Jane, in Baldy’s absence, dined on Sunday with the Follettes, in the middle of the day. In the afternoon she and Evans went for a walk, and came home to tea in the library. Stretched in a long leather chair, Evans read to Jane and his mother “The Eve of St. Agnes.”
“How bitter cold it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold:
The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent were the flock in woolly fold.”
Jane, curled up on the couch in her favorite attitude, listened to that incomparable description of stark winter weather, and was glad of the warmth and coziness. She was glad, too, of this pleasant company—Mrs. Follette was a great dear, with her duchess air, and her devotion to Evans. And Evans, reading in that thrilling and unchanged voice, was at his best.
As for Mrs. Follette, she was always glad to have Jane visit them. The child was so cheerful, and Evans needed cheer. Then, too, Jane was a delightful compromise between the girl of yesterday and the ultra-modern maiden who shocked Mrs.[135] Follette not only by her lack of reverence but by her lack of reticence.
Jane might have bobbed hair, but she did not have a bobbed-hair mind. The meaning of this conclusion was quite clear to Mrs. Follette, however obscure it might be to others. Girls who cut off their hair, as a rule, went farther—Jane stopped at her hair.
Then, too, Jane had what might be called old-fashioned domestic qualities. She kept her little house as spick and span as she kept herself. In winter everything was burnished and bright; in summer crisp curtains waved in the warm breeze; there were cool shadows within the clean, quiet rooms.
At the moment, Mrs. Follette was weighing seriously the fact of Jane as a wife for Evans. She was pretty as well as cheerful. Had good manners. Of course, in the old days, Evans would, inevitably, have looked higher. There had been plenty of rich girls eager to attract him. He had had unlimited invitations. Women had, in fact, quite run after him. Florence Preston had rather made a fool of herself. And Florence’s father had millions.
But now——? Mrs. Follette knew how little Evans had at the moment to offer. She hated to admit it, but the truth was evident. Watching the two young people, she decided that should Evans care for Jane, she would erect no barriers. As for Jane, marriage with Evans would be, in a way, a[136] rise in the world. She would live at Castle Manor instead of at Sherwood Park.
The poem had reached a point where Mrs. Follette felt that she ought to protest. She was not quite sure that she approved of the situation it outlined. The verse of the moment, for example—Porphyro’s plea to the maid, old Angela:
“To lead him in close secrecy,
Even to Madelaine’s chamber and there hide
Him in a closet of such privacy,
That he might see her beauty unspy’d
And win, perhaps, that night, a peerless bride.”
Stripped of all its fine words, it was an impossible situation.
Apparently, however, the young people were without self-consciousness....
“Out went the taper, as she hurried in:
Its little smoke in pallid moonshine died——”
Evans looked up. “Could there be anything lovelier than that last line?”
Jane’s eyes had dreams in them. “Don’t stop,” she said.
He read on.... “She closed the door ...” his voice took now a deeper note.
“Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory like a saint:
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings for heaven; Porphyro grew faint:[137]
She knelt so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.”
“Evans,” said his mother, as he paused again, “that poem doesn’t seem to me exactly proper.”
He gave her a surprised glance. “Don’t spoil it for us, Mumsie.”
“Oh, well,” Mrs. Follette shrugged her nice shoulders, “we won’t argue. But when I was a girl we didn’t read things like that.”
“But this was written before you were a girl.”
“What difference does that make?”
“But the richness and color. You see it, Jane, don’t you?”
“Yes. Finish it, Evans.”
And when he came to the end, she said, “If only life were like that.”
“Like what?”
“High romance. Porphyro says negligently, ‘For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.’ But lovers of to-day have to think of rent and food and clothes. And hotel bills for the honeymoon.”
“Oh, you women”—he sat up flaming—“are you conspiring to spoil my poem? Jane, it is the dreams of men and women which shape their lives.”
As his eyes met hers something stirred within her like the flutter of a bird’s wings lifted to the sun....
[138]It was after five when Baldy telephoned triumphantly: “Jane, Edith Towne has agreed to go home to-night. And I’m to take her. I called up Mr. Towne and told him and he wants you to be there when we come. He’ll send Briggs for you and we are all to have dinner together.”
“But, Baldy, I don’t know Edith Towne. Why doesn’t he ask some of her own friends?”
“She doesn’t want ’em. Hates them all, and anyhow he has asked you. Why worry?”
“I’ll have to go home and dress.”
“Well, you’re to let him know at once where Briggs can get you. I told him you were at the Follettes’.”
Jane went back and repeated the conversation to Evans and his mother. Mrs. Follette was much interested. The Townes were most important people. “How nice for you, Jane.”
But Evans disagreed with her. “What makes you say that, Mother? It isn’t nice. It will simply be upsetting.”
“I don’t see why you say that, Evans,” Jane argued. “I am not easily upset.”
“But with all that money. You can’t keep up with them.”
“Don’t put ideas into Jane’s head,” his mother remonstrated; “a lady is always a lady.”
But Jane sided now with Evans. “I see what he means, Mrs. Follette. I haven’t the clothes. I haven’t a thing to wear to-night.”
[139]“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of your looks.” Evans got up and stood on the hearth-rug. “But people like that! Jane, I wish you wouldn’t go.”
She looked up at him with her chin tilted. “I don’t see how I can refuse.”
“Of course she can’t. Evans, don’t be so unreasonable,” Mrs. Follette interposed; “it will be a wonderful thing for Jane to know Edith.”
“Will it be such a wonderful thing for her to know Frederick Towne?” He flung it at them.
Jane demanded, “Don’t you want me to have any good times?”
He stared at her for a moment, and when he spoke it was in a different tone. “Yes, of course. I beg your pardon, Janey.”
Mrs. Follette, having effaced herself for the moment from the conversation, decided that things between her son and little Jane Barnes might reach a climax at any moment. “I believe he’s half in love with her,” she told herself in some bewilderment.
As for Frederick Towne, she didn’t consider him for a moment. Jane was a pretty child. But Frederick Towne could have his pick of women. There would be nothing serious in this friendship with Jane.
Jane called up Towne. “It was good of you to ask me,” she said. “I am at the Follettes’, but I’ll go home and dress and Briggs can come for me there.”
[140]“Come as you are.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you could see me. I took a walk with Evans this afternoon and I show the effects of it.”
“Evans? Oh, Casabianca?”
“What makes you call him that?”
“I thought of it when I saw him waiting for you at the top of the terrace. ‘The boy stood on the burning deck——’” he laughed.
“I don’t think that’s funny at all,” said Jane, frankly.
“Don’t you? Well, I beg your pardon. I’ll beg it again when I get you here. Briggs will reach Sherwood at about seven. I would drive out myself, but I’ve an awful cold, and the doctor tells me I must stay in. And Cousin Annabel is sick in bed with a cold, so you must take pity on me and keep me company....”
Jane hung up the receiver. It would, she decided, be an exciting adventure. But she was not sure that she liked Frederick Towne....
Evans walked home with her. The air was warmer than it had been for days, and faint mists had risen. The mist thickened finally to a fog which rolled over them as if blown from the high seas. Yet the sea was miles away, and the fog was born in the rivers and streams, and in the melting snows.
They found it somewhat difficult to keep to the road. They were almost smothered in the thick[141] gray masses. Their voices had a muffled sound. Evans’ hand was on Jane’s arm so that they might keep together.
“Jane,” he said, “I made a fool of myself about Towne. But honestly—I was afraid——”
“Of what?”
“That he might fall in love with you——”
“He’s not thinking of me, Evans, and besides he’s too old——”
“Do you really feel that way about it, Jane?”
“Of course—silly.”
He could not see her face—but the words in her laughing lovely voice gave him a sense of reassurance.
“Janey,” he said, “if I could only have you like this always. Shut away from the world.”
“But I don’t want to be shut away. I should feel—caged——”
“Not if you cared.”
There was in his tone the huskiness of intense feeling. She was moved by it. “Oh, I know what you mean. But love won’t come to me like that—shut in. I shall want freedom, and sunshine. I’ll be a gull over the sea—a ship in full sail—a gypsy on the road—but I’ll never be a ghost in a fog.”
His hand dropped from her arm. “Perhaps you’ll be a princess in a castle. Towne can make you that.”
“Why do you keep harping on Mr. Towne? I don’t like it.”
[142]“Because—oh, I think everybody wants you——”
And now it was she who caught at his arm in the mist, and leaned on it. “I’m not the least in love with Frederick Towne. And I shall never marry a man I don’t love, Evans.”
When they came to the little house they found old Sophy nodding in the kitchen. She always stayed with Jane when Baldy was away. So Evans said “Good-night” and started back.
He found the path between the pines, walked a few steps and stumbled. He sat down on the log that had tripped him. He had no wish to go on. His depression was intense. Night was before him and darkness. Loneliness. And Jane would be with Frederick Towne.
He had for Jane a feeling of hopeless adoration. She would never be his. For how could he try to keep her? “I’ll be a gull over the sea—a ship in full sail—a gypsy on the road—never a ghost in a fog.”
And he was just a ghost in a fog! Oh, what was the use of ever “climbing up the climbing wave”? One must have something of hope to live on. A dream or two—ahead.
How long he sat there he did not know. And all at once he was aware of a pale blur against the prevailing gloom. And then he heard Jane’s voice calling, “Evans? Evans?”
He answered and she came up to him. “Your[143] mother telephoned—that you had not come home—and she was worried.”
She was holding the lantern up to the length of her arm. In her orange cloak she shone through the veil of mist, luminous.
“My dear,” she said, gently, “why are you sitting here?”
“Because there isn’t any use in going on.”
She lowered the lantern so that it shone on his face. What she saw there frightened her. “Are you feeling this way because of me?” she asked in a shaking voice.
“Because of everything.”
“Evans, I won’t go to the Townes if you want me to stay.”
He looked up at her as she bent above him with the lantern. She seemed to shine within and without, like some celestial visitor.
“Would you stay, Jane, if I wanted it?”
“Yes.”
He stood up. “I don’t want it. Not really. I’m not quite such a selfish pig,” his smile was ghastly.
She was silent for a moment, then she said, “I’m going home with you, Evans. Wait until I tell Sophy to send Briggs after me.”
He tried to protest, but she was firm. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
She returned presently, the lantern in one hand[144] and her slipper bag in the other. “I put on heavier shoes. I should ruin my slippers.”
As they trod the path together, the light of the lantern shone in round spots of gold, now in front of them, now behind them. The fog pressed close, but the path was clear.
“Evans,” said Jane, “I want you to promise me something.”
“Anything, except—not to love you.”
“It has nothing to do with love of me, but it has something to do with love of God.”
He knew how hard it was for her to say that. Jane did not speak easily of such things.
She went on with some hesitation. Her voice, muffled by the fog, had a muted note of music.
“Evans, you mustn’t let what I do make you or break you. Whether I love you or not, you must go on. You—you couldn’t hold me if you weren’t strong enough, even if I was your wife. And there is strength in you, if you’ll only believe it. Oh, you must believe it, Evans. And............