Democratic Sentinel, Volume 6, Number 43, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 November 1882 — “LITTLE JANET.” [ARTICLE]

“LITTLE JANET.”

Why Janet Dean was called little, I donbtif any one conld have exactly told. It was not because she was small, for she was quite up to the average size of womanhood. Perhaps it may have beep on account of the child-like innocence, which seemed to cling to her, although she had passed her 25th birthday, and was what is termed an old maid—a something that never seemed to trouble her in the least. One or two well-to-do farmers of the neighborhood had offered themselves in marriage; but Janet, wi ll a manner peculiarly her own, managed to dismiss the lovers while retaining the friends. Other thoughts werastirring within her mind. Thoughts of a broader, nobler life, that might perhaps be hers, if she only knew how to reach it. Not that she w ts discontented. She knew that she ought to be very lq»ppy—and she was; for hers was a sunny nature. For fifteen years she had dwelt un-dor-the old game-Tbof farm-house, the home of her uncle and aunt, and had been to them as a daughter. They had taken the orphan one not only into their home but into their hearts, and the little Scotch lassie grew up amorig these simple village folk as pure and as bonny as the wild flowers that nestled their wee. head < in the heather around the mountain home of Janet’s early childhood. She never forgot that homo, or the words of the father who was so loving and wise and taught his “wee bit lassie,” as he used often to call little Janet, many things far beyond her years. For some three months Janet had shown unusual interest ip the mail, and had even paid frequent visits to the village postofiice herself. It was on one of the warmest afternoons they had hail that summer that Janet presented herself once more at the little window where the Postmaster dealt out the letters, the rest of the store being devoted to jars of lollipops, jaw-breakers, peppermint-st cks, castoroil, ginger-bread, cookies, pipes, tobacco, etc. “No-a, I guess theer bean’t nothin’, Miss Janet,” slowly drawled old Mr. Steel, adding rather more briskly: “Why! yes, theer be. It’s from New York, tew. Yer bean’t got a beau out theer, have yer, now, Miss Janet? That Sam must ha’ took it out when I was over ter Bingley’s. Miss Janet Dean,” continued the old man, as he turned the letter slowly round, eying it from all quarters, “that be you an’no mistake. Guess yer got a beau after all.” At last, almost reluctantly, the letter r w» handed to its owner, and old Mr. I Steel looked rather disappointed as Janet, with: “Thank you, Mr. Steel,” turned away, the letter still unopened in her hand. . Janet’s feet seemed to fly over the ground, until safe within the shelter of the woods which ski ted the village. 'There, throwing herself down under the shade of a venerable oak, she hastily broke the seal; as she did so, something fluttered to the ground. With a little cry of delight Janet picked it up. It was a $lO bill. Ten dolhfk all her own, and best of all earned, by her own hands! and at the thought a ripple c>f laughter escaped from between Janet’s pretty teeth. Then, bethinking herself of the letter, she opened it and read that the edi or of Sprightly's Magazine was pleased to accept het poem, entitled “Diana Greet,” for which he inclosed $lO.

Would like to hear from her again, etc. Over and over again Janet read the words that had brought her so much pleasure. At last one of her poems had been accepted. When would it be published, she wondered, and how would it look in print? Was its acceptance a mere acpiece of gocxl luck, like the finuing of a coin in the highway, which : might never occur again ? or might she indeed hope hereafter to make a living by her pen ? Hp> pretty4he woods looked this afternoon, and how cool they were after rthfe hot, dusty road. Some one else thought so, too, as he turned into their shady depth*’. What was that? And Janet started to her feet, as the clear, rich tones of a man’s vpice wane borne toward her, sinking the irbrds: “An ell-]ang wee thing then I ran * •’ 5 *W the ItWSvneebor bairns. To pu’ the hazel s shining nuts, An' Jo wander ’mang t e ferns; An’ tofeate on tli® bramb!e-befries brown, i An’ gathexthe glossy slaes By the bnrnre'B’si'l’e: an’ ave sinsyne I ha’e loved sweet Orde Braes.” lips apart and i he color coming and>_going in her fait cheeks, Janet listened. Back rolled the cur tai mos the past, and now she saw again net bairnhood’s hajpe as if it were but yesterday. i Nearer and hearer drevi the voice, but Janet had forgotten the singer in the words, which She was listening to so eagerly. if T Vjtere oply an artist,” thought the gentleman, as he in rounding a bend came suddenly upon Janet, “what a picture she would take.” Janet’s graceful head was Bent slightly forward, -while a stray ray of sunqhtafrjpeginfc the fair hair turned it into tliMtaaife of gold; here and there it had slipped from its fastenings and curled in soft tendrils about neck and brow. A tender, wistful expression, was in the deep blue eyes, which clianged to a look of surprise as they fdl upon the gentleman, while she exclaifaed: “Ob! was tM you singing ‘Orde

Raising his hat, the gentleman an“Yes; do you know it?” “Oh! yes. Would you mind very ifi«*h singing it again?” And Janet’s eyeat were bent pleadingly upon the stranger this time. So saying, Robert Graham/ leaning carelessly against a tree, sang the through from beginning to end. As the last note dropped from his lips, Janet said warmly: “Thank you ever so much. I have not heard it since I was a child, and it seemed to take me right back to it all. I am Scotch,” added she, proudly. “So am I,” quickly responded Mr. “Are you? Fm so— Janet paused, while the color deepened in her cheeks. “I hope you are not going to say you were sorry,” here observed her companion, half smiling, as he glanced down at the sweet face beside him. “No—l think lam glad. It is nice to meet a countryman, you know,” answered Janet frankly. “So it is; but I don’t think I was ever before so forcibly struck b it, y replied Mr. Graham gravely, continuing with—- “ Perhaps you cobld tell me whereabouts the Madison farm is ? I have arrived a day earlier than expected, so of course no one was at the depot to meet me. ” Raising her clear eyes to his, Janet asked, smiling a little: “Are you the sick gentleman who is coming to stay at the farm awhile?” “Yes; I have been rather out of sorts, »nd thought I would try a dose of country air for a bit. I believe I feel better already,” and Robert Graham returned Janet’s smile with interest, as she said: “lam Janet Dean, Farmer Madison’s niece. If you like, I will show you the way.” Which offer was immediately accepted. As they slowly passed through the woods, Janet talked of her peaceful life among the village folk and a little of those days of her bairnhood. She saw no reason why she should not speak freely to this gentleman. Was he not to occupy her aunt’s best spare room, and had he not been highly recommended to her uncle, who had no objections to taking a boarder for the summer, provided he was of the right sort. Mr. Graham had hardly been an inmate of the farm for more than two weeks, before mothenly Mrs. Madison informed Janet:' “That it seemed as natrel to see Mr. Graham round as i did old Towser.” And Janet? Her whole soul was atune with the new life that had dawned for her. As her deft fingers performed their many duties about the farm-house these days, little bursts of songs trilled up for very gladness from her happy heart. Her friend —in her heart she always called him that—how good and noble he was, and so talented, .yet making so little of it all. And he, this man of the world, who had been flattered and made so much of for years, found himself watching Janet with new interest every-hour. It was rest to gaze upon her pure, sweet face, to come in contact with a nature so utterly without guile. The women he hid known —ah! well, they had not made him better. One evening, toward the end of the summer, and the last night of Mr. Graham's stay among them, Janet and he stood watching the sunset. Both had been busy with their own thoughts for some few minutes, when Mr Graham broke, the silence with: “Miss Janet, suppose yon once made a mistake in your life, a mistake which for a time only injured yourself, but afterward threatened to involve others in its meshes. What would do?” Lifting her truthful eyes to his, Janet answered, a little puzzled: “I think I would try to undo it. It would not be right to let it injure another.” “Child!” and Robert Graham’s voice grew husky as he added: “But suppose it was impossible to undo the m stake, if he were ever so willing. Don’t look so puzzled, little friend. I will make my meaning clearer. Years ago a friend of mine fell in love —that’s the stereotyped phrase, is it not?” There was a bitterness to Robert Graham's tones that Janet had never heard before, which made her gl mce up quickly; he, noting it, hurriedly went on with: “The girl was pretty—and he married her, to learn too late thaf he had taken unto himself for a wife a vain,' frivolous creature, who soon developed into a woman of fashion. A love built on so frail a structure soon died. They lived together as thousands of such couples do, she going her way, he his. The only solace this man had was his pen, which brought him fame, and that which perhaps he cared for less, wealth. No money, he thought, could undo the mistake he had made. One day there came into this life a woman, as pure and innocent ns a little child. He had not believed there existed such an one. His faith in woman was weak. To this man, who had grown bitter against the world anid himself, this pure nature was like the clear, sparkling bubble of a little brook would be to one parched with thirst. He drank eagerly of the words that fell from her innocent lips and grew refreshed thereby. What might his life have been with such a woman at his side, came the wild thought. He knew his folly and tried to flee from it, but something stronger than himself held him to the spot. Even if he were free, could he ever expect to win the love of such as she? And yet sometimes he believed she was not wholly indifferent. She knew nothing of him, but somehow he knew that she trusted and believed in him. After a while the idea came to him that he might be able with money so get a separation from his wife, and then—Janet! little Janet! say you were -the woman my friend loved, would—would you become his wife, if he could .do this?” As Robert Graham spoke, the pretty flush that had trembled in Janet’s cheeks died slowly away and the far-off, wistful look crept into her eyes. Raising them to the pale, earnest face, every mark and line of which was dear to her, she said slowly, as if counting the cost of her words:

“What God has joined together, let no Yrtan put asunder.” Bowing his head, Robert Graham reverently lifted the little hand that trembled slightly as it touched his and pressed it to his lips with the words: “I am answered, little Janet. Truest and best of womankind, I thank God that I have known thee. ” Then he turned and left her. And with him all the brightness of Janet’s life seemed to depart, and her heart pried out: “Robert! my King! how can I live without you?” Yet her own hand had shut out this glory from her life; but she had been right. To do otherwise would have been untrue to him, to herself. The next day Mr. Graham departed, much to Farmer Madison’s and his wife’s regret. To Janet fell the task of picking Up the odds and ends that Mr. Graham had left scattered about his room. Something she lifted from the table and pressed tenderly to her lips. It was the veriest stump of a lead pencil, but it had been his, his hands had touchedit, making it precious to Janst’B> pyee.

As she turned to leave the room, a small package attracted Janet’s Attention. It was addressed to herself. Hastily undoing it, she brought to view a handsomely bound volume of poems, in the first page of which was written in the hand she knew so well: For little Janet, from her sincere friend, the author. ’Bert Ingush. He, Mr. Graham, was the famous poet, Bert Ingliss, whose poems she had read with such delight; and he had never told her. - Then in crept the thought in spite of herself: “And he loves me, Janet Dean,” How shenad shown him her poor little verses and asked his opinion of them. What rubbish he must have thought them; yet how kindly he had listened and advised her. The weeks slipped by, and months took their place. Janet grew perhaps a trifle thinner, and the wistful look deepened in her eyes. The song was not so ready to fall from her lips as heretofore, but her simple duties were performed just the same; nothing was slighted. Her uncle and aunt were very proud of Janet’s literary ability, Uncle Madison being overheard to remark: “Well, now, I'm not a bit surprised; a lass that can make bread and pies like our little Janet—and her applesauce isn’t to be beat anyhow—can do a’most anything. Anyhow, she comes by it nateral enough; her father, my sister Mary’s husband, was oncommon smart wi’ the larnin’, I ha’ heer tell.” As a writer, Janet was succeeding beyond her most sanguine expectations. She often wondered if he saw her poems, and what he thought of them. She never knew how much of her first success was due to tlfe influence Robert Graham wielded in her behalf. Another summer was drawing to a close, when one afternoon Janet sought the cool depths of the wood. All day there had been a strange longing upon her to visit the place where she had first met the man who had been so much to her, and was still, despite all. Back her thoughts traveled over the past, as she sat necth the shade of the same old oak where she had read her first editor’s letter. Was she dreaming, or what? A voice was singing “Orde Braes.” White as the dress she wore, Janet stood, her hand pressed against her fast-beating heart, gazing with an intense, yearning look in the direction from which the voice came. Another moment, and Robert Graham slowly emerged from behind the trees. With an exclamation of delight he hastened toward Janet and took her in his arms. For an instant she rested passively within his embrace, then slowly, but firmly, she put him from her. “Janet, do you know I hoped you would be here, and something whispered to me to sing ‘ Orde Braes ? ’ Oh, my darling, come to me,” and Robert Graham held out his arms entreatingly. “Don’t!” and Janet turned away with an imploring gesture. Her strength was failing her, she feared. “Don’t,” he repeated; “why, Janet, have you forgotten me?” “No; I never could do that,” came the earnest reply. “Child, there is no reason in the world why you should not come to me if you love me. You do not understand. She is dead. In all honor, I can now woo you for my wife. I know that I am many years your elder, but I thought—oh! my darling, was I wrong ? For God’s sake, don’t tell me that!” Still Janet did not move. The words, “She is dead,” kept ringing in her ears. His wife he meant. Somehow she could not grasp it quite at once. “Janet, I love you so well that if I thought you did not care for me, that the sight of me gave pain to your gentle heart, I would go away, and never trouble you again.” “Go away!”—the words repeated themselves over and over in Janet’s mind. No, she could not bear that now, and one of Janet’s little hands was laid detainingly upon Mr. Graham’s arm. Clasping it within his own, he said: “Shall I stay, Janet?” Then the love that Janet had held so long in check burst its bounds, and reaching up her arms she drew her lover’s head down upon her breast, exclaiming passionately as his lips sought hers: “Robert! my king! I love you! I love you!” Her woman’s heart had spoken, and Robert Graham knew that he had found rest at last. Then,the rich color dyeing her cheeks, Janet loosened her clasp, only to find herself pressed close in her lover’s arms. This time she did not resist, but nestled in the safe shelter with a little sigh of contentment. For a moment neither spoke, when, somewhat shyly, Janet said: “Do'you know I was so frightened when I found out what a famous pOet you were? And to think I had let you read my poor little verses!” Drawing her still closer to him he answered : “Do you think there is a line of your poems I do not know by heart, my Janet? And I am proud of you and them.” A happy light sparkled in Janet’s eyes at the praise of the man she loved, as he continued with: “My wife will always let me see her work first, will she not?” For answer, Janet raised her lips to his, and, as he bent to receive the seal of her promise, he murmured caressingly: “Little Janet, little Janet.”