The evening wrap which Jane wore with her old white chiffon was of a bright Madonna blue with a black fur collar. Jane, as has been said, loved clear color, and when she dyed dingy things she brought them forth lovely to the eye and tremendously picturesque. The first effect on Frederick Towne of her bobbed black head above the fur collar was enchanting. It was only later that he discovered her shabbiness. That initial glimpse had, however, shown him what money could do for her.
Frederick’s house was a place where polished floors seemed to dissolve in pools of golden light, where a grand staircase led up to balconies, where the ceilings were almost incredibly high, the vistas almost incredibly remote. Frederick, coming towards her through those pools of golden light—blonde, big and smiling, brought a swift memory of another blonde and heroic figure, not in evening clothes—but in silver armor—“Nun sei bedankt, mein lieber Schwan,” Lohengrin! That was it.
“A fat Lohengrin,” she amended, maliciously.
Unaware of this devastating estimate, Frederick welcomed her with the air of a Cophetua. He was unconscious of his attitude of condescension. He[156] was much attracted, but he knew, of course, that his interest in her would be a great thing for the little girl.
And he was interested. A queer thing had happened to him—a thing which clashed with all his theories, broke down the logic of his previous arguments. He had fallen in love with little Jane Barnes, at first sight if you please—like a crude boy. And he wanted her for his wife. It was an almost unbelievable situation. There had been so many women he might have married. Lovelier women than Jane, wittier, more distinguished, richer—of more assured social standing. He could have had the pick of them, yet not one of them had he wanted. Here was little Jane Barnes, bobbed hair, boyish, slender, quaint in her cheap clothes, and he could see no one else at the head of his table, no one else by his side in the big car, no one else to share the glamorous days of honeymoon, and the life which was to follow.
He had always had his own way, and he intended to have it now. Edith had, of course, thwarted him in some things, and she was still on his hands. Yet the matter would, without doubt, right itself. There were other eligible suitors; it was not to be supposed that a beauty and an heiress would remain long unwed.
And in the meantime, he would set himself to the wooing of Jane. The end was, of course, inevitable. But Jane would not fall into his arms at the[157] first word. Her attitude towards him was absolutely impersonal. She had no blushes, no small flirtatious tricks. She was as cool as some lovely garden flower with the morning dew upon it. But he fancied she might flame.
And so when young Baldwin had telephoned of Edith’s plans, there had leaped into Towne’s mind the realization of his opportunity. He would see Jane among his household gods. And he would see her alone. He had sent Briggs in time to have her there before the others arrived.
And now Fate had played further into his hands. “I’ve had another message from Edith,” he told her; “we’ll have to eat dinner without them. The fog caught them south of Alexandria, and they went into a ditch. They will eat at the nearest hotel while the car is being fixed up.”
“Baldy’s car always breaks at psychological moments,” said Jane. “If it hadn’t broken down on the bridge, he wouldn’t have found your niece.”
“And I wouldn’t have known you”—he was smiling at her. “Who would ever have believed that so much hung on so little.”
And now Waldron, the butler, announced dinner—and Jane entering the dining-room felt dwarfed by the Gargantuan tables, the high-backed ecclesiastical chairs, the tall silver candlesticks with their orange candles.
“Your color,” Towne told her. “You see I remembered your knitting——”
[158]“I’m crazy about brilliant wools,” said Jane; “some day I am going to open a shop and sell them.”
But he knew that she would not open a shop. “You were like some lovely bird,—an oriole, perhaps, with your orange and black.”
“I dye things,” said Jane, frankly; “you should see some of my clothes when they come out. Joseph’s coat isn’t in it.”
Frederick liked her frankness. He knew people who would have been ashamed to admit their poverty before Waldron and the maids. To Jane, servants had neither eyes nor ears—in that she showed her accustomedness. People who had never been served were self-conscious.
“The next time you see this dress,” Jane was saying, “it will be as blue as my coat. And I’ll have a girdle of copper ribbon, and Baldy will paint my shoes with copper paint.”
She smiled at him with her chin tilted in her bird-like way. She was really having the time of her life. She was thrilled and fascinated by the beauty of her surroundings, and gradually Frederick began to take on something of the fascination.
Against his own background, he showed at his best. Without one word of fulsome flattery, he made little Jane feel that she was an honored guest. He talked extremely well, and though she was alone with him put her absolutely at her ease.
[159]The food was delicious. There had been a celestial canape, a heavenly soup, fish that were pale pink and smothered in tartare sauce.
“He is awfully nice,” Jane told herself out of her supreme content, as Waldron passed squabs on a silver platter. She referred of course to Towne and not to Waldron but, remembering her own old Sophy’s shortcomings, she found time, also, to commend to herself the butler’s expertness.
After dinner they sat in the great drawing-room—a portentous place—with low-hung crystal chandeliers—pale rugs—pale walls—with one corner redeemed from the general chilliness by a fireplace of yellow Italian marble, and a huge screen of peacock feathers in a mahogany frame.
“I call this room the Ice Palace,” Frederick told her. “Mother furnished it in the early eighties—and she would never change it. And now I rather hate to have it different. I warmed this corner with the fireplace and the screen. Edith always sits in the library on the other side of the hall, but Mother and I had our coffee here, and I prefer to continue the old custom.”
Jane’s eyes opened wide. “Don’t you and your niece drink your coffee together?”
“Usually, but there have been times,” he laughed as he said it, “when each of us has sat on opposite sides of the hall in lonely state.”
Jane laughed too. “Baldy and I do things like that.”
[160]“And now,” he said, “we can talk about Edith. I suppose I’ll have to kill the fatted calf. That’s what your brother said.”
“That sounds like Baldy.”
“Does it? Well, he told me the thing that decided her was some friends who came out and saw her in the dining-room. She’s been all the time with Martha, her mother’s old cook, whose husband keeps a country hotel beyond Alexandria. And Adelaide Laramore and Eloise Harper and a couple of men were lunching there. I am sorry it happened. Eloise is a regular town-crier. She’ll tell the world.”
He beat his fist against the arm of his chair. “I hate to have the thing in the papers.”
“It will soon die down,” said Jane, “when she comes home.”
“I shall be glad to have her. But I don’t quite see why I am to kill the fatted calf. She won’t act in the least like a prodigal.”
“Why should you care how she acts? You want her back. Isn’t that enough?”
He liked her crisp common sense. Her fearless expression of opinion. Most of the women he knew were afraid not to agree with him. That was the trouble with Adelaide. She leaned to him always like a lily, charming, feminine, soft as milk. But Jane did not lean. She was, he told himself, a cup of elixir held to his lips. He drank as it were of her youth.
[161]They finished their coffee and he smoked a cigar. Edith and Baldy telephoned that the thing was more serious than they had anticipated. That perhaps he had better send Briggs.
“So that means I’m going to have you to myself for an hour longer,” Frederick told Jane. “I hope you are as happy in the prospect as I am.”
“I am having a joyous time. I feel like Cinderella at the ball.”
He laughed at that. “You’re a refreshing child, Jane.” He had never before called her by her first name.
“Am I? But I’m not a child. I’m as old as the hills.”
“Not in years.”
“In wisdom. I know how to make ends meet, and how to order meals, and how to plan my own dresses, and a lot of things that your Edith doesn’t have to think about.”
“And yet you are happy.”
“I’ll say I am.”
He laughed but did not continue the subject. “I’ve a rather wonderful collection of earrings. Would you like to look at them? Queer fad, isn’t it? But I’ve picked them up everywhere.”
“Why earrings?”
“Other things are commonplace—brooches, necklaces, tiaras. But there’s romance in the jewels that women have worn in their ears. You’ll see.”
He went into another room and brought back a[162] tray. It was lined with velvet and the earrings were set up on tiny cushions. It was a unique display. Cameos from ancient Rome, acorns of human hair in the horrible taste of the sixties—gypsy hoops of gold—coral roses in delicate fretted wreaths—old French jewels—rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and seed pearls, larger pearls set alon............