tried to arrange a match with her, through her father, who was willing enough, but she snubbed him most unmercifully; she knew George would not come home to claim her, and yet she would be constant.
’49 came; Jane was worse. “Try a London doctor.” She came to London—saw the doctor, a queer, abrupt man. When she went in, he looked at her a long while without speaking.
“Well, what’s the matter with you?”
“She’s no appetite, and—” began the mother.
“Let her speak. Let her speak herself. What’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t know, sir,” and the tears stood in her eyes.
“No. I don’t suppose you do. I do, though. I like your face and head—ring that bell, will you?”
“John, tell your mistress I wish to see her.”
She came.
“This young lady is coming to tea with you this evening; send the brougham to fetch her, will you?”
“Certainly, I will. What time, dear?”
“Settle that yourselves, only let me know. You’ll spare her, I’m sure, madam; and this day week call here again with her. She’ll be better then. Good morning.”
“No fee, too,” said Mrs. Vaughan, as they walked homewards.
Jane went to tea, and found the physician’s wife all that she looked for and longed for, a friend and comforter. She was stout, as English matrons only can be, without a trace of vulgarity; her manner and voice, gentle and winning in the extreme; and from her dark eyes there shone a light that made Jane feel, “Oh, if she had been my mother, I could tell her all;” and in a little while the poor child felt those arms round her, and her tears wiped away as she told her piteous tale of poor George. She felt almost happy again, for the first time for nearly four years, as this loving, tender woman soothed her.
“Your malady is mental,” she said to Jane, “I know, for my husband” (it went to Jane’s heart to hear the love and pride expressed in those words; she sighed as she thought that she might have said them herself, if he had come home), “my husband sometimes treats his patients as he has you; not very often though, dear. I don’t wonder at his liking you. What did he say?”
“He said he liked my face and head. I never heard anybody say they liked my head before. He—”
“Well, what about him?” said Dr. Burnett, who had just entered. “What does the J stand for? Julia? You don’t look like a Julia.”
“Jane, sir.”
“Ah! nice name. You’re in love. I can’t do you any good unless I know how to advise you. If you like to tell Mrs. Burnett and myself about it, perhaps we can do you some good then. It’s no use giving you drugs.”
Poor Jane! She could feel he was in earnest, and kind, too, with all his abrupt way, and she told them her tale again with many tears.
“Poor child!” he said, stroking her hair. “Poor child! your troubles come upon you very young, too. How do you amuse yourself?”
“I’m so wretched, I never care to.”
“What do you read? Chiefly religious books, and then feel miserable because you don’t attain to the condition of mind described in some of them? Sad blunder. Now listen to me. Your nature is not the kind to find happiness in contemplation alone; you must be active, and forget your sorrow in labour of some kind. All natures are not alike, and if you were to read and pray all day long, you’d be miserable still. You’re not formed for it; some are. You’re superstitious and silly; that slipper story shows no wisdom on your part. You must get over this; read George Combe’s book—there’s a cheap edition, and be active; do good, not outside, but at-home; there’s plenty for a willing mind to do in any family such as yours. You must find your happiness in making others happy. Get to some good mental exercise for about two or three hours a day. Try and learn German; play chess; and, above all, burn that diary you write in every night. You did not tell me about it, but I know it. Bad plan—very—too much looking inside does no good—burn it—don’t keep another. Don’t allow your mind to dwell upon your great trouble—he may come back. You shake that head of yours as though it were impossible. All nonsense about the slipper; and when he does, you’ll be better fitted to take care of him, if you do these things, than if you moan and fret yourself into the grave. Another thing. Try cold baths and the skipping-rope, backwards and forwards. There ought to be a skipping society, with prizes, to encourage that most healthy exercise, as there’s a society for everything now. Don’t misunderstand me. I want you to take plenty of exercise. You may read religious books, if you like; but don’t neglect these other matters, as you have done in time past. Now I must go. You can stay here with my wife as long as you agree. Good night, my child.”
Poor Jane was heard to say that she was happier that evening than she had been before or since, except the night that she walked home with George fromand Jane said no more then. “What’s come to Jane, I wonder? She’s not slapped me for a month—not even when I upset the ink all over her letter to Mrs. Burnett.”“I don’t know, Miss Ellen,” said Susan, “but she’s just as good-tempered and kind as she used to be before Mr. George went away, only she seems to be different like,—like as though she didn’t care for anything.”
Alas! poor Jane! She would not think of her absent one; from morning till night she was always employed. Her father noticed the change, and, with the dulness peculiar to some men, supposed she had forgotten George, and with the rest of the world thought him dead. He spoke to the rejected suitor, who again pressed his claims, and murmured something about “comfortable home,” “father’s consent,” “not a young man but healthy,” “great respect,” “admiration,” “love for her,” “if Miss Jane would take him he’d be