young baldwin barnes, on saturday morning, ate breakfast alone in the little house. he read his paper and drank his coffee. but the savor of things was gone. he missed jane. her engaging chatter, the spirited challenge, even the small irritations. “she is such a darling-dear,” was his homesick meditation.
oh, a man needed a woman on the other side of the table. and when jane was married, what then?
edith!
oh, if he might! if philomel might sing for her! toast and poached eggs! nectar and ambrosia! his little house a castle!
“but it isn’t mine own,” the young poet reminded himself; “there is still the mortgage.” he came down to earth, cleared the table, fed the pussy-cats. then he went down to the post-box to get the mail.
the barnes’ mail was rarely voluminous, rarely interesting. a bill or two, a letter from judy—some futile advertising stuff.
this morning, however, there was a long envelope. in one corner was the name of the magazine to which, nearly six months before, baldy had sent[328] his prize cover design. the thing had almost gone out of his thoughts. he had long ceased to hope. money did not miraculously fall into one’s lap.
he tore open the envelope. within was a closely typed letter and a pale pink check.
the check was for two thousand dollars. he had won the prize!
breathless with the thought of it, deprived of strength, he sat down on the terrace steps. merrymaid and the kitten came down and angled for attention, but baldy overlooked them utterly. the letter was astounding. the magazine had not only given him the prize but they wanted more of his work. they would pay well for it—and if he would come to new york at their expense, the art editor would like to talk it over!
baldy, looking up from the pregnant phrases and catching merrymaid’s eye upon him, demanded, “now, what do you think of that? shall i resign from the office? i’ll tell the world, i will.”
oh, the thing might even make it possible for him to marry edith. he could at least pay for the honeymoon—preserve some sense of personal independence while he worked towards fame. if she would only see it. that he must ask her to live for a time—in the little house. he’d make things easy for her,—oh, well, the thing could be done—it could be done.
he flew up the steps on the wings of his delight. he would ride like the wind to virginia—find[329] edith, in a rose-garden, fling himself at her feet! declare his good fortune! and he would see her eyes!
packing his bag, he decided to stop in washington, and perpetrate a few extravagances. something for edith. something for jane. something for himself. there would be no harm in looking his best....
he arrived at grass hills in time for lunch. his little ford came up the drive as proudly as a rolls-royce. and baldy descending was a gay and gallant figure. there was no one in sight but the servants who took his bag, and drove his car around to the garage. a maid in rose linen said that mr. and mrs. simms were at the stables. miss towne was on the links with the other guests, and would return from the country club in time for lunch at two o’clock. miss barnes was up-stairs. her head had ached, and she had had her breakfast in bed.
“will you let her know that i am here?”
the maid went up and came down again to say that miss barnes was in the second gallery—and would he go right up.
the second gallery looked out over the river. jane lay in a long chair. she was pale, and there were shadows under her eyes.
“oh, look here, janey,” baldy blurted out, “is it as bad as this?”
“i’m just—lazy.” she sat up and kissed[330] him. then buried her face in his coat and wept silently.
“for heaven’s sake, jane,” he patted her shoulder, “what’s the matter?”
“i want to go home.”
he looked blank. “home?”
“yes.” she stopped crying. “baldy, something has happened—and i’ve got to tell you.” tensely, with her hands clasped about her knees, she rehearsed for him the scene between adelaide and frederick towne. and when she finished she said, “i can’t marry him.”
“of course not. a girl like you. you’d be miserable. and that’s the end of it.”
“utterly miserable.” she stared before her. then presently she went on. “i stayed up-stairs all the morning. lucy and edith have been perfect dears. i think edith lays it to the announcement of my engagement to-night. that i was dreading it. of course it mustn’t be announced, baldy.”
he stood up, sternly renouncing his dreams. “get your things on, jane, and i’ll take you home. you can’t stay here, of course. we can decide later what it is best to do.”
“i don’t see how i can break it off. he’s done so much for us. i can’t ever—pay him——”
in baldy’s pocket was the pink slip. he took it out and handed it to his sister. “jane, i got the prize. two thousand dollars.”
[331]“baldy!” her tone was incredulous.
he had no joy in the announcement. the thing had ceased to mean freedom—it had ceased to mean—edith. it meant only one thing at the moment, to free jane from bondage.
he gave jane the letter and she read it. “it is your great opportunity.”
“yes.” he refused to discuss that aspect of it. “and it comes in the nick of time for you, old dear.”
their flight was a hurried one. a note for lucy and one for towne. a note for edith!
jane was not well was the reason given their hostess. the note to towne said more than that. and the note to edith was—renunciation.
edith coming home to luncheon found the note in her room. all the morning she had been filled with glorious anticipation. baldy would arrive in a few hours. together they would walk down that trellised path to the fountain, they would sit on the marble coping. she would trail her hand through the water. further than that she would not let her imagination carry her. it was enough that she would see him in that magic place with his air of golden youth.
but she was not to see him, for the note said:
“beloved—i make no excuse for calling you that because i say it always in my heart—jane has made up her mind that she cannot marry your uncle. so we are leaving at once.
[332]“i can’t tell you what the thought of these two days with you meant to me. and now i must give them up. perhaps i must give you up, i don’t know. i came with high hopes. i go away without any hope at all. but i love you.”
edith read the note twice, then put it to her lips. she hardly dared admit to herself the keenness of her disappointment.
she stood for a long time at the window looking out. why had jane decided not to marry uncle frederick? what had happened since yesterday afternoon?
from edith’s window she could see the south lawn. the servants were arranging a buffet luncheon. little tables were set around—and wicker chairs. adelaide, tall and fair, in her favorite blue and a broad black hat stood by one of the little tables. she was feeding the peacock with bits of bread. she made a picture, and towne’s window faced that way.
“i wonder——” edith said, and stopped. she remembered coming in from the movies the night before and finding adelaide and towne on the porch. and where was jane?
towne did not eat lunch. he pleaded important business, and had his car brought around. but everybody knew that he was following jane. mystery was in the air. adelaide was restless. only edith knew the truth.
after lunch, she told lucy. “jane isn’t going[333] to marry uncle fred. i don’t know why. but i am afraid it is breaking up your house party.”
“i hope it is,” said lucy, calmly. “delafield is bored to death. he wants to get back to his pigs and roses. i am speaking frankly to you because i know you understand. i want our lives to be bigger and broader than they would have been if we hadn’t met. and as for you”—her voice shook a little—“you’ll always be a sort of goddess blessing our hearth.”
edith bent and kissed her, emotion gripping her. “your hearth is blessed without me,” she said, “but i’ll always be glad to come.”
towne, riding like mad along the virginia roads, behind the competent briggs, reread jane’s letter.
“i was not up-stairs last night when you came. i was asleep in the window-seat of the living-room, just off the porch. and your voice waked me and i heard what you said, and mrs. laramore. and i can’t marry you. i know how much you’ve done for me,—and i shall never forget your goodness. baldy will take me home.”
enclosed was a pink check.
towne blamed adelaide furiously. of course it was her fault. such foolishness. and sentimentality. and he had been weak enough to fall for it.
yet, as he cooled a bit, he was glad that jane had showed her resentment. it was in keeping with his conception of her. her innocence had flamed against such sophistication. there might, too, be[334] a hint of jealousy. women were like that. jealous.
as they whirled through washington, briggs voiced his fears. “if we meet a cop it will be all up with us, mr. towne.”
“take a chance, briggs. give her more gas. we’ve got to get there.”
with all their speed, however, it was four o’clock when they reached sherwood. towne was still in the clothes he had worn on the links. he had not eaten since breakfast. he felt the strain.
he stormed up the terrace, where once he had climbed in the snow. he rang the bell. it whirred and whirred again in the silence. the house was empty.
