The Clever Miss Jancy

About the Book

Miss Orabel Jancy is indeed clever, and she knows it. The oldest of widowed Squire Jancy's six children, all living at home, Orabel is the author of several scientific books, and has many letters after her name. To Orabel, education and intellectual pursuits are everything that matter in life. She is secretary of a women's intellectual club that teaches that women are superior to men, and the members have all agreed to remain single because men would hold them back in their academic goals. However, when Orabel was born, a deathbed promise was made with a friend that Orabel and the friend's son, Harold Kingdon, should be given the opportunity to marry. Nobody thinks to mention this to Orabel, and she only learns of the arrangement when she is grown up and Harold Kingdon is already on his way from India -- to propose to her! Even before Harold arrives, Orabel decides she cannot possibly marry a lowly military doctor, when she is so intelligent. As soon as they meet, the feeling of dislike is mutual. But Orabel's younger sister, Annis, who never did well in academic subjects, is also of marriageable age, and would dearly love to settle down with the right man. Their younger brother and small sisters view the developing situation with interest.

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The Squire had never found courage to broach the fact of the offer to Orabel, who looks as though her blue eyes would wither the sheet of foreign notepaper in front of her.

You know, Orabel, puts in Annis, "we did hear something long ago about papa and mamma promising somebody or other out in India should have a chance to court you."

"Oh, do say 'yes,' Orabel, pleads a chorus of little sisters. It will be so lovely to have a wedding, and Phil can be a page and wear a fancy dress."

Can he? growls Philip. I'd like to catch myself in lace and velvet like those kids at the Hemmings' last week. Orabel, I think you ought to send him your portrait. Let him know, at least, what he's wooing.

With these words Philip beats a prudent retreat, and Orabel gives utterance to such tones that Annis, trembling at her side, is almost in tears.

Has it come to this, Orabel asks, that I, the secretary of the Mount Athene Club, should be affronted, insulted by a letter like this? Am I not Orabel Jancy? Am I not the pioneer of a new and emancipating system? And who is this Harold Kingdon that he dares to cross my path with his jests concerning infantile betrothal?

The Clever Miss Jancy

Margaret S. Haycraft

1855-1936

Abridged Edition

Original book first published 1891

This abridged edition ©Chris Wright 2017

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-9-7

Published by

White Tree Publishing

Bristol

UNITED KINGDOM

wtpbristol@gmail.com

Full list of books and updates on

www.whitetreepublishing.com

The Clever Miss Jancy is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this abridged edition.

Contents

Cover

About the Book

Author Biography

Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

More Books from White Tree Publishing

About White Tree Publishing

Christian non-fiction

Christian Fiction

Younger Readers

Author Biography

Margaret Scott Haycraft was born Margaret Scott MacRitchie at Newport Pagnell, England in 1855. She married William Parnell Haycraft in 1883 and wrote mostly under her married name. In 1891 she was living in Brighton, on the south coast of England, and died in Bournemouth, also on the south coast, in 1936. She also wrote under her maiden name of Margaret MacRitchie. Margaret Haycraft is by far our most popular author of fiction.

Margaret was a contemporary of the much better-known Christian writer Mrs. O. F. Walton. Both ladies wrote Christian stories for children that were very much for the time in which they lived, with little children often preparing for an early death. Mrs. Walton wrote three romances for adults (with no suffering children, and now published by White Tree in abridged versions). Margaret Haycraft concentrated mainly on books for children. However, she later wrote several romances for older readers. Unusually for Victorian writers, the majority of Margaret Haycraft's stories are told in the present tense.

Both Mrs. Walton's and Margaret Haycraft's books for all ages can be over-sentimental, referring throughout, for example, to a mother as the dear, sweet mother, and a child as the darling little child. In our abridged editions overindulgent descriptions of people have been shortened to make a more robust story, but the characters and storyline are always unchanged. Eliza Kerr is another Victorian writer whose stories deserve to be republished, and White Tree Publishing is releasing several of her books in abridged form.

A problem of Victorian writers is the tendency to insert intrusive comments concerning what is going to happen later in the story. Today we call them spoilers. They are usually along the lines of: Little did he/she know that.... I have removed these when appropriate.

£100 in 1891 may not sound much, but in income value it is worth £12,000 pounds today (about US$15,000). I mention this in case the sums of money in this book sound insignificant!

Chris Wright

Editor

NOTE

There are 15 chapters in this book. At the end of the book are many advertisements for our other books, so the story may end earlier than expected! The last chapter is marked as such. We aim to make our eBooks free or for a nominal cost, and cannot invest in other forms of advertising. However, word of mouth by satisfied readers will also help get our books more widely known. Also good books reviews are always helpful.

Chapter 1

Betrothed from Our Cradles

"It's a letter with the Indian postmark Simla. We know nobody at Simla. Really you are becoming quite a public character, Orabel. I suppose somebody has been struck by your treatise on the differential calculus."

Orabel Jancy stretches out her hand complacently for the communication from her unknown correspondent. She has passed with gleaming laurels through her university course, and lacking at present fresh fields to conquer has betaken herself of late to authorship, and is regarded with the deepest reverence by the outside public, especially by the villagers of Hollybourne.

Perhaps somebody has offered Orabel an appointment in India, remarks fifteen-year-old Philip. Philip is the only son and heir of the Jancys, and as such not infrequently snubbed by his intellectual sister who cherishes an extremely low estimate of his sex.

I will not go, says Orabel firmly, her blue-black eyes gazing pitifully around upon the throng of younger sisters at the breakfast table. My work is amid my countrywomen. My sphere is to redeem such as these... with a sweep of her hand she indicates Laura, Etta, Nan, the twins, and Poppy "...from woman's habitual bondage, to emancipate the feminine brain from oppressive restrictions which too long have vainly endeavoured to curtail a woman's thoughts and limit her arena. Then, when my countrywomen are set free, I will turn to foreign fields."

Philip looks disappointed, and the sisters look impressed. They are not as clever as Orabel. The second one, Annis, never got beyond fractions at school, and sometimes brings her fingers into requisition over the tradesmen's books, and they are secretly conscious of falling short of their sister's theories of brain development, but personal deficiencies only make them prouder of the genius of the family.

Had you not better open your letter, my dear? suggests Squire Jancy, a sunny-faced, bright-eyed man between fifty and sixty, a leading power on bench and in field, but a little timid of the oracle of the Hall.

Orabel proceeds to do so with a quiet smile, expectant of grateful admiration from a stranger of one or more of her works. But as she reads, her face changes, and horror, amazement, indignation take the place of the smile.

What is this? she asks in an awful tone. Then, too filled with wrath to remember the listening ears of the juveniles, she casts the letter down on the table and reads aloud:

"Dear Miss Jancy,

I suppose you are aware that we have been betrothed from our cradles. I believe the arrangement was made when you were three weeks old. I communicated with your father about a year ago, but he has not favoured me with a reply. I am about to seek leave in England, and shall be returning in the autumn of next year. I am coming with an offer of marriage. Trusting this will suit your arrangements, and that we shall be fairly happy together, I remain, sincerely yours,

Harold Kingdon."

Goodness! cries Philip excitedly, if that isn't fortunate. Now I've got Nixon's knife. I bet Nixon Major my stamps to his knife that Orabel would get married one of these days, and Nixon said who'd have such a stuck-up----

Hush, says the Squire, sternly, let me hear no more of betting, and stop teasing your sister. Can you not see she is much distressed? Orabel, my dear, why look so disturbed? After all, an offer of marriage is a compliment, and Kingdon is very well spoken of. He is a surgeon-major in the army, you know, and bears a high character. I ought to have told you about his letter, but ... but ... I had the draining to see to just then, and you were going in for the degree.

The Squire had never found courage to broach the fact of the offer to Orabel, who looks as though her blue eyes would wither the sheet of foreign notepaper in front of her.

You know, Orabel, puts in Annis, "we did hear something long ago about papa and mamma promising somebody or other out in India should have a chance to court you."

"Oh, do say 'yes,' Orabel, pleads a chorus of little sisters. It will be so lovely to have a wedding, and Phil can be a page and wear a fancy dress."

Can he? growls Philip. I'd like to catch myself in lace and velvet like those kids at the Hemmings' last week. Orabel, I think you ought to send him your portrait. Let him know, at least, what he's wooing.

With these words Philip beats a prudent retreat, and Orabel gives utterance to such tones that Annis, trembling at her side, is almost in tears.

Has it come to this, she asks, that I, the secretary of the Mount Athene Club, should be affronted, insulted, by a letter like this? Am I not Orabel Jancy? Am I not the pioneer of a new and emancipating system? And who is this Harold Kingdon that he dares to cross my path with his jests concerning infantile betrothal?

Early betrothals are common in the East, says Laura. He lives in India, and they don't understand our ways.

The Squire turns his bewildered head towards his daughters, and appears relieved to hear a servant announce just then that Miss Maberley has arrived. Miss Maberley is the daily governess, and there is an exit from the breakfast table, but Annis remains with Orabel.

Now, father, says Orabel, seating herself judicially in the elbow chair by the fire, "tell me the truth of this matter. Let me know the worst. I can bear it. I suppose no legal marriage ceremony was gone through in my infancy between this ... this ... extremely presumptuous person and myself? The world is surely not mistaken, father, in presuming my name to be Orabel Jancy?"

Annis gives the Squire an encouraging little pat, and murmurs, "Even if you did marry him, Orabel, you can keep your name. Authors often do, and singers, and actresses."

Orabel gives her a dignified look at the association of her treatise on the differential calculus with performers on the stage.

The Squire clears his throat and looks ruefully at his dogs that are whining, moaning, and scratching outside the window, in resolute endeavours to reach his side. Well, my dear, what is the use of raking up the past? It cannot but be a little painful to me to speak of your dear mother, lost seven years since.

Annis takes his hand and strokes it, and Orabel's stateliness would falter but for that open letter on the table, for she was passionately fond of her lost mother.

"Kingdon's father ... a doctor, too ... was a friend of mine. He was your mother's guardian, and greatly her senior. She scarcely knew her own mind, and had entered into an engagement with him. Well, the fact is she and I learnt to love each other, and Kingdon found it out and set her free. But I believe he never loved again, as he had cared only for her. Years after, he came to the Hall a widower, with a little chap, in mourning, and he kissed you, Orabel, in your cradle, and said, 'This is my son. My dearest wish will be fulfilled when this infant is his wife.'

We laughed at the notion, but he persisted in declaring that the children were betrothed, and taught Harold to call you, in your unconsciousness, his 'little wife.' Well, we lost sight of the Kingdons, but about a year ago I heard from young Dr. Kingdon, saying his father was dead, and on his deathbed had made him promise he would seek out Orabel Jancy and marry her if possible. 'Time has gone by,' said young Kingdon in his letter to me, 'and I am no more disposed for matrimony than when my father died. I am drifting into a confirmed bachelor, but the memory of my promise haunts me. I am willing to abide by it, with your permission. I have no doubt Miss Jancy is all that is sweet and lovable, and if she agrees to marry me we shall get on as well together as most couples do. I may state that the study of nerves is my speciality, and my researches in this direction have rendered me indisposed for society. So Miss Jancy may be assured that I am perfectly heart-whole. I hope to call upon her when I get my leave.'

Nerves! exclaims Orabel, disdainfully. "What are nerves, pray? This Harold Kingdon is one of those who pander to the hysterical fancies of the unintellectual, who coin their guineas from the so-called nerves of patients. I regret, father, that you