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 ca............