I

Jane stood staring at the map of Europe that Stephen had tacked up on the living-room wall. She was staring at the little irregular row of red-and-blue thumbtacks that marked the battle-line in eastern France. She was staring at the holes in the canvas where the thumbtacks had once been and where they might be again tomorrow, as the fortunes of men and war wavered over the battlefields. Over the battlefields where men were fighting and dying while Jane stared at the map. She had been staring at it just like that for five days.

For more than three months that map had hung on the living-room wall and Jane had thought nothing of it. She had not shared Stephen’s interest in the fluctuating battle-line. To Jane, preoccupied with desolate thoughts of Jimmy, the war had been merely an irrelevance. A quarrel of diplomats that was no concern of hers. The fantastic thought that German and French and English men were dying on those battlefields, dying by scores of thousands, had never really captured her imagination. It was another European war. Incredible, of course, in this civilized age, but no nearer to Jane, emotionally speaking, than the War of the Roses, the Napoleonic campaigns, the French defeat of 1870. Even the thought that André, at the age of thirty-nine, might be drawn into the conflict had failed to arouse her. Jane was preoccupied with desolate thoughts of Jimmy.

He had left Chicago without trying again to speak to her. He had disappeared into silence. Silence that had lasted for two months. Then she had had a picture postcard with a Chinese stamp upon it. A Chinese stamp and a picture of a little tower-like temple. Jimmy had written just four lines beneath it. “Here’s the Chinese shrine, Jane, where I’d have made you an honest woman. Today the temple bells are tinkling out of tune.”

That was all. And again there had been silence. A curious silence in which the vast echoes of war could rumble without arresting her attention, but which could always be shattered by the postman’s ring. Silence, in which Jane waited to hear again from Jimmy. Five days ago⁠—it was the ninth of November⁠—Jane had received his letter. At the sight of the New York stamp her heart had leapt up⁠—was it with thankfulness or a strange, instinctive revulsion? Jimmy had returned to Agnes. Jane had opened the letter. She could not understand it. It was dated in Berlin, on the tenth day of August.

“I’m going to war, Jane. I’ve joined the German army. I joined it under the influence of a beer and a blond. I wasn’t too drunk, though, to remember my old friends Karl Marx and Bach and Beethoven and Wagner, and just drunk enough to have let Martin Luther slip my mind.

“I’ve got a pull with a Prussian I roomed with when he was a cub reporter on the New York Staats-Zeitung. He’s an officer now, and he made me an aide because of my English. It was all awfully irregular, for the army here is highly organized. Nevertheless, he did it and I’m going to see action at once. If they set me to using my English, I’ll probably be shot at dawn by the British. Anyway, I’m writing the Kaiser that, before I am, we’ve got to take Paris, because I’ve never seen it. I’d like to enter it in style the first time.

“I’m sending this letter through the lines in a spy’s pocket. He’s going to ramble around through Switzerland and Italy to Washington and hopes to come back with a blueprint or two, just in case we follow England into the war. He’ll mail it in New York, if he ever gets there.

“And now, Jane, to be quite serious for a minute, do you know that I adore you? Do you know that I feel about you just as I did on the day that I left you? Do you know that I wish to God that I didn’t? Darling⁠—there’s nothing much to say. If you had come away with me, I certainly should not be going to war. This quarrel’s not of my making. If you had, we’d be safe in that cannibal village by this time, eating roasted missionary in an undusted living-room. But you wouldn’t, and you were wrong, but I couldn’t do anything about it. I can’t do anything about it now, not even about the way I feel⁠—so I’m going to war, because that, at least, will be something else again. I certainly don’t want to be killed. Why, I don’t know. If you won’t marry me, there is nothing new under the sun⁠—but there might be, under the sod, where proverbially there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage.

“I bet I live to sack Paris absentmindedly, because I will be thinking of you. Your

Jane stood staring at the map of Europe. Somewhere on that wavering battle-line, as she stood there, Jimmy was fighting in the quarrel that was not of his making, Jimmy was seeking “something else again,” under a rain of shot and shell. How like Jimmy, how terribly like Jimmy, to go to war on that casual quest! To go to a war that had become a crusade in the minds of all civilized people in an attitude of ironic detachment. To become⁠—of all things⁠—a Prussian officer at a moment when a Prussian officer represented to the minds of his countrymen a symbol of all evil. How like Jimmy to become a Prussian officer because of a beer and a blond and a few romantic thoughts on Karl Marx and Bach and Beethoven and Wagner! Jimmy⁠—in a Prussian helmet, looking like a caricature of the Grown Prince. No, not that⁠—for there would always be his quizzical eyebrows and his pointed ears and his ironical smile, exactly like a faun’s. A faun, mocking himself, in a Prussian helmet⁠—that would be how Jimmy would look, even in the heat of battle. That would be how Jimmy would look, if he lived to sack Paris. If he lived to sack Paris absentmindedly, because he would be thinking of her.

If he lived! The thought of Jimmy’s death was unthinkable. Jimmy’s death in a conflict about the issues of which he did not care a damn. A conflict into which he had been driven by her unkindness⁠—No, she would not think that. She would never think that. She had done what she had to do. She had never really regretted it. She would not regret it now. Jimmy had been driven into that conflict by his own restless spirit⁠—by his⁠—

The ring of the doorbell roused Jane from revery. Not the postman’s ring, though, at two o’clock in the afternoon. Jane returned to the map again. Sarah stood a moment on the threshold, unnoticed.

“Mrs. Carver,” she said. “Mrs. Carver, here’s a telegram.”

Jane turned from the map and stared at her in silence. No, she thought, dully, no, it would be a cable! She took the yellow envelope from Sarah’s hand. She opened it without misgiving.

“Jane, dear, this may be a shock to you. Have just received letter from Prussian officer in French prison camp that Jimmy had joined the German army and was killed on the Marne. Had had no word from him since he left Chicago. Jane, dear, this seems for me the end of everything. Could you come to me?

The yellow papers fluttered from Jane’s fingers. The chintz-hung living-room turned black before her eyes. She caught herself, however, before falling, on the back of Stephen’s armchair. She closed her eyes a moment and then dully opened them. The familiar living-room had returned. Suddenly she felt Sarah’s hand upon her elbow, she heard Sarah’s voice in her ear.

“Mrs. Carver⁠—here⁠—sit down a moment. I’ll get a glass of water.”

Jane shook her head. She stooped suddenly down and picked up the yellow papers. She read the message through once more. All feeling seemed dead. She felt only the need for practical action.

“I’m all right, Sarah,” she said smoothly. “I⁠—I must talk to Mr. Carver.” She walked to the telephone in the pantry and gave Stephen’s number. How strange, she thought, at such a moment to turn instinctively to Stephen!

“Mr. Carver,” she said to his secretary. “Mrs. Carver speaking.”

“Yes, dear,” Stephen’s familiar voice trickled over the wire.

“Stephen,” she said quickly, “Stephen, I’ve just had a wire from Agnes. Jimmy was killed on the Marne.”

“On the Marne!” cried Stephen, in stupefaction.

“Yes,” said Jane dully, “he’s dead. He’s been dead for two months.” Suddenly she heard her voice break into breathless sobbing. But still there was no feeling. “Agnes wants me. Will you get me a compartment on the five-thirty, this afternoon? I’ve just time to pack and catch it.” She was still sobbing.

“Of course,” said Stephen. “But Jane⁠—”

“I’ll motor in,” said Jane, “and pick you up at five o’clock at the office. Can you see me off?”

“Of course!” cried Stephen. “But Jane⁠—”

Jane hung up the receiver. She had never told Stephen, she reflected weakly, that Jimmy was in the German army.

“Sarah!” she called sharply. “Bring down my big black bag to my bedroom and order the motor for a quarter-past four.”

II

“He was killed instantly,” said Agnes. “He was shot in the trenches. He was shot through the head. This German saw it happen.” She handed Jane a creased and wrinkled paper. It was the letter of the Prussian officer, written in perfect English, in a fine German hand, on a sheet of plain block paper. Jane took it in silence. She was sitting beside Agnes on the battered davenport sofa of the Greenwich Village flat. Little Agnes was playing in the nursery beyond the half-open folding doors. It was Saturday afternoon and Agnes had just come home from Macy’s. She was still wearing her new black serge street coat. She had not even taken off her hat. The sheer black chiffon of the widow’s veil, thrown carelessly over it, shadowed her weary eyes.

“He saw him buried,” went on Agnes tonelessly, though Jane was reading the letter. It was as if she could not make herself stop talking about it. “He saw him buried next day. There can’t be any mistake.”

Jane went on reading the letter in silence.

“It was nice of the French to let him mail that letter, wasn’t it, Jane?” said Agnes. “Otherwise I might never have known what happened. I might never have known that he had gone to war.”

Jane, having finished the letter, sat turning it over in her hands.

“Jane,” said Agnes suddenly, “Why did he do it? Why did he go to war?”

Jane still sat staring at the finished letter.

“I suppose,” she said a little huskily, “I suppose he⁠—he was just caught up in the general excitement.”

“But that wasn’t like Jimmy,” said Agnes earnestly. “General excitements always left Jimmy cold. There was nothing that Jimmy despised more than the mob spirit. Why, Jimmy was a pacifist⁠—as much as he was anything⁠—” Her voice trailed off into silence.

Jane looked slowly up at her. Agnes’s sad, worn face was twitching and her throat was throbbing convulsively with the sobs she was trying to master. Jane took her hand in hers.

“Don’t⁠—don’t think about that, Agnes,” she said simply. “It won’t do any good. You’ll never know.”

“No,” said Agnes, “I’ll never know.” Then, after a pause, “Jane, you saw what he said about Jimmy’s concerto⁠—that he had it with him at the front.”

“Yes,” said Jane.

“It⁠—it must be lost,” said Agnes sadly. “They fought over that trench for days after Jimmy⁠—died. The dugouts must have been simply exterminated.”

“Yes,” said Jane.

“Jane,” said Agnes, “did you ever hear the end of it? Did he play it for you?”

“Yes,” said Jane.

“Was it good?” asked Agnes eagerly. “Was it really good?”

“I thought it was very beautiful,” said Jane.

Again they sat in silence.

“Jane,” said Agnes suddenly, “isn’t it dreadful to think there’s nothing left of Jimmy? With all his cleverness and all his talent he left nothing behind him. The world is just the same as if he had never lived.”

“He left you,” said Jane tremulously. “He left you and little Agnes.”

“Yes,” said Agnes, “of course he left little Agnes. And he left me. You’re right, Jane. He left me a very different woman than if he’d never loved me. You’re very clever, Jane, darling, to think of that. A man does live in the change he made in the life of a woman who loved him⁠—”

“Yes,” said Jane.

Again there was silence. Again it was Agnes who broke it. And this time with a gallant attempt at a cheerful smile.

“I haven’t thanked you, Jane, for all you did for Jimmy last winter. He simply loved Chicago. He was awfully happy there. He wrote me the gayest letters.”

“I’m glad he did,” said Jane.

“He was happy in his work and happy about the concerto. He seemed so young, Jane, and somehow carefree⁠—just the way he did when I first knew him. He wrote me very often⁠—and always such funny letters.”

“No one could be as funny as Jimmy,” said Jane.

“No,” said Agnes. “He was always funny when he was happy. Do you know, Jane, I’ve always understood why he didn’t come back to me? I understood it even at the time. The strongest thing in Jimmy’s life was his sense of adventure. I think those months in Chicago must have seemed rather adventurous, after the years with me and little Agnes in this flat. That seems absurd to you and me, of course, for to us Chicago is just the town we grew up in⁠—but to Jimmy I think it must have been rather a castle in Spain. He couldn’t come back to humble domesticity just after it. He had to wander. To look for other castles, you know, in other countries. But he would have come back, Jane⁠—” Her voice trailed off a trifle wistfully.

“Of course he would have!” said Jane warmly.

“The thing that kills me,” said Agnes soberly, “is that if he had, you know, our life might have been quite different. My play’s doing awfully well, Jane. They’re going to start a second company on the road. I’m going to take a chance, Jane, and resign from Macy’s to write another. I think⁠—I think that perhaps I can really make a lot of money. Enough to have changed everything for Jimmy⁠—”

“Agnes,” said Jane solemnly, “you’re perfectly wonderful.”

“No, I’m not,” said Agnes. “I’m just a worker.”

“You’re always right,” said Jane.

“But not wonderful,” smiled Agnes. “Jimmy was wonderful. And always wrong. Oh, Jane!” Agnes’s smile was very tremulous. “Wouldn’t you know that Jimmy would fight with the Germans and die a hero’s death on the wrong side of the Marne? Jimmy was on the wrong side of every Marne from the day he was born!”

“But always wonderful,” smiled Jane. “And always the hero.”

“To me,” said Agnes gently.

“To me, too,” said Jane.