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Updated: June 9, 2025
Once he stopped them, startled, to listen to the cock partridge drumming to its mate.... Sometimes, of an evening, when Janet was helping Mrs. Maturin in her planting or weeding, Insall would join them, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt and kneeling beside them in the garden paths. Mrs. Maturin was forever asking his advice, though she did not always follow it.
Maturin appeared, with an envelope in her hand. "I've got a letter from Brooks Insall, Janet," she said, with a well-disguised effort to speak naturally. "It's not the first one he's sent me, but I haven't mentioned the others. He's in Silliston and I wrote him about the daughter." "Yes," said Janet. "Well he wants to come up here, to see you, before we go away.
"I should rather put it that the strike is in her." "What do you mean, Brooks?" But Insall did not reply. Janet came away from Dey Street in a state of mental and emotional confusion. The encounter with Mrs.
Janet would grow hot from shyness. "Say what you think, my dear," Mrs. Maturin would urge her. "And remember that your own opinion is worth more than Shakespeare's or Napoleon's!" Insall would escort her home to Mrs. Case's boarding house.... One afternoon early in June Janet sat in her little room working at her letters when Brooks Insall came in.
Not that she had any compunction in keeping Janet's secret, even from Insall; but sometimes as she contemplated it the strings of her heart grew tight. Silliston was so obviously where Janet belonged, she could not bear the thought of the girl going out again from this sheltered spot into a chaotic world of smoke and struggle. Janet's own feelings were a medley.
"It's curious he didn't mention her having been Ditmar's stenographer," Insall put in. "Was that reticence?" "I hardly think so," Augusta Maturin replied. "It may have been, but the impression I got was of an incapacity to feel the present.
"Well, it's time you were home again," she exclaimed, as she rose to greet him and led him to a chair on the little flagged terrace beside the windows of her library. "I've got so much to tell you about our invalid." "Our invalid!" Insall retorted. "Of course. I look to you to divide the responsibility with me, and you've shirked by running off to Maine.
But there is a remnant of fire in him. Once, when he spoke of the strike, of the foreigners, he grew quite indignant." "He didn't tell you why his daughter had joined the strikers?" Insall asked. "He was just as much at sea about that as you and I are. Of course I didn't ask him he asked me if I knew. It's only another proof of her amazing reticence.
The dictum Insall quoted, that modern culture depended largely upon what one had not read, was applied to her; a child of the new environment fallen into skilful hands, she was spared the boredom of wading through the so-called classics which, though useful as milestones, as landmarks for future reference, are largely mere reminders of an absolute universe now vanished.
"Oh, I don't intend to turn her over to Mr. Worrall and make a sociologist and a militant suffragette out of her. She isn't that kind, anyhow. But I could give her good literature to read yours, for instance," she added maliciously. "You're preposterous, Augusta," Insall exclaimed. "I may be, but you've got to indulge me. I've taken this fancy to her of course I mean to see more of her.
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