absent-mindedly tucked away every morsel of Peterson's generously provided breakfast, comprising fruit and coffee, poached eggs, bacon, marmalade, and half a dozen of the most exquisite rolls he had ever eaten.

"Those rolls, Peterson-they are rather nice," he remarked, with a touch of enthusiasm that he quickly suppressed.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Tim. I'm glad to have found something as pleases you, sir," said Peterson, with a perfectly grave face.

"Yes. My appet.i.te hasn't been very good lately."

"No, Mr. Tim," agreed Peterson, tactfully.

After a short silence, Mr. Sheridan asked indifferently,

"Where did you get them?"

"Up in the town, sir. There's a Bakery there sir as I never see the like of, Mr. Tim. Why, what with the cakes and rolls and puddin's and what-not, I fairly lost me eyes, sir! You should stroll up to the town, like, Mr. Tim. It's a neat little place, sure enough-"

His young master checked him gently, reminding him with a little wave of his hand, that he could not be expected to be interested in all that.

"But the rolls, Peterson. You might see that I have them for breakfast every morning." So saying, he lit a cigarette, and walked out through the open window into his garden to meditate; leaving Peterson to meditate in his turn on this absolutely novel way of acting that Mr. Tim had adopted. Why, he could hardly believe that this formal and taciturn gentleman was Mr. Tim at all, and the old man who remembered the days, not long since, when he had connived in all sorts of pranks and waggery; when he had, many's the time, been called in as judge and counsel as to how his young master should get himself out of this and that "sc.r.a.pe,"

when in fact, Mr. Tim never dreamed of doing anything without Peterson's opinion-remembering those jolly days when he had been honored with Mr.

Tim's perfect confidence, Peterson felt wounded. Then he glanced through the window. Mr. Tim, who had been promenading back and forth, leaning on a stick, in keeping with his extraordinary notion that blighted love always left one a semi-invalid, had now allowed himself to sink wearily onto a stone bench. On second thought, Peterson did not feel wounded; he felt rather like shaking dear Mr. Tim.

"Say what you like, that's no way to go on, now. Life's too easy for him, and that's the truth, though I don't say I wouldn't hate to see it hard for him. But to take on so, just because a young lady was pleased to make up her mind not to have him! 'Tisn't every young feller has the leisure to sit and mope himself into the vapors over a chip in his heart, that'll be whole again in three months." Then Peterson grinned.

After all, such absurdities had not been entirely absent from his own youth; and he could not find it in his heart to censure Mr. Tim severely for any of his eccentricities. In his opinion this young man whom he had systematically spoiled since his childhood was not to be judged by common standards. Things that one might call faults in other young gentlemen, became merely "peculiarities" in the case of Mr. Tim. And it was not Peterson alone who inclined to shameless leniency with young Mr.

Sheridan. His friends always managed to explain why it was perfectly all right for Tim to do things he oughtn't to do, and leave undone all the things he ought to do; at college his teachers were forever giving him one more chance, and at home his grumpy uncle scolded him and pampered him, and feebly allowed his usually sharp old wits to be completely fuddled by Tim's airy arguments.

"Somehow or other you'll manage to persuade all your devoted friends and wellwishers to help you to the dogs," Major Sheridan had once remarked acidly; and as proof of the truth of this, as the Major himself pointed out, the old man, notwithstanding many threats of disinheritance, had left every sou of his fortune to his nephew, simply because, while his common sense told him that the best thing in the world for the young man would be to leave him nothing at all, like Peterson he couldn't quite bear the thought of Tim's lacking anything.

At the age of twenty-seven, then, Timothy Sheridan possessed of an honorable name, health, wealth, good looks, and a very fair measure of intelligence, could consider himself sufficiently unenc.u.mbered by duties and responsibilities to indulge in the luxury of doing nothing whatever.

But somebody has said that no one can be thoroughly happy without finding something to be unhappy about; and the truth of the matter is that Mr. Sheridan was exceedingly gratified to discover that his heart was broken; though it need hardly be said that this was the last thing in the world he would ever have admitted. It was such a refres.h.i.+ngly new experience. His only fear was that he was not getting out of it all that some people claimed to feel. He checked up all his symptoms to make sure that he had the real disease. Sleeplessness, loss of appet.i.te, a longing for solitude-yes, he was quite sure that he had all these symptoms, and the satisfactory conclusion was that his heart was broken. He might really consider the matter settled. Now, what is the next thing to be done? Under the circ.u.mstances one should make no effort. One simply shunned society, amused oneself with solitary walks perhaps, looked on sceptically from afar at the insipid lives of other human beings, and made sweet melancholy a constant companion. But how long did one keep this up? The very fact that he could ask himself such a crudely practical question, made him feel rather uncomfortable; how could he even imagine the possibility of _wanting_ to do anything else?

He leaned back, and looked about him with an indifferent eye. From where he sat, he could see beyond the wall that enclosed the garden-a wall seven or eight feet high, its cracked plaster laced together by the strong black tendrils of the ivy-vine. If he turned his head he could see the whole length of Sheridan Lane. All the trees on Sheridan Lane had turned yellow, and the leaves strewing its cobblestones, looked like golden coins-the generous largess scattered in the progress of jovial King Autumn. Above the ma.s.s of frost-nipped foliage rose the rounded belfry of the old church, and underneath lay the double rows of pretty gardens all glowing with their asters and chrysanthemums.

Then, if he looked in front of him he saw those wine-tinted hills, rising beyond the gentle basin of the valley meadows, where the sun was melting the early morning frost, and scattering the light mists. Two men with leggins laced up to their st.u.r.dy knees, and carrying guns and game bags, were striding across the field, followed by their dogs. A glint of interest sparkled up in Mr. Sheridan's listless eyes.

"By Jove, I'll bet there's shooting here. I wonder if Peterson had the sense to pack my guns. I'll wire Phil to-night-" then he checked himself hastily. Such diversions were premature to say the least. But as he resumed his seat on the bench, his attention was attracted by another object. On the wall was something which had not been there when he had last looked in the direction of Sheridan Lane. Calmly planted on its broad flat top, with a pair of slender black-stockinged legs swinging, calmly polis.h.i.+ng off a monstrous scarlet apple on the front of a bright green sweater, sat a perfectly strange specimen of the condemned human race; and, what was more, it was unmistakably _feminine_. It was, in short, a girl of about fourteen years of age, though apparently not very tall for her years, with a dense mop of curly, reddish hair, a pair of uncommonly bright, and observant eyes, and the beaming hospitable smile of one who has the rare faculty of making herself thoroughly at home in any circ.u.mstances. Even Mr. Sheridan's cold and unmistakably hostile stare did not seem to make her feel that she was not welcome, or that she ought to offer any explanation for her presence. She looked at her apple, polished it some more, and at length fastened her sharp little teeth in its red cheek, biting off what seemed to be at least one half of the entire fruit.

After a pause, Mr. Sheridan said, with freezing courtesy,

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Oh, no," said Jane, kindly. "Nothing at all." And until she had finished her apple, and flung the core with admirable markmans.h.i.+p against a tree at the other side of the road, silence reigned-the silence of indignation and helplessness on Mr. Sheridan's part, of serene composure on Jane's.

"I am just looking around," she condescended to explain at last.

"I see," said Mr. Sheridan politely. "Do you know that you are trespa.s.sing?"

"Oh, yes. But that's all right. I'm always trespa.s.sing. I can't help it.

Out there-" she jerked her head in the direction of the fields, "there are signs everywhere you go, 'No trespa.s.sing.' But by the time I come to 'em I've already been trespa.s.sing for miles, so I might as well go on.

Besides, I've often done it purposely just to see what would happen, but nothing ever does." And having said this in a most rea.s.suring tone, she fished a second apple out of the pocket of her sweater and began to polish it as she had the first. To his horror, Mr. Sheridan saw that those green pockets were bulging.

"You'll make yourself ill," he remarked.

"Oh, no. I never make myself ill," said Jane.

"Are you going to eat _all_ those?" he demanded, pointing with his stick at her crammed pockets.

"Well, I could, easily," said Jane, "but you can have as many as you like. Catch." And she pulled out a third apple, and tossed it to him. He caught it; but feeling that it was not dignified even to pretend that he wanted it, he laid it down beside him on the bench.

"Try it," said Jane, "it's a good one. It's still wet, because I just picked it up. Mr. Webster has millions, and he _said_ I could take all I wanted. Here, I'll dry it for you if you don't want to get your handkerchief all wet."

"Thank you," said Mr. Sheridan, "I don't believe I care for it just now."

Another silence. Then as if the idea had just occurred to her, Jane said almost with alarm,

"_You_ don't mind my trespa.s.sing, do you, Mr. Sheridan?"

"How did you know my name?" he asked in surprise, and at the same time, feeling a trifle flattered. Like most people he was vain enough to be pleased when anyone seemed to know who he was without being told.

"Oh, I recognized you."

"Recognized me? When did you-"

"By your stick. Miss Lily said that you had a stick, and that you were youngish."

"Oh." A brief pause, during which Mr. Sheridan did not look displeased.

Jane, who never missed a change of expression, felt that she had hit upon a happy thread of conversation, and she ventured to commence another apple.