THE SYMPATHY OF JANE.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2354, 21 November 1908, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE SYMPATHY OF JANE.

(By J. L. Glover.)

Sympathy was Jane Harrow’s strong point. From her youth up her friend’s affairs, whether love or otherwise, had ia genuine and perennial interest for her. Confidences were poured into her ears, and to do her justice she did not pass them on. She talked little herself, but she had a way of leaning forward in her chair and fixing a- pair of intelligent eyes 011 one’s lace 1 witli an intent gaze, as if nothing in the world interested her so much just, then as the person -she was looking at; and then, saying in soft tones: “Now tell me something about yourself.” The one to whom she spoke would invariably yield to (lie charm of those earnest eys, and in response to the -invitation would , find himself or herself pouring out 'personal history, thoughts or experiences. And whether the speaker was a middle-uged scientist explaining his latest theory of the universe, or a dry-as-dust professor riding his hobby, or a young girl with her first love affair, Jane listened with the same expression of vivid interest in her eyes, putting in a sympathetic word now and then, which lured one on to further and deeper confidences. “How is it everybody tells you everything?” little Alice Fenwick asked her wistfully once. “Oli, because I like to hear them, 1 suppose,” Jane answered, smiling into tbc little llower-like- face.

“And you never tell, do von, Jane?”

“1 should never dream of betraying any one’s confidence,” said Jano gently. “1 should think you knew mo better thau that. Alice.”

Little Alice only sighed and went away; but a few later she came to Jane with a piteous face. “Tell me all about it, dear,” encouraged Jane.

They were alone in her room, which looked out on a green orchard, with rows of peach trees whose fruit was just blushing rosily among the setting of glossy leaves. A pear tree grew so near the window that they could almost reach out and gather its golden fruit. Jane sat down in a low chair by the window and pointed to another, lower and more comfortable still.

“Jusi sit down here and tell me all about it,” she said again, in her sympathising voice. And Alice resisted no longer, but poured out ail her burdened heart, sitting there' with her face hidden in Jane’s lap. It was a foolish little story enough. Just a girlish love affair, and how. she and Bob were sure they could never care for anybody else, and papa said it wa6 all nonsense, and she was much too young even to iDink of such a tiling. And she was nineteen, and Bob was old : enough to be at college, and she thought- it was mean; and here the tears choked Alice’s speech. Jane patted her hair and sympathised and counselled patience, and after a while Alice cheered up and went home, promising to tell her further developments. The next evening there was a dance; a sociable village affair, to which all wore invited. Jane rarely danced. She disliked getting warm and dishevelled. It was her speciality to “sit out” in shady corners and listen to- confidences; reappearing, cool and mini filed, when the dance was ended, for a brief promenade on her partner’s arm. To her retired moonlit corner of tho piazza, whence she could sec the roomful of dancers, came Bob, when the evening was half over. “All alone, Miss Jane? I’ve been hunting for 3*011.” “Have you? That was nice of 3*ol1 — when Alice is here,” said Jane, with soft meaning.

“Alice—oll, she looks very prctt3 r this evening, doesn’t she,” said the boy, his eyes following the bewitching Ittlo figure in white with pink roses.

A sympathetic took, a few encouraging words land soon Jane was listening to the other side of Alice’s story. It seemed to interest her deeply, wonderfully, and presently, before lie knew it, the lad found himself telling her of the other girl, back at college, -who would l'eel herself slighted if she knew about Alice.

“It’s an awful complication,” lie finished gloomily. “I can’t give Alice up, and yet she—the other girl—thinks I am hound to her.” “It is a complication,” agreed Jane softly. “And yet, Boh, I believe it will come alright, after a while. It's the course of true love, you know. Alice’s father objecting, and this other girl, are only the rapids in the. current. It will flow smoothly- bv-aud-by. ~lf I were you, I should tell the other girl about it, and ask her to give you bade your promise—-if she thinks you a re; bound to her. Oil, I am sure it will all come right. And you’will tell me when it does, won’t you? You know I shall be so interested.”

‘.‘lt’s mighty good of you,” said the boy gratefully,

So Jane thus established as the confidante of both lovers, found herself piled with details, which she thoroughly enjoyed. After Bob’s return to college he wrote to her, telling of the progress of affairs with “the other girl,” and little Alice came frequently to pour her woes into the ear which seemed never to tire of hearing the oft-told tale.

It was riot to be expected that so sympathetic a person as Jane should fail of haying a lover of her own. . Therefore no one was surprised when .Wallace Ripley, coming to spend the summer in the village for a rest and quiet .and opportunity to study, sucf cumbed to the charm of her earnest gray eyes and intelligent face. To Mm Jane lent the same interested ear, put the same gentle questions calculated to draw forth confidences and, as usual, she was not disappointed. Before the summer was half over, he |had told her everything about himself, as far hack as ho could remember, and given her a sketch of his work and his plans for the future. “Blit perhaps I am boring you witli .all this,” ho said, one day suddenly realising that what Jane did not know about him was hardly worth knowing. It was an August evening, just at sunset, hot and still. They were walking up and down in a glowing crimson atmosphere. The sky threw , strange rosy reflections on Jane’s pale face and white dress. He paused in the middle of a long story to look at her and task his tentative question.” “If you are tired, pray say so. But you are the only person who really seems to care to hear, and so, perhaps, I trespass on your kindness.” “You know I care,” said Jane, in her soft voice. “Please go on.” He rushed on headlong, and before sho could guess what was coming, she found herself listening to his eager, passionate words of love. She did not interrupt him. Perhaps she could not. At any rate she made no attempt to stem the torrent of his words, but she heard, him in silence to the end.

Her answer, when he paused for it, was neither yea nor nay. Perhaps she was not prepared to give a definite answer. She was taken by surprise ; she did not know her own heart. But when Wallace Ripley went away he had wrung from her a promise that he might come back after a while and try his fate again.

The winter wore away. Little Alice’s love story had come to a satisfactory conclusion at Christmas. Wallace Ripley was in the city, writing eager letters to Jane. Jane, herself, was writing constantly d-uring the winter, but her writing did not seem to be letters; at least, few envelopes addressed in her clear cliirography passed through the village postollico. In the spi’ing appeared a new book—a popular novel, which bore Jane Darrow’s name on the title page. “A charming idyl,” the critic said. “A picture of life drawn by an artist’s hand.” Some compared it to “Cranford,” an. its faithful delineation of simple village life and character. The hook made a veritable sensation.

But in Jane’s liome Tillage, whither its fame promptly penetrated, the sensation was not one of unmixed pleasure. Jianc’s friends, reading, found themselves and their experiences laid bare to the public in a manner graceful and artistic, indeed, but trying to the tempers of retiring persons who prefer to live in obscurity..

Alice and Bob’s love story was neatly interwoven. - Scenes and conversations were transcribed faithfully. Jane was, in fact, not an artiste, but a photographer, an copyist. “But the names arc all changed. No one could recognise it,” she pleaded, when taxed with this faithfulness to life.

But the aggrieved ones were not mollified. Jane, from being the most popular girl in the village, became the most unpopular. But a sterner Nemesis still was to overtake her. .■Wallace Ripley came, pale, stonyoyed, the book in his hand. He pointed to a page wherein his own passionate declaration of love was detailed, word for word, in cold print. “Jane,” ho said, “you profess to love me, and yet you could print that?”

Jane was silent bolero his accusing oyes. A sudden light flashed into her mind. She had not oared for this man at first, and she had remorselessay used him as/ “material.” Now she realised vividly that she loved him. “Profess —” she faltered at last, “do you not believe it then?” “Believe it? No. I see you have been most diligent in gathering material for your book, most careful in preserving the local color. Pardon one if I do not care to figure in your next. I wish it a great success.” He bowed courteously and went iaway down the orchard path to the gate; and Jane was left alone, to suffer the’natural consequence of playing with edged tools.