I

The April sunshine was slanting in Jane’s open bedroom window. The pale, profuse sunshine of early April, flickering through the bare boughs of the oak trees. The crocuses were blooming in the garden. The daffodils nodded their yellow heads in the bed beneath the evergreens. The apple tree was an emerald mist of tiny budding leaves.

Jane sat at the window, sewing a fresh lace collar in the neck of a new rose-coloured gown and talking to Miss Parrot. From her chair she could see Jenny, swooping luxuriously up and down in the swing beneath the apple tree, and hear Steve, concealed in the upper branches, clamouring vociferously for his turn.

“I really hate to leave him,” said Miss Parrot. “But he’ll be all right now, Mrs. Carver, if you just watch him a little. Don’t let him race around too much this summer. And of course no competitive sports.”

Jane nodded, over her sewing. She was awfully glad, of course, that little Steve’s heart was really so much better, but almost gladder, she thought with a smile, that she would no longer have to talk to Miss Parrot at table, three times a day, or listen to her unasked advice on little Steve’s care. Of course, she had been wonderful. She was a very good heart nurse. Still, it had been irritating, having her around under foot all winter, a tacit critic of Jane’s every action, an alien observer of her every thought. But it was over now. Little Steve had completely recovered. Dr. Bancroft had dismissed Miss Parrot. She was going in three days.

“You’ll see that he takes his tonic,” said Miss Parrot.

“Of course,” said Jane, with a hint of irritation in her voice.

“Well, I hope Sarah remembers it when you’re out,” said Miss Parrot, with a sigh of resignation.

Jane looked up from her sewing at Miss Parrot’s starched, immaculate figure. She met her pleasant, impersonal eye. She wished dispassionately that she could push Miss Parrot out of her bedroom by main force. Suddenly Sarah appeared in the doorway.

“Mr. Trent to see you, madam,” she said impassively.

Jane jumped to her feet.

“Mr. Trent? Downstairs?” Jane glanced at the little French clock on the mantelpiece. It pointed exactly to three. Jimmy had said he was taking the three-nineteen. He was an hour ahead of time. She thrust her sewing into Miss Parrot’s hand. “Miss Parrot,” she said hastily, “just baste this collar in for me, will you? As quickly as you can, please. I’m wearing it this afternoon. And, Sarah⁠—I want tea in the living-room at four. We won’t wait for Mr. Carver. Toast, please, and anchovy sandwiches, and some of that sponge cake we had at luncheon.” She was already slipping out of her morning gown. “Tell Mr. Trent I will be down immediately.”

Sarah turned from the door. Jane sat down hastily at her dressing-table and began to take down her hair. Miss Parrot had seated herself at the window and was picking up Jane’s thimble. Jane could catch her reflection in the slanting plane of the cheval glass, near the dressing-table. She was looking at Jane with a faint smile of cynical amusement. Her eye was no longer impersonal. Jane hated Miss Parrot, at the moment. She hated herself for that question she had never been able to answer⁠—had that been Miss Parrot’s white sleeve in the playroom bay window, that Thanksgiving afternoon when Jimmy. She pushed in the last hairpin and rose to her feet.

“Ready, Miss Parrot?” she said evenly.

“Yes,” said Miss Parrot, handing her the gown. She lingered a moment, to put away the thimble and close the sewing box. Again she looked Jane over with that not impersonal eye. “You look very pretty, Mrs. Carver,” she said.

Jane dabbed a little perfume on her cheeks and hurried from the room without answering. In the hall she stumbled over the children’s cocker spaniel. It yelped sharply, then wagged its tail and started after her down the stairs. At the foot of them Jane saw Belle, just starting up for Cicily’s room. She and Jack were coming out for the weekend. They must have been on the train with Jimmy. The child looked up at her with wide, round eyes of admiration. The eyes were so round and the admiration so apparent that Jane stopped and laughed down at her. Belle was really charming. She looked like an apple blossom.

“Hello, little Belle,” said Jane.

At the sound of her voice, Jimmy Trent came out of the living-room. He looked taller than he really was, beside the staring child. His eyes were very bright and blue and his necktie exactly matched them. He stood smiling up at her from the foot of the staircase. As Jane ran down the last steps, he took her hand and held it for a minute. Jane laughed up at him.

“You know little Belle Bridges,” she said, withdrawing her hand.

“Of course I do,” said Jimmy. “Hello, little Belle Bridges!” He too smiled down at the child. Jane stooped over and kissed little Belle’s cheek. It felt very smooth and cool, like the petal of an apple blossom. The little spaniel was jumping forgivingly about her feet. Jane picked it up and held it tenderly in her arms and kissed the top of its little black head and looked up at Jimmy over its long, floppy ears. Then they turned away from Belle toward the living-room door.

“I didn’t expect you till four,” said Jane, smiling up at Jimmy over the spaniel.

He paused to let her precede him through the living-room door.

“I couldn’t wait to play you my last cadenza,” said Jimmy. “Jane, that concerto is finished. I couldn’t wait an hour⁠—”

“Silly!” said Jane, looking over her shoulder at Jimmy, as they passed into the living-room. In a moment she heard little Belle, scrambling upstairs to Cicily’s bedroom. “But I can’t wait myself to hear it. Oh, Jimmy, I can’t believe⁠—truly I can’t believe⁠—that you’ve really done it.”

“You know who made me,” said Jimmy. His eyes searched hers for a moment, before he turned to pick up his fiddle-case from the table. “It’s really your concerto.” He tucked his violin under his chin and tuned it airily as he strolled across the room, just as he had done on that first Lakewood evening. He took his stand on the hearthrug, bow in hand, and looked down at her. “Your concerto, Jane,” he repeated. It seemed to Jane, at the moment, a very solemn dedication. She looked up at Jimmy very seriously as he raised his bow. She never took her eyes off his slender, swaying figure, until the last note had sounded.

“It’s beautiful, Jimmy,” she said then, solemnly, “it’s very beautiful.”

“You know why, don’t you?” said Jimmy, looking down at her from the hearthrug.

Just then Sarah came in with the tea.

II

“You wouldn’t think it was so funny,” said Isabel scathingly, “if you’d heard Muriel talking about it yesterday in Flora’s hat shop. She didn’t even stop when I came in.”

“I don’t think it’s funny,” said Jane loftily. “I think it’s ridiculous.”

“Muriel ought to be ashamed of herself,” said Mrs. Ward.

They were all sitting around the fire in Mr. Ward’s library, waiting for Minnie to bring in the tea-tray.

“She said it was as plain as a pikestaff,” said Isabel. “She said it right before me. She said that just as soon as she and Flora came in they saw you two sitting over at a corner table. She said that you had a quart of champagne, Jane, and that you said something and that Jimmy smiled and lifted his glass and looked at you and kissed the rim before he drank from it.”

“It was only a pint,” said Jane. “We were drinking to the success of his concerto. He finished it last week.”

“It was very unfortunate,” said Mrs. Ward, “that Muriel had to come in at just that moment.”

“It was very unfortunate,” said Isabel severely, “that Jane had to be there at all. If you want to lunch with him, Jane, why can’t you lunch at the Blackstone or the Casino as if you’d like to be seen, instead of sneaking off to a place like De Jonche’s where no one you know ever goes⁠—”

“We didn’t sneak,” said Jane hotly. “And we go to De Jonche’s because we both like snails. They have the best in town.”

“You go?” said Mrs. Ward. “Had you been there before?”

“Often,” said Jane briefly.

“When I was your age,” said Mrs. Ward, “it was as much as a young married woman’s reputation was worth to be caught lunching with a man who was not her husband⁠—”

“Oh, nonsense, Mamma!” interrupted Isabel. “Everyone lunches with men, nowadays. It all depends on how you do it. Of course, as for Jimmy’s kissing the rim of his champagne glass in a public restaurant⁠—” She stopped abruptly as Minnie came in with the tea-tray. Minnie loved family gossip, but she was never allowed to hear any. Minnie had been twenty-five years in Mrs. Ward’s service, and in all those years Mrs. Ward had never failed to change the conversation from the personal plane whenever she entered the room.

“I wonder where your father is?” she said now, in a note of hollow inquiry, as Minnie, wheezing slightly, placed the heavy silver tray on the tea-table. Minnie, at fifty-three, was rather plump and puffy. She had recently developed a chronic asthma. But she never allowed anyone else to wait on Mrs. Ward.

“Hello, Minnie!” said Jane.

Minnie smiled her acknowledgement of the greeting.

“How are the children, Mrs. Carver?” she asked. Then bending solicitously over Mrs. Ward. “Don’t you eat too much of that plum cake, Mrs. Ward. It’s too rich for your blood pressure.” Her cap slightly askew on her iron-grey hair, she made a triumphant exit.

“Does Minnie think plum cake sends up blood pressure?” smiled Jane.

“She’s really getting impossible,” said Isabel.

“Sometimes I think she takes more interest in my condition than you children do,” said Mrs. Ward. She poured out a cup of tea for Isabel.

“No sugar, Mamma,” said Isabel. Then, returning to the charge, “Well, Jane, I think you ought to cut it out.”

“Cut what out?” said Jane angrily. “Two lumps, Mamma.”

“Cut out those clubby little parties à deux, with a pint of champagne. When Muriel starts talking⁠—”

“She’s a good one to talk,” said Mrs. Ward.

“Set a thief to catch a thief!” laughed Isabel.

“Oh, Isabel, shut up!” said Jane, in a sudden, snappish return to the vernacular of her childhood. She had not said “shut up” to Isabel for more than twenty years. As the words left her lips, Mr. Ward entered the room. He came in just as he always did, and laid the evening paper on his desk and began to turn over the afternoon mail.

“Hello, kid!” he said tranquilly. “Why must Isabel shut up?”

“Because she’s an ass!” said Jane, still rather snappishly. Mr. Ward raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“So are we all of us,” he said pleasantly, “sometimes.” Then, running his paper-cutter through an envelope, “What’s Isabel been doing now?”

“Talking,” said Jane briefly. “And listening. And repeating silly gossip.”

Mr. Ward looked as if he thought Isabel had merely been running true to form.

“That all?” he said, with a smile.

“I’ve been telling Jane,” said Isabel, “that she’s getting herself talked about.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Ward. “Lizzie, could you make me a cup of weak tea?” He dropped his mail and sat down in his leather chair, lowering himself into it rather carefully, his hands on the arms. “It’s like summer out,” he said pleasantly. “Makes me think of the old days when I used to walk home from the office. The Furnesses’ lilacs are almost in bud.”

“They don’t bud any more, Papa,” said Jane. “The soot is killing them.”

“One does,” said Mr. Ward. “Thank you, Lizzie. The one by the old playhouse.”

“It’s terrible,” sighed Mrs. Ward, “what’s happening to the neighbourhood.”

Jane knew just what her mother thought about what was happening to the neighbourhood. She walked over to the window and stood staring across Pine Street at the new flat building that had gone up in the opposite yard the previous autumn.

“Boardinghouses,” said Mrs. Ward, “and dressmakers and apartments⁠—” Jane was no longer listening. She stood staring out of the window at the terra-cotta façade of the flat building, thinking furious thoughts about Isabel⁠—and Muriel⁠—and a world in which you could not phrase a funny little toast to a man’s concerto, without⁠—Presently she heard her father get up and go out of the room. Jane glanced at her watch.

“I must go,” she said. “I’m motoring out to Lakewood.”

“Are you picking up Stephen?” asked Mrs. Ward.

“No,” said Jane. “He prefers the train.” She kissed her mother’s cheek. “Goodbye, Isabel,” she added coldly.

“Now, Jane⁠—don’t be a dumbbell,” said Isabel cheerfully. “You think over what I said.”

Jane left the room without stooping to further discord. In the hall she met her father. He was standing there, outside the library door, exactly as if he were waiting for someone. He slipped his arm through hers and walked to the front door. Jane opened it.

“Goodbye, Papa,” she said. There was a note of finality in her tone. He followed her out onto the front steps, however. He stood a moment on the top one, gently detaining her by his restraining arm.

“Kid,” said Mr. Ward, “I know you’re a grown woman, but you seem just like a child to me.”

Jane smiled, a little nervously. She did not speak.

“But you’re a wise child, kid,” went on Mr. Ward, “and I wouldn’t presume to dictate on your conduct.” He too smiled just a little nervously. Jane still stood silent. “I’ll only trespass on the parental prerogatives so far as to urge you,” said Mr. Ward, “to avoid all appearance of evil. It’s a wicked world.

“Papa,” said Jane, “I haven’t been doing anything I shouldn’t.”

“I’m sure you haven’t,” said Mr. Ward quickly.

“It’s just Muriel’s nonsense. You know Muriel.”

“Yes, I know Muriel,” said Mr. Ward. “That’s why I urge you to avoid all appearance of evil.” He stood looking steadily at Jane. The nervousness had left his smile. His eyes looked worried, however. His eyes looked tired, Jane thought. His eyes looked old. They seemed a darker brown since his hair had turned so white. Jane kissed him, tenderly.

“I will, Papa,” she said. “Don’t worry.” Then she ran down the steps and jumped into the Overland. She glanced back to wave at her father. He was still standing on the top step, looking after her with that faintly troubled expression. Jane forgot him as she set the gears in motion. Her thoughts returned, angrily, to Isabel. That luncheon was perfectly harmless. Muriel, of course, was always malicious, but Isabel ought to have more sense.

III

Jane could not, however, keep her angry thoughts on Isabel. The April afternoon was very warm and fair. The elm trees were budding down the stretch of Pine Street. The bushes in the park around the Water Works Tower were already green. Jane saw the bench where she and André had sat to look at the pictures of Sarah Bernhardt. She remembered Muriel’s adolescent giggle. Muriel was an idiot, even then.

The lake stretched, softly blue beyond the Oak Street breakers. A gaunt skyscraper or two loomed up on the filled-in land to the southeast. A whole section of the city had been created there since Jane’s childhood. Created from garbage and tin cans and rags and old iron. Apartments were going up in the waste of empty land. Magnificent redbrick and grey-stone apartments, with liveried doormen and marble entrance halls and wrought-iron elevators, standing where once there had been only blue water. Blue water beyond the vacant lots where sweet clover and ragweed had bloomed. Jane felt like the first white child born west of the Alleghenies when she looked at them. She had seen Chicago change from a provincial town into the sixth largest city in the world.

She turned the car abruptly from the Drive at the Division Street corner. She was going to pick up Jimmy at his North State Street boardinghouse and motor him out to Lakewood for the weekend. They would have lovely weather. One more hot day like this, thought Jane, and perhaps the apple tree would burst into bloom.

Jimmy was standing on the curbstone, his suitcase at his feet.

“Am I late?” asked Jane anxiously, as she brought the car to a standstill.

“No⁠—I’m early,” said Jimmy. He opened the door of the motor and slipped into the seat beside her. “I thought maybe you’d come sooner than you said.”

“I was having tea with Mamma,” said Jane, “and talking to Isabel.” She set the gears in motion.

“What about?” asked Jimmy.

“Oh, nothing,” said Jane. “Nothing much.” Suddenly she decided to tell him. “Muriel told Isabel about seeing us at De Jonche’s yesterday,” she said, her eyes on the street before her.

“What was there to tell?” asked Jimmy innocently.

“Oh⁠—Muriel can always make a good story,” said Jane. There was a little pause. Jane knew Jimmy was looking at her profile.

“Well⁠—do you care?” asked Jimmy presently.

“Oh, no,” said Jane falsely. “No⁠—not at all. Only⁠—”

She stopped.

“Only what?” asked Jimmy gently.

“Only it seems too bad that people have to try to spoil lovely things. To⁠—to smirch them, you know, with ugly gossip and false interpretations.” Again Jane stopped.

“They can’t spoil them really, Jane,” said Jimmy very seriously. “No one could ever spoil what happens between you and me but just ourselves.”

That was just like Jimmy, thought Jane, smiling softly at the North State Street traffic. It was just like Jimmy to understand. He had perfectly phrased the thought she had been groping forever since her angry altercation with Isabel. As long as she and Jimmy kept their heads and⁠—well⁠—did not allow anything⁠—anything silly to happen, there was nothing in their friendship to be ashamed of.

And it would so soon be over. Jimmy’s job at the News would be ended in a fortnight. His friend was on the water now, coming back from Munich. They had had a lovely winter⁠—the loveliest winter, Jane thought, that she had ever known. Jimmy had written his reviews and had finished his concerto, and she⁠—she had never been so happy, really, with Stephen and the children, never so contented at Lakewood, never so sure and satisfied, in her secret heart, that Life was worth living, that it would always, somehow, be fun to live.

There had been, of course, Miss Parrot’s cynical smile and Sarah’s impassive silence and Muriel’s malicious twinkle and her father’s troubled eyes. And now there was Isabel’s uncalled-for interference. It was, as her father had just said, a wicked world. But she and Jimmy had never exchanged a word that she could be sorry for. Never said anything, really, that Stephen might not have heard. Stephen, himself, had never been troubled, Stephen liked Jimmy. Stephen knew she was to be implicitly trusted.

And now Jimmy was going⁠—going in two weeks⁠—back to New York to the Greenwich Village flat and the big and little Agneses. And Jane⁠—Jane would be left in Lakewood to⁠—to watch the spring come and buy the children’s thin clothes and clean the house and pack up for the Gull Rocks summer. Jane sighed a little as she thought of the months before her. Just like all other spring months, of course. But she would miss Jimmy dreadfully, and she would never see him again, of course, just as she had this last lovely winter. He would go back to New York and produce the concerto and become suddenly distinguished. Suddenly distinguished, really, a little bit because of her. Of course it was absurd of Jimmy to call it her concerto, but Jane knew that she had kept him working. Her encouragement and enthusiasm had spurred him on. Yes, both she and Jimmy would always be a little better for the winter’s friendship, which no one but themselves could ever spoil. No one but themselves could ever understand it, really⁠—a simple friendship that had meant so much to them, a joy of companionship⁠—

“A penny for your thoughts, Jane?” said Jimmy.

“I was just thinking of us,” said Jane, “and of all that’s happened this winter.”

“Have you really liked it?” asked Jimmy.

“Oh, yes,” breathed Jane. Then, after a moment, “It seems so funny, now, to think I didn’t think I would, when Agnes first wrote me you were coming. I thought you’d be terrible, Jimmy⁠—”

“I am terrible,” said Jimmy, with a smile.

“Oh, no, you’re not,” said Jane very wisely.

“You don’t know the half of it,” said Jimmy.

“Yes, I do,” said Jane. “I know pretty nearly the whole of it. I understand you perfectly.”

“Sure you do?” said Jimmy.

“I know you can do great things if you’re prodded by a little encouragement⁠—”

“Say rather if I’m prodded by ‘the endearing elegance of female friendship,’ ” said Jimmy, still with the smile. “It does more for a man than you know. There’s a little lyric of A. E. Housman’s, Jane⁠—I wonder if you remember it?⁠—it has always been a particular favourite of mine.” Still smiling into her appreciative eyes, he quoted lightly:

“Oh, when I was in love with you.
Then I was clean and brave,
And miles around the wonder grew
How well did I behave.”

“Well,” laughed Jane a little confusedly, “even so, what of it? As long as you do behave, you know.”

“There’s a second verse,” said Jimmy warningly.

“And now the fancy passes by,
And nothing will remain,
And miles around they’ll say that I
Am quite myself again.”

Jane felt unaccountably disappointed in the second verse. She summoned up a laugh, however.

“I call that cynical,” she said. “It won’t be that way with you. As soon as you get to New York, Jimmy, you must show that concerto to Damrosch. I know he’ll like it. And you must write something else. Something else immediately, while you’re still in the mood for it.”

“Perhaps I won’t be in the mood for it,” said Jimmy. “I don’t feel as if I’d be much in the mood for anything when I get back to New York.”

“You’ve been working awfully hard,” said Jane sympathetically. “I liked what you wrote last week about Mischa Elman. You’re right. No other living violinist has his combination of warmth and light⁠—of feeling, yet detachment⁠—”

They talked of Mischa Elman’s concert all the way to Lakewood. Stephen was waiting for dinner and reading a King Arthur story aloud to the children when they entered the living-room. He was glad to see Jimmy and glad, too, of the soft spring weather.

“We’ll have eighteen holes of golf tomorrow morning, Jimmy,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t dress, Jane. I’m as hungry as a bear.”

But Jane thought she would just slip into the red Poiret tea-gown. It would not take a minute.

IV

That evening Jimmy played parcheesi with the children. Jane sat at Steve’s elbow and advised him on his moves. Stephen lounged in his armchair and read the Evening Post. Stephen was no parcheesi fan. He was glad to be relieved of a duty that had devolved upon him every evening since Miss Parrot’s departure the week before. Jane thought the game was really quite amusing. They laughed a great deal over Steve’s success with the dice. He sent Jimmy’s foremost man home eight times in succession. It was half-past nine before the game was over.

When the children had gone upstairs, Stephen cast aside his paper with a yawn.

“I’m tired tonight,” he said. “This first hot weather takes it out of you. I’m going up to bed.”

Jane caught a glint of elation in Jimmy’s eye across Stephen’s unconscious figure. Jane did not like that glint. Of course, Jimmy just wanted to sit and gossip by the fire as they had so often gossiped, but he should not have allowed himself to look elated. Curiously, at that moment, Jane thought of her father. “Avoid all appearance of evil.” She thought also of Sarah, washing dishes in the pantry.

“I’m tired, too, Stephen,” she said evenly. “I’d like to turn in early myself.”

The glint of elation in Jimmy’s eyes turned quickly to a look of incredulity, then to one of mock consternation.

“See here,” he protested, “I’m not tired. I’m not tired at all. I was looking forward to a big evening.”

“Sorry,” smiled Jane. “You’re not going to get it.” She turned with Stephen toward the door.

“See here,” said Jimmy again, “are you just going off to bed and leave me standing here on the hearthrug? I don’t call it civil.”

“That’s just what we’re going to do,” smiled Jane. “Goodnight.”

“It’s a sell,” said Jimmy. “It’s not ten o’clock yet. What will I do with myself? I can’t go to sleep for hours. I’ll be reduced to writing a letter to Agnes!”

The mention of Agnes’s name instantly confirmed Jane’s plan to go up with Stephen. He had already started for the stairs.

“That’s a fine idea, Jimmy,” said Jane pleasantly. “There’s notepaper in the desk by the window. Give her my love and tell her I think the concerto is grand.”

Jimmy crossed the hearthrug and stood at her side for a moment in hesitant silence. He laid a restraining finger on her arm.

“Don’t go up, Jane,” he said persuasively. “I want to talk to you.”

“Can’t you talk to me tomorrow?” asked Jane, a trifle uncertainly.

“Good night, Jimmy,” called Stephen from the staircase. “Remember, eighteen holes tomorrow morning!”

Jane turned to glance up at him. He was standing on the landing, looking down on them a little wearily. Jane suddenly thought their figures had assumed a rather intimate pose. She started away from Jimmy and walked out into the hall. She threw him a glance over her shoulder, however. He was gazing after her so wistfully that she could not help twinkling back at him.

“No, I’m going up,” she said pleasantly. “Good night, Jimmy.” She followed Stephen up the darkened staircase and into the mellow lamplight of their little blue bedroom. Stephen, with a familiar gesture, was already hanging his grey sack coat over the back of a chair. He looked up at Jane as she entered.

“You look very pretty tonight in that red thing,” he said.

Jane glanced at herself in the cheval glass⁠—she did look pretty. Her eyes were still twinkling at the thought of deserted Jimmy and her lips were curved in a little involuntary smile. Stephen continued to look at her in silence.

“You’ll miss Jimmy,” said Stephen, “when he goes back East.”

Jane turned to stare at him. Stephen had never made any comment on Jimmy just like that, before. Could Stephen be really⁠—troubled? He went on speaking very evenly.

“But you’ll have more time,” he said. There was a little pause. “I’ve been thinking, Jane,” he continued⁠—what had Stephen been thinking? Jane thought breathlessly⁠—“I’ve been wondering if this wouldn’t be a good spring to see about getting Steve’s teeth straightened. If he wore braces at Gull Rocks this summer⁠—”

Jane turned from him in an absurd surge of irritation. Oh, yes⁠—she would have plenty of time, now, to straighten Steve’s teeth and plan for Gull Rocks and⁠—Stephen was unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“I think you’d better take him in to the dentist⁠—” he began.

“I’ll take him in, Stephen,” said Jane snappishly. “Of course I’ll take him in. Why do you act as if you had to nag me⁠—”

Her voice died down. Stephen had paused, in the act of untying his necktie, to look at her in amazement. Jane walked over to him and laid her hand on his arm. “I’ll take him in, dear,” she said. Her tone was a tacit apology. Stephen went on untying his necktie. Jane slipped out of the Poiret tea-gown. Jimmy, she supposed, was writing a letter to Agnes at the living-room desk downstairs.

V

Next morning Stephen had his eighteen holes of golf with Jimmy. The April day had dawned very bright and fair. The men came home from the links just a little late for luncheon with Jane and the children. It was nearly three before the meal was finished. While they were drinking their after-luncheon coffee, Mr. and Mrs. Ward turned up, rather unexpectedly. The day was so pleasant, Mrs. Ward remarked, that they had motored out to spend Sunday afternoon with the grandchildren. Mr. Ward had greeted Jimmy very affably, but Mrs. Ward looked distinctly affronted by his presence at Jane’s fireside. When Stephen produced a cocktail for the men at teatime, Jane saw her mother fasten a lynx eye on Jimmy, as he stood on the hearthrug, nonchalantly toying with his glass of amber liquid. Jane could not suppress a smile. She knew that her mother was determined that Jimmy should not kiss the rim of that glass unobserved. He made no attempt to do so, however. He had made no attempt, all day, to resume the conversation of which Jane had deprived him on the previous evening. Mr. and Mrs. Ward did not leave their grandchildren until after six o’clock. It was time to dress for dinner when they had gone.

Both men seemed silent, Jane thought, at table. Tired out, perhaps, by their morning of golf in the open air. Cicily rather monopolized the conversation. She was chattering of the educational plans of the rising generation. In particular of the educational plans of Jack Bridges, on whom the family interest was centring that spring. At seventeen Jack was about to take his final entrance examination for Harvard. He was a clever boy, snub-nosed and twinkle-eyed like his father, with a strong natural bent for the physical sciences. Robin and Isabel were very proud of him. Cicily, herself, wanted to go to Rosemary next year with her cousin Belle. Jane had tried in vain to interest her in Bryn Mawr. She tried again, a little half-heartedly, this evening at the table.

“Why should I go to college, Mumsy?” said Cicily. “And lock myself up on a campus for four years?”

Lock herself up on a campus, thought Jane. That was what college life meant to the rising generation. For her Bryn Mawr had spelled emancipation. Through Pembroke Arch she had achieved a world of unprecedented freedom. Under the Bryn Mawr maples she had escaped from family surveillance, from the “opinions” of her mother and Isabel, from ideas with which she could never agree, from standards to which she could never conform. To Agnes and herself the routine existence in a Bryn Mawr dormitory had seemed a life of liberty, positively bordering upon licence. To Cicily it seemed ridiculous servitude.

“I don’t want to go to college,” said Cicily. “I want to room with Belie at boarding-school and come out when I’m eighteen.”

“Don’t you want to know anything?” asked Stephen, rousing himself from his silence. The twinkle in his eyes robbed the question of all harshness.

“I don’t want to know anything I can learn at Bryn Mawr,” laid Cicily airily.

“That’s a very silly thing to say,” said Jane.

“Oh, I don’t know,” interposed Jimmy brightly. “What use is knowledge to a girl with hair like Cicily’s? Let her trust to instinct. I bet that takes her farther, Jane, than you’ll care to see her go.”

“A little knowledge might hold her back,” said Jane.

“I don’t want to be held back,” said Cicily promptly. “I want to do everything and go everywhere.”

“Nevertheless, you want to know what you’re doing and where you’re going,” said Jane severely.

“I don’t know that I do,” said Cicily. “I like surprises.”

“The child’s a hedonist, Jane,” said Jimmy. “Let her alone. You’ll never understand a hedonist. ‘Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself, is the end.’ Pater said that first, but it’s very true. You’ll never read Pater, Cicily, if you don’t go to Bryn Mawr, and you probably wouldn’t like him if you did. He doesn’t speak the language of your generation. Nevertheless, he is your true prophet. I learned pages of Pater by heart, when I was at night school at the settlement. I thought he had the right idea. ‘A counted number of pulses only is given to us of a variegated, dramatic life. How shall we pass most swiftly from point to point and be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital forces unite in their purest energy? To burn always with this hard, gem-like flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life.’ That was my credo, Cicily, when I was not so much older than you are. Go on burning, my dear, burn like your golden hair, and never bother about the consequences.”

Cicily was staring at him with wide, non-comprehending eyes. Jane knew she had not understood a word of the Pater.

“That’s very immoral doctrine,” she said.

“But didn’t you think it was swell,” said Jimmy, “when you first read it with Agnes at Bryn Mawr?”

“Yes, I did,” said Jane honestly. “But I was too young to know what it meant.”

“The trouble with education is,” said Jimmy cheerfully, “that we always read everything when we’re too young to know what it means. And the trouble with life is that we’re always too busy to reread it later. There’s more sense in books, Cicily, than you’d really believe. Though, of course, they don’t teach you anything vital that you can’t learn for yourself.”

Jane rose from the table.

“Go up and do your homework, Cicily,” she said cheerfully. “And don’t listen to Mr. Trent. You’ll never learn the past participle of moneo, unless you apply yourself to Harkness’s Latin Grammar.”

The children trooped upstairs to the playroom. Stephen picked up the Sunday paper. What with the golf all morning and the family all afternoon, he had not really assimilated the real estate columns. Jimmy wandered over to the glass doors that opened on the terrace.

“Come out in the garden, Maud,” he said lightly to Jane. “The moon is full tonight.”

Jane looked at Stephen a little hesitantly.

“You come, too, Stephen,” she said.

Stephen looked up over the margin of the Morning Tribune.

“Run along with Jimmy,” he said. Then, as his eyes returned to the real estate page, “I think this Michigan Avenue Extension Bridge is really going through. That lot of your father’s on Pine Street will be worth a fortune some day, Jane.”

Jane walked at Jimmy’s side across the shaded terrace and down into the moonlit garden. They strolled the length of it in silence. The night was fresh and just a little cool. The moon was high in the eastern sky. It seemed racing rapidly through the ragged rents in the tattered clouds. There was no wind in the garden, however. The moon-blanched daffodils were motionless in their bed beneath the evergreens. The boughs of the apple tree did not stir. Only the cloud-shadows raced, as the moon was racing, across the expanse of lawn. Jimmy sat down on a green bench beneath the apple tree.

“Sit down, Jane,” he said. “Are you cold?”

“No,” said Jane, sinking down on the bench beside him. “I think the air is lovely.”

“Better put on my coat,” said Jimmy.

“No⁠—I don’t need it,” said Jane.

Jimmy took it off, however, and wrapped it about her shoulders. He turned the collar up, very carefully, around her bare throat. Jane could smell the faint distinctive odour of the tweed as he did so.

“I want you to be comfortable,” said Jimmy.

“I am comfortable,” smiled Jane.

“I want you to be comfortable,” continued Jimmy, ignoring her comment, “because I’m going to talk to you for a long, long time. It will take a long, long time, even out here in the moonlight, to make you understand all that I have to say.”

Jane looked quickly up at him, disquieted by his words. Jimmy’s face was very calm. He seemed, at the moment, a very tranquil faun. In one instant, however, by one sentence, he shattered the tranquillity of the moment.

“What do you think,” he said, “is going to happen to you and me?”

Jane stared at him.

“To you⁠—and me?” she faltered. He looked steadily down at her. “Why, Jimmy”⁠—she was conscious of smiling nervously⁠—“what⁠—what could happen?”

He ignored her foolish question.

“I’m married to Agnes,” said Jimmy; “you’re married to Stephen. We’ve known each other just seven months and we’re in love with each other. What’s going to happen?” Jane, in her utter astonishment, half-rose from the bench.

“We⁠—we’re not in love with each other,” she protested hotly.

“Jane”⁠—said Jimmy sadly⁠—“don’t waste time in prevarication. The night is all too short as it is.”

“I’m not in love with you,” said Jane, sinking back on the bench.

“Oh, yes, you are,” said Jimmy.

“I love Stephen,” said Jane, staring straight into his eyes.

“Yes,” said Jimmy; “that makes it worse, for you’re not in love with him. There’s a great difference, you know, in those two states of mind, or rather of emotion. You’re in love with me and I’m in love with you. I haven’t been in love with Agnes for years. I don’t even love her, any more. She’s irritated me too often. I respect her⁠—she amuses me⁠—I’m grateful to her⁠—”

“Jimmy! Don’t talk like that!” cried Jane sharply.

“But you love Stephen,” went on Jimmy imperturbably. “Which complicates everything, for of course you’ll want to consider him.”

“Consider him!” cried Jane. “Of course I want to consider him!”

“Yes,” said Jimmy reasonably. “That’s what I said. That’s what makes it so difficult.”

“Makes what so difficult?” cried Jane.

“My persuading you to come away with me,” said Jimmy calmly.

“Have you lost your mind?” demanded Jane.

“For you are going to come away with me, in the end, Jane,” said Jimmy. “But I’ll have to do an awful lot of talking first.”

“I’m not in love with you,” said Jane again. Meeting Jimmy’s eyes, however, her glance fell before his gaze.

“No use in not facing it, Jane,” said Jimmy.

“I⁠—I didn’t even know you were in love with me,” said Jane. “You⁠—you’ve never made love to me except⁠—except just that once⁠—”

“I’ve been making love to you, Jane,” said Jimmy, “from the moment that you resented that kiss. Not before. I just kissed you for the fun of it, and you were quite right to resent it. But since then, Jane, I haven’t thrown a glance or said a word that wasn’t arrant lovemaking. Oh”⁠—he stopped her indignant protest⁠—“I know you never recognized it. You’re invincibly innocent. Any other woman would have known it at once, and would either have kicked me out or responded in kind. In either case I’d have tired of her in two months.”

“You’re asking me to respond in kind, now,” said Jane tremulously. “At least⁠—at least I suppose you are.”

“You bet I am,” said Jimmy.

“So that you can tire of me in two months?” asked Jane.

“So that I can marry you,” said Jimmy promptly. “I want you to come away with me, Jane, tonight, or tomorrow or next week Wednesday⁠—any time you say. I want you to face the music. I want you to meet your fate. I want you to live before you die. Did you know that you’d never lived, Jane? That’s why you’re so invincibly innocent. I want you to live, darling. I want to live with you.” His eager face was very close to hers. But still he had not so much as touched her hands. They were clasped very tightly together in her lap.

“Jimmy,” said Jane brokenly, “please stop.”

“Why?” said Jimmy eagerly.

“Because it’s no use,” said Jane. “I won’t deceive Stephen, or betray Agnes, or leave my children.”

“But you love me?” said Jimmy.

Jane’s troubled eyes fell before his ardent glance.

“You love me?” he repeated a little huskily. “Oh, Jane⁠—my darling⁠—say it!” His shaken accents tore at her heartstrings.

“Yes,” whispered Jane. “I⁠—I love you.” Her eyes were on the cloud-shadows racing across the lawn. She could hardly believe that she had uttered the sentence that rang in her ears. It had fluttered from her lips before she was aware. The words themselves gave actuality to the statement. Once said they were true. They trembled in the silent garden. Winged words, that could not be recalled.

“Jane!” breathed Jimmy. And still he did not touch her. Staring straight before her at the cloud-shadows, Jane was suddenly conscious of a dreadful, devastating wish that he would.

“Jane⁠—” said Jimmy falteringly. Suddenly he took her in his arms.

Jane felt herself lost in a maze of emotion.

“Jimmy,” said Jane, after a moment, “this is terrible⁠—this is perfectly terrible. I⁠—I can’t tell even you how I feel.” She slipped from his embrace.

“Even me?” smiled Jimmy. Until he repeated them, Jane had not realized the tender import of her words. He took her again in his arms.

“Jimmy⁠—don’t!” said Jane faintly. “I’m sinking, Jimmy, I’m sinking into a pit that a moment before was unthinkable! Stop kissing me, Jimmy! For God’s sake, stop kissing me! I want to think!”

“I don’t want you to think,” said Jimmy. “I just want you to feel.”

“But I⁠—I am thinking!” said Jane pitifully.

“Don’t do it!” said Jimmy.

But Jane steadfastly put away his arms.

“Jimmy,” she said desperately, “we must think. We must think of everyone. If I went away with you, we wouldn’t achieve happiness.”

“Of course we would,” said Jimmy. “We’ve only one life to live, Jane, and that life’s half over. Let’s make the most of it while it lasts.”

“But Stephen’s life,” said Jane, “and Agnes’s⁠—”

“Don’t think of them,” said Jimmy. “Think only of us. Are our lives nothing?”

“I can’t think only of us,” said Jane.

“You could if you came away with me,” said Jimmy. “You will come, won’t you, Jane?”

“No, Jimmy,” said Jane very sadly.

“Then I’ll carry you off, darling,” said Jimmy, “to some chimerical place. We’ll jump over a broomstick together in the dark of the moon to the tinkle of a tambourine! Let’s sail for the South Sea Islands, Jane, just as we planned that first evening. Let’s go to Siam and Burma and on into India⁠—”

“Oh, Jimmy,” sighed Jane, “you’re so ridiculous⁠—and so adorable.”

There was only one answer to that.

“You’re adorable,” said Jimmy, as he kissed her. “And ridiculous!”

“Jimmy,” said Jane, “am I dreaming? I must be dreaming⁠—though I never dreamed of you like this before.”

“Invincible innocent!” laughed Jimmy. “You’re going away with me! You’re going to leave this garden forever. You’ll never see that apple tree in bloom again⁠—”

“Never that apple tree?” said Jane.

“But you’ll see other trees in bloom,” smiled Jimmy, “in other gardens.”

“But not that one?” said Jane. “Not that one with Jenny’s swing hanging from its branches and Steve’s tree-house nailed to its trunk and the bare place beneath it where the grass never grew after we took up Cicily’s first sandpile?”

“Don’t think, darling!” said Jimmy quickly.

They sat a long time in silence.

“Cold, darling?” whispered Jimmy, as Jane stirred in his arms.

“No⁠—not cold,” murmured Jane.

“Thinking?” whispered Jimmy.

“No⁠—not thinking,” murmured Jane. “Not thinking any more at all.”

“Coming?” smiled Jimmy.

“I⁠—don’t know,” said Jane. “Don’t ask me that or I’ll begin thinking. Just hold me, Jimmy, hold me in your arms.”

VI

When Jane opened her eyes next morning, the cold light of the April dawn was breaking over the garden. She had come into the house with Jimmy some four hours before. They had turned out the lights in the living-room and crept silently up the stairs and exchanged one last kiss at the door of Jane’s bedroom. She had opened the door with elaborate precaution and moved quietly into her room. Precautions, however, were unnecessary. Stephen was sound asleep on the sleeping-porch. Jane had slipped out of her clothes and into her nightgown in the darkness and had stood, for a moment, in her bedroom window gazing out at the silvery garden. She had raised her bare arms in the moonlight, as if to fold to her heart a phantom lover. She had smiled at their milky whiteness. Then she had jumped into bed and covered herself up and waited, a little fearfully, for besieging thoughts. They had not come, however. Defeated by victorious feeling, perhaps they lay in ambush. Jane wondered and, while wondering and feeling, fell serenely asleep.

She was wakened at dawn by the chirping of birds in the oak trees on the terrace. She opened her eyes in her familiar blue bedroom. She did not remember, for a moment, what had happened in the garden. Then the thoughts pounced on her. They had been in ambush. Serried ranks of thoughts, battalions of thoughts, little valiant warrior thoughts that rose up singly from the ranks and stabbed her mind before she was aware of their coming. She recalled the events of the evening with horror and incredulity. It could not have happened. If it had, she must have been mad. She was Jane Carver⁠—Mrs. Stephen Carver⁠—Stephen Carver’s wife and the mother of his three children. She was Jane Ward⁠—little Jane Ward⁠—John Ward’s daughter⁠—who had been born on Pine Street and gone to Miss Milgrim’s School with Agnes and to Bryn Mawr with Agnes. Little Jane Ward, who had loved André and grown up and married Stephen. She had been Stephen Carver’s wife for nearly sixteen years. Yes, she must have been mad last night in the moonlit garden. Mad⁠—to let Jimmy speak, to let him hold her in his arms. Mad to sit with him there⁠—beneath the apple tree⁠—how many hours? Four⁠—five⁠—six hours she had sat with Jimmy beneath the apple tree, deceiving Stephen and betraying Agnes and planning to abandon her children.

Had it really happened? Was it a dream? Something should be done about dreams like that. You should not even dream that you were deceiving your husband or betraying your friend or planning to abandon your children. But it was not a dream. If it were a dream, she would be lying beside Stephen in her bed on the sleeping-porch. No⁠—it had happened. It had irrevocably happened. The long path into which she had turned at the moment that she had looked into Jimmy’s eyes on the threshold of the Greenwich Village flat had come to its perhaps inevitable ending. She loved Jimmy. She had, incredibly, told him so. The telling had changed everything. It had changed Jimmy. It had changed herself, most of all. It had changed everything, Jane saw clearly in the light of the April dawn, but the most essential facts of the situation. You did not deceive your husband⁠—you did not betray your friend⁠—you did not abandon your children.

Yet she had promised Jimmy only four short hours ago, on the bench beneath the apple tree, to do all those things. She had promised him, just before parting. Jane closed her eyes to shut out the awful clarity of the April dawn, to shut out the familiar walls of the bedroom, to shut out the serried ranks of thoughts that clustered about her bed. It was no use⁠—the thoughts were still there, crowding behind her eyelids. They would not be denied⁠—battering, besieging thoughts. No feeling left, curiously enough, or almost none, to combat them. Only an incredulous bruised memory of feeling⁠—feeling so briefly experienced, to be forever forsworn.

Of course she would forswear it. She had been mad in the garden. Moon-mad. Man-mad. She had been everything that was impossible and undefendable. She had not been Jane Carver or little Jane Ward. She had been some incredible changeling. But she was Jane Carver now, and Jane Ward, too. Little Jane Ward, who had been brought up on Pine Street by a Victorian family to try to be a good girl and mind her parents. Jane Carver, who had behind her the strength of fifteen incorruptible years of honest living as Stephen’s wife. Of course she would forswear the feeling. She would tell Jimmy that morning.

Jimmy. At the memory of Jimmy the serried ranks of thoughts fell back a little. A sudden wave of emotion reminded her that feeling was not so easily forsworn. Jimmy’s face in the moonlight⁠—his eyes⁠—his lips⁠—his arms about her body. Suddenly Jane heard Stephen stirring on the sleeping-porch. It was seven o’clock, then. The day had begun. This day in which thoughts must give birth to action. This day in which feeling must be forsworn. Stephen, struggling into his bathrobe, appeared on tiptoe at the door to the sleeping-porch. He looked a little sleepy, but very cheerful.

“Hello,” he said, “you awake? Why did you sleep in here?”

“I didn’t want to wake you up,” said Jane. She was amazed at the casual tone she managed to achieve. “I sat out very late with Jimmy in the garden.”

“I went up early,” said Stephen, “just as soon as I finished with the paper. Coming down to breakfast?”

“No,” said Jane. “Ask Sarah to bring up a tray.”

Jane felt she could not face a Lakewood family breakfast. Whatever life demanded of her on this dreadful day, it did not demand that she should sit behind her coffee tray, surrounded by her children, and pour out Jimmy’s coffee under Stephen’s unconscious eye. She would wait in her room until Stephen had gone to the train, until the children had left for school. Then she would go down and tell Jimmy that she had been mad in the garden.

Two hours later, Jane opened her bedroom door and walked down the staircase. No Jimmy in the hall. She entered the living-room and saw him standing by the terrace doors, gazing out at the apple tree. He wheeled quickly around at the sound of her step on the threshold. Jimmy looked tired. Jimmy looked worn. But Jimmy looked terribly happy. Jane smiled tremulously.

“Jimmy⁠—” she said, still standing in the doorway.

“Don’t say it!” cried Jimmy. “I know just how you feel. I know just how you’ve reacted. Don’t say it, Jane! Give yourself time to⁠—to get used to it.”

“I am used to it,” said Jane pitifully. “I’m terribly used to it. I’ve been thinking for hours.”

“I know what you’ve been thinking!” cried Jimmy. He walked quickly over to her and caught her hand in his. “It was inevitable, Jane, that you’d think those thoughts. Don’t⁠—don’t let them trouble you, Jane. I knew how it would be.”

“You knew how it would be?” faltered Jane.

“I even knew you wouldn’t come down to breakfast. In point of fact, I didn’t come down to breakfast myself In spite of all the many things I’ve done, Jane, in and out of camp meetings, I can’t say that I ever planned to run off with the wife of a friend before. I didn’t seem to care much about meeting Stephen myself, this morning. I didn’t seem to care much about sharing his eggs and bacon.”

“You haven’t had any breakfast?” said Jane stupidly. Jimmy shock his head. “I’ll ring for a tray.” She moved to the bell by the chimneypiece. Jimmy followed her across the room.

“But, Jane⁠—” he said.

“Yes,” said Jane, her hand on the bell-rope.

“Those thoughts, you know, aren’t really⁠—really important. I mean⁠—they don’t change anything.”

“They change everything,” said Jane dully. “Sarah, a breakfast tray, here in the living-room, for Mr. Trent.”

“And one for Mrs. Carver,” said Jimmy, with an affable smile for the maid in the doorway. “I’m sure you haven’t eaten a bite this morning. I’m sure you just drained down a cup of black coffee.”

“That’s just what I did,” said Jane, smiling wanly at Jimmy’s omniscience.

“Two breakfast trays, Sarah,” grinned Jimmy in dismissal. Then, when the girl had gone; “Sit down here, darling, on the sofa, with a pillow at your back. Put your feet up. There! Comfortable, now?”

“Very,” said Jane with another wan smile. “Jimmy, you make it awfully hard for me to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” said Jimmy brightly. “That you take it all back? Don’t trouble to tell it, Jane. Just sit there and rest and wait for your breakfast. When you’ve eaten it, life will seem much rosier.” He stood looking down at her very cheerfully from the hearthrug. “I wish I could sit down on the floor, Jane, and take your hands and tell you I adore you, but I really think I hadn’t better do it until Sarah has come in with the breakfast trays.”

“You hadn’t better ever do it,” said Jane.

“Nonsense,” said Jimmy. “I’m going to do it innumerable mornings. In the South Sea Islands and Siam and Burma⁠—”

Jane couldn’t help laughing.

“Jimmy,” she said, “you’re perfectly incorrigible. But I mean it. I really mean it. I’m terribly sorry⁠—I know it’s rough on you⁠—but⁠—but I made a dreadful mistake last night in the garden.”

“And now you’ve discovered that you don’t love me,” smiled Jimmy. “Well, presently you’ll discover again that you do.”

“No, Jimmy.” Jane’s voice was shrill with conviction.

“Here’s Sarah,” murmured Jimmy, turning with nonchalance to fleck the ash of his cigarette in the empty grate. Sarah placed the breakfast trays on two small tables and retired noiselessly from the room.

“Now eat, Jane,” said Jimmy commandingly. “I’m going to let you have all that breakfast before I even kiss you.”

Jane thought the breakfast would choke her. But somehow, under the stimulus of Jimmy’s pleasant conversation, she found she had consumed the entire contents of the tray. Jimmy rang again for Sarah. When the trays were removed, he stepped quickly over to her and sank on his knees by the sofa.

“Darling!” said Jimmy, seizing her hands in his.

“Jimmy!” cried Jane in terror. “Don’t kiss me! Don’t you dare to kiss me! I’m not the woman I was last night in the garden.” Her earnestness held him in check.

“Darling,” said Jimmy, still clinging firmly to her hands, “I know it’s terribly hard for you. I know it’s much worse for you than it is for me. You’ll have to face Stephen, whom you love, and a scandal, which you’ll hate. You’ll have to leave your children for a time⁠—though, of course, you’ll see them afterwards. I love your children, Jane, and they like me. They’re great kids. But of course you’ll have to leave them. It’s a terrible sacrifice⁠—and what have I to offer you?”

“Oh, Jimmy,” said Jane pitifully, “don’t say that! It isn’t that!”

“I know it isn’t, but still I have to say it. I’m a total loss as a husband, Jane. I’m a rolling stone and I’ll never gather moss. We’ll wander about the world together and I’ll write a little music and look for pleasant little jobs that won’t keep me too long in any one place. You’ll be awfully uncomfortable, Jane, a great deal of the time. And maybe lonely⁠—”

“No, I wouldn’t be lonely,” said Jane.

“I’m not so sure,” said Jimmy. “I think there are lots of raggle-taggle gypsies that you wouldn’t find so very congenial on closer acquaintance. They’re rather sordid, you know, and just a little promiscuous, in close quarters.”

“I wouldn’t care,” said Jane eagerly; “I wouldn’t care, Jimmy, as long as I had you.”

“Well, then,” smiled Jimmy, drawing a long breath, “well, then⁠—if that’s the way you feel, just why am I not to dare to kiss you?”

“Because I’m not going away with you, Jimmy.” Jane drew her hands from his. “I’m not going to do it. This isn’t just the silly reaction of a foolish woman to a moment’s indiscretion. It’s something much more serious. I’m in love with you, Jimmy, but I love you, too. I love you, just as I love Stephen and the children. I love you as I love Agnes. And that’s one of the reasons why I won’t let you do this thing. Can’t I make you understand, Jimmy, what I mean? When you love people, you’ve got to be decent. You want to be decent. You want to be good. Just plain good⁠—the way you were taught to be when you were a little child. Love’s the greatest safeguard in life against evil. I won’t do anything, Jimmy, if I can possibly help it, that will keep me from looking anyone I love in the eye.” Her voice was trembling so that she could not keep it up a moment longer. She turned away from Jimmy to hide her tears. In a moment he had tucked a big clean handkerchief into her hand. She buried her face in the cool, smooth linen. Jimmy rose, a trifle unsteadily, to his feet.

“Jane,” he said, “Jane⁠—you almost shake me.”

Jane wept on in silence.

“See here,” said Jimmy presently; his voice had changed abruptly: “This won’t do, you know. For it really isn’t true⁠—it’s very sweet, but it’s silly⁠—it’s sentimental. It doesn’t do anybody any good for a man and woman who are in love with each other to go on sordidly living with people they don’t love. Stephen wouldn’t want you to live with him under those circumstances. Agnes wouldn’t want me to live with her. They’re both exceptionally decent people.”

“So we’re to profit by their decency?” said Jane coldly. “To be, ourselves, indecent?”

“Darling,” said Jimmy, “it isn’t indecent to live with the man you love.”

Jane rose abruptly from the sofa.

“You’re just confusing the issues, Jimmy,” she said sadly. “But you can’t change them. It isn’t right for married people, happily married people, to leave their homes and children for their own individual pleasure.”

“But we’re not happily married people,” said Jimmy.

“If we’re not,” said Jane steadfastly, “it’s only our own fault. Neither Stephen nor Agnes has ever sinned against us. They love us and they trust us. They trusted us, once for all, with their life happiness. I couldn’t feel decent, Jimmy, and betray that trust.”

“Jane,” said Jimmy, “I don’t understand you. With all your innocence you’ve always seemed so emancipated. Intellectually emancipated. You’ve always seemed to understand the complications of living. To sympathize with the people who were tangled up in them. You’ve always said⁠—”

“Oh, yes,” said Jane, “I’ve done a lot of talking. It made me feel very sophisticated to air my broad-minded views. I was very smug about my tolerance. I used to say to Isabel that I could understand how anybody could do anything. I used to laugh at Mamma for her Victorian views. I used to think it was very smart to say that every Lakewood housewife was potentially a light lady. I used to think I believed it. I did believe it theoretically, Jimmy. But now⁠—now when it comes to practice⁠—I see there’s a great difference.”

“But there isn’t any difference, Jane,” said Jimmy. “Not any essential difference. Just one of convention. You’re a woman before you’re a Lakewood housewife. ‘The Colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady are sisters under their skins!’ ”

“But they’re not, Jimmy! That’s just Kipling’s revolt against Victorian prudery. I suppose he felt very sophisticated when he first got off that line! The complications of living seem very complicated when you look at them from a distance. When you’re tangled up in them yourself, you know they’re very simple. If you’re really the Colonel’s lady, Jimmy, no matter how little you may want to do it, you know exactly what you ought to do.” She turned away from him and stood staring out through the terrace doors at the April garden. For a long time there was silence in the room. Then⁠—

“I⁠—I don’t believe⁠—you love me,” said Jimmy slowly.

Jane turned her white face from the April garden.

“Then you’re wrong, Jimmy,” she said gently. “You’re very wrong. It’s killing me to do this thing I’m doing. It’s killing me to be with you, here in this room. Will you please go away⁠—back to town, I mean⁠—and⁠—and don’t come back until you’ve accepted my decision.”

“I’ll never accept it,” said Jimmy grimly.

“Then don’t come back,” said Jane.

Without another word he left the room. Jane opened the terrace doors and walked out into the garden. She walked on beyond the clump of evergreens and sat down on the bench beneath the apple tree. She had been sobbing a long time before she realized that she still held Jimmy’s handkerchief in her hand. She buried her face in it until the sobs were stilled in a mute misery that Jane felt was going to last a lifetime. She sat more than an hour on that bench. When she returned to the house, Sarah told her that Mr. Trent had gone back to the city on the eleven-fifteen.

VII

Five days later, Jimmy returned to Lakewood. He turned up, early in the afternoon, and found Jane superintending the gardener, who was spading up the rose-bed in the garden.

She looked up from the roots of a Dorothy Perkins and saw him standing on the terrace. She was no longer surprised that she was so easily able to dissemble her emotion. Jane had had plenty of practice in the fine art of dissembling emotion during the last five days.

“I think you’d better order another load of black earth, Swanson,” she said casually and turned to walk over to the terrace.

Jimmy stood there, quite motionless, watching her approach through the sunny garden. His face was very serious and his smile was very grave. Jane ascended the terrace steps and held out her hand to him. He took it in silence and held it very tightly.

“You don’t know what it does to me,” said Jimmy, “to see you again.”

“Have you accepted my decision?” said Jane.

“No,” said Jimmy abruptly, “of course not. Did you think I would?” He drew her hand through his arm and led her over to the corner of the terrace that was sheltered by the oak trees. The oak trees were just bursting into pink and wine-red buds. They did not give much shelter, but from that terrace corner you could not see the rose-bed.

“I asked you not to come back until you had,” said Jane, withdrawing her hand from the crook of his arm and sitting down on the brick parapet of the terrace.

“Jane, you’re really invincible,” smiled Jimmy. “Invincibly determined as well as invincibly innocent! Do you really mean to tell me that you haven’t spent the last five days regretting that you sent me out of your life?”

“I don’t think that there’s anything to laugh at in this situation,” said Jane severely.

“Darling!” said Jimmy⁠—in a moment he was all penitence and contrition⁠—“I’m not laughing. You know I’m not laughing. I’m preserving the light touch⁠—something very different in situations of an emotional character. But I repeat my question⁠—haven’t you been awfully sorry?”

“Of course I’ve been sorry,” said Jane. “I’ve been in hell.”

Jimmy looked down at her very tenderly.

“I’ve been there with you, Jane,” he said soberly. “Don’t you think it’s time you let us both out?”

Jane shook her head.

“I guess we’re there to stay, Jimmy,” she said. “Do you know, as far as I’m concerned, I almost hope I will stay there. The one thing that I couldn’t bear would be the thought that I could ever get over you.”

“Why?” said Jimmy.

“To feel the way I feel about you, Jimmy,” said Jane, “and then to get over it, would be the most disillusioning of all human experiences. I’m going to keep faith, forever, with the feeling I have for you at this moment.”

Behind the tenderness in Jimmy’s eyes glittered the ghost of his twinkle.

“Well, that’s very sweet of you, darling,” he said. “But don’t you think that assurance, taken by itself, is just a little barren? It has a note of finality⁠—”

“It is final,” said Jane. “That’s all I have to say to you.”

“Well,” said Jimmy, drawing a long breath, “I’ve a great deal more than that to say to you. Listen, you ridiculous child⁠—if you think I’m going to let you ruin both our lives with a phrase⁠—”

“Jimmy,” said Jane, “I beg of you not to go into this again. I’ve had⁠—really I’ve had⁠—a terrible five days. But I haven’t changed my mind. I haven’t changed it one iota. I’m glad you’re going away. I hope I don’t see you again for years. It just kills me to see you. It kills me to live with your memory, but I wouldn’t forget you for anything in the world.” His eyes were very bright as he stood looking down at her. Jane turned her head to gaze out over the flat, sunny Skokie Valley. After a moment she spoke again. Her voice had changed abruptly. It had grown dull and lifeless. “When are you going?” she asked.

“That depends upon you,” said Jimmy.

“If it depends upon me,” said Jane, still not turning her head, “you can’t go too soon.”

“Jane,” said Jimmy, dropping quickly down beside her on the parapet. “You⁠—you really won’t come with me?”

“No,” said Jane.

“You don’t want to live?”

“I’ll live,” said Jane tonelessly, “for Stephen and the children. That sounds very melodramatic, I know, but it’s exactly what I’m going to do. There’s just one other thing I want to say to you, Jimmy. I thought of it after you’d gone the other day.” She turned her head to look into his eyes. “I’m never going to tell Stephen anything about this, and I hope you won’t tell Agnes. I couldn’t decide, at first, just what I ought to do about that. I couldn’t decide whether it was courage or cowardice that made me want not to tell. I couldn’t decide whether Stephen ought to know. You see”⁠—she smiled a little gravely⁠—“I really feel terribly about it, and I know, no matter how dreadful the telling was, I’d feel better after I’d told it. Confession is good for the soul. I wish I were a Catholic, Jimmy. I wish I were a good Catholic and could pour the whole story into the impersonal ear of a priest in the confessional. But I’m not a Catholic and Stephen isn’t a priest. So I think I’ll just have to live with a secret. I’ll just have to live with Stephen, knowing that I know, but he doesn’t, just what I did.”

Jimmy’s sad little smile was very tender.

“You didn’t do so awfully much, you know, Jane,” he said.

“But I felt everything,” said Jane soberly, “I think it’s not so much what you do that matters, as what you feel. What I felt is somehow what I can’t tell Stephen. I’ve never had a secret before, Jimmy. I’ve never had anything I couldn’t tell the world. I hope⁠—I hope you’ll feel that way about Agnes. For I really feel about Agnes just the way I do about Stephen.”

“I’m not going back to Agnes,” said Jimmy suddenly.

Jane stared at him in horror.

“You’re not⁠—going back⁠—to Agnes?” she faltered.

“Did you think I could?” said Jimmy harshly.

“Why not?” asked Jane. Her eyes searched his. Suddenly her mouth began to tremble. “Why not⁠—if I can⁠—stay with Stephen?”

“Oh⁠—my darling!” breathed Jimmy.

“You must go back to her, Jimmy,” said Jane. “Don’t you see⁠—if you don’t, I’ll have ruined her life just as if I’d gone away with you?”

“I can’t go back to her,” said Jimmy. He stood up suddenly and took a few steps across the terrace, then turned to look at her again. “No, Jane. If you won’t come with me, I’m going without you. I’m going to see the world before I die, I’m going West⁠—out to the coast⁠—to sail on the first boat I can catch for the Orient. I don’t know just how I’ll manage it, but I’ll work my way somehow.”

“But you’ll come back?” said Jane. She rose as she spoke and walked anxiously over to him. “You’ll have to come back, you know.”

“Oh⁠—I suppose one always comes back,” said Jimmy uncertainly. “I’ll probably die in East St. Louis.”

“But before you die,” urged Jane, attempting a shaky little smile, “before you die, you will come back to Agnes?”

“Well⁠—nothing’s impossible,” said Jimmy. He looked moodily down at her. “Except, apparently, one thing.”

“When are you leaving?” asked Jane.

“Tomorrow, perhaps. It’s Saturday, you know. I need my last paycheck.”

“Then this is goodbye?” They were strolling, now, side by side, back to the terrace doors.

“I guess it is, Jane. Considering how you feel.”

He opened the door for her and they crossed the living-room in silence. He picked up his hat from the hall table and stood looking down at her by the front door.

“Do you want me to kiss you goodbye?” said Jimmy.

Jane shook her head. Two great tears that were trembling on her lashes rolled down her cheeks. She ignored them proudly.

“Well⁠—I’m going to do it anyway!” said Jimmy. He caught her roughly in his arms. In the ecstasy of that embrace, Jane knew that she was crying wildly. Suddenly, he put her from him. Without a word of farewell, he had opened the door and was gone. Jane leaned helplessly against its panels, exhausted by emotion. Suddenly she turned and ran rapidly up the stairs to the window on the landing. But she was too late. The gravel road was empty. Jimmy had disappeared around the bushes at the entrance of the drive.