III
Jane came downstairs, next morning, a little late to breakfast. The family were all at the table. Isabel was talking of Robin Bridges. He had invited her to go to the theatre with Rosalie and Freddy Waters. As Rosalie and Freddy were engaged, Isabel thought it would be quite proper for the four of them to go alone. But her mother was standing firm.
“No,” she said. “Not without a married couple.”
Jane slipped silently into her seat and unfolded her napkin. It seemed very strange to hear her mother and Isabel, arguing just as usual, and to see her father buried, as always, in the morning Tribune, and to realize that for them this golden morning was just like any other. For her it opened a new era. Jane felt a little guilty as she hugged her happy secret to her heart. And very much frightened. And terribly excited.
Just after breakfast the telephone rang. Jane rushed to the pantry to answer it. Yes, it was André. His voice sounded just a little confused, but cheerful, too.
“Hello,” he said. “How—how are you?”
“Oh—I’m fine,” said Jane. Her heart was beating fast.
“Happy?” said André.
“Oh—yes,” breathed Jane. That was all. It seemed to satisfy André.
“When does your father come home?” asked André.
“Half-past five,” said Jane.
“Mother thinks,” said André, “that I—I oughtn’t to see you again, until I speak to him.”
“What else does she think?” asked Jane anxiously.
“Well,” said André, and his voice sounded just a little rueful. “She—she thinks it’s all right—now.”
“What did your father say?” asked Jane.
André’s voice seemed to hesitate.
“He—he was awfully surprised,” he said. “Much more surprised than Mother. But they—they understood—after I talked to them.”
“André,” said Jane miserably, “they don’t like it.”
“Oh, yes—they do,” said André uncertainly. “At least—”
Then with increasing confidence, “They like you, Jane. It’s—it’s just what they think—” He stopped.
“We’re young,” said Jane.
“Yes,” said André.
“Well—we are,” said Jane.
“Anyway,” said André cheerfully, “Father said of course I must tell your father.”
There was a little pause.
“It’s really all right,” said André.
Jane wished she could be sure of that.
“Well—goodbye,” said Jane. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
A funny little sound clicked in Jane’s ear.
“That was a kiss,” said André. “Goodbye—dear.”
Jane hung up the receiver and pressed her forehead weakly against the mouthpiece. Dear André—darling André. She was terribly frightened. Yet radiantly happy, through and through. She could hear his voice still, with that funny little break at the end. “Goodbye—dear.” He did love her. She had said she would marry him. Marry—André. But they were much too young. Her mother—
Jane walked slowly up the stairs to her own bedroom and closed the door. She sat down at the window and looked out at the willow tree. It seemed only yesterday that she and André had climbed it. The remnants of their tree house—a few weather-beaten planks—were still visible in its middle branches. She was going to marry André. She was going to be his wife.
At five o’clock Jane took up her stand in the parlor window to wait for her father. Isabel was out playing tennis, thank goodness, on the Superior Street courts. Her mother was in the kitchen superintending the solemn rites of the June jelly-making. You could smell the cooking currants all over the house. Presently Jane saw her father come around the corner. In a moment he passed the parlor window. Jane leaned against the screen and watched him up the steps. He was whistling “The Bowery” and looked a little warm but very nice and carefree. Jane felt guilty again. She heard his key in the door.
Jane heard the door open and close and her father’s quick step in the hall. She heard the click of his sailor hat as he dropped it on the bench beneath the hat-rack. Then his footsteps receded toward his library and were lost. Silence and the smell of cooking currants dominated the house once more.
She ought to go in, thought Jane, and—and talk to him. She ought to break the ice for André. It would be terrible for André. She walked slowly toward the parlor door. At the entrance to the library she paused. Her father was seated at his desk, running through the afternoon mail.
“Come in, kid,” he said.
Jane entered slowly. Her father went on opening letters. Jane stood beside the globe and looked down at him.
“What’s the matter, kid?” asked her father. “You look as sober as a judge.”
“Nothing,” said Jane.
Her father threw some mail in the waste basket. Then he looked up again with a smile.
“Anyone dead?” he inquired cheerfully.
“No,” said Jane.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked. “Been worrying about Bryn Mawr?”
“No,” said Jane. Bryn Mawr, indeed!
“Well—don’t,” said her father. “I’ll see you get there.”
“Papa—” began Jane desperately, and stopped.
“Yes,” said her father.
“Papa,” said Jane again, “I—I want you to help me.”
“All right,” said her father. “I will.”
“I—I hope you will,” said Jane a little desperately, then went on in a rush. “I—I want you to understand. I want you to remember that I—I’m not a—a child, any more. I want you to be good to André. I want—”
“Good to André?” repeated her father. He looked very much astonished.
“Yes—good to André,” said Jane. And then the doorbell rang. She rushed incontinently from the room and halfway up the stair. Minnie was coming out of the pantry. Jane sat down, just above the first landing. Minnie opened the front door. Jane could see André quite distinctly, from the dark of the staircase. He couldn’t see her.
“Is Mr. Ward in?” he asked. His voice sounded very brave and steady to Jane.
“Yes,” said Minnie and led him to the library door.
“Mr. Ward?” Jane heard him say, on the threshold. And then her father’s voice. “Come in, André.” She heard her father’s footsteps. André vanished into the library. An unknown hand closed the door.
Jane sat quite still, crouched down beside the bannisters. She couldn’t hear a thing. Not even the sound of muffled voices. It was dark on the staircase. The afternoon sunshine came slanting in, below, through the ground-glass panels of the front door. Little motes were dancing in it, up and down the hall. Jane clasped her hands and really prayed for André. She was praying to her father, she thought, though, not to God. Praying to her father, through that closed library door, to understand, to realize, to be good to André. The minutes slowly passed. It was so quiet she could hear the clock tick in the dining room.
Presently her mother came out through the pantry door. She had on a long white apron, stained with currant juice, and her hair was ruffled. She looked very flushed and pretty after an afternoon in the hot kitchen. But not very neat. She noticed André’s hat on the hat-rack, immediately.
“Who is here, Minnie?” she called over her shoulder.
“Mr. André,” said Minnie from the pantry.
“Where is he?” asked her mother.
“He asked for Mr. Ward,” said Minnie.
“For Mr. Ward?” said Jane’s mother incredulously. Then after a pregnant pause, “Where is he, now?”
“They’re both in the library,” said Minnie.
Then Jane’s mother perceived Jane. She looked her up and down as she sat crouched on the staircase.
“What does André want of your father?” she said.
Jane didn’t reply.
“Jane!” said Jane’s mother.
Jane stared at her in silence.
“What does this mean?” said Jane’s mother.
“Oh, Mamma!” pleaded Jane, suddenly finding her voice. “Please—please don’t—spoil it. Let him talk to Papa! Oh, Mamma—”
Without another word, regardless alike of Jane’s imploring entreaties and her own currant-stained apron, Mrs. Ward opened the library door. She closed it after her. Jane sat quite still, for several minutes, in horror. Then she heard her mother’s voice raised in incredulous indignation behind the closed door.
“I never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life! John, you haven’t been listening to them? André—it—it’s perfectly absurd—”
Jane waited to hear no more. She flung herself hotly down the stairs and burst in at the library door.
Her father was sitting very quietly in a leather armchair and André was erect at his side. Her mother stood in the centre of the room, her flushed, indignant face turned toward the men before her. She looked quickly at Jane.
“Jane, leave the room,” she said.
“I won’t,” said Jane. And closed the door behind her. Her father held out his hand.
“Come here, kid,” he said. Jane rushed to his side. She looked quickly up at André. She hoped her heart was in her eyes. André smiled steadily down at her. He looked shaken, however.
“Jane—” began her mother again.
“Lizzie,” said her father, and there was a note in his voice Jane had never heard before. “Leave this to me.”
Her mother, with compressed lips, sank down in the other armchair. Her father pressed Jane’s hand very kindly.
“Kid,” he said gently. “You know this won’t do.”
“What won’t do?” cried Jane in desperation.
Her father still held her hand.
“You—you and André can’t—get married.”
“Why not?” flashed Jane.
“Because you’re children,” said her father. It was terribly true.
“I don’t care!” said Jane.
“Well, I do,” said her father. “And so does your mother. And so do André’s parents. He very honestly told me that. And so does André, really. André doesn’t want to persuade you to do anything that isn’t right—that won’t bring you happiness—”
Happiness! Jane threw a tearful glance at André. He looked very proud and stern, standing there before her father. He gave her a tremulous smile.
“Papa,” said Jane, “I know I’d be happy with André—”
“Don’t talk like that!” cried her mother sharply. But her father silenced her.
“You think so now, kid,” he said kindly. “But you can’t tell. You don’t know anything about it, either of you. André’s nineteen years old. He’s got five or six years of education ahead of him, on his own say-so, before he can be any kind of a sculptor. You were seventeen last month. You’ve known André for four years and you’ve never said three words to any other boy. You can’t know your own mind and he can’t know his, either. Five or six years from now, you might both understand what you were talking about. André’s going to France next week, to live. He’s a Frenchman and that’s where he belongs. You’ve got to stay here with your mother and me and grow up into a woman before you talk about marrying anyone.”
“I—I don’t have to—marry him,” said Jane faintly. “I just want to—to promise that I will when we’re old enough. I just want—”
“Jane,” said her mother very reasonably, “we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. We don’t have to think of that now.”
“I just—want to—wait for him,” faltered Jane. Then, with a flash of spirit, “You can’t help my waiting!”
“Of course not,” said her father pacifically. “But no promises, André, on either side.”
“And no letters,” put in her mother. Jane’s father shook his head at her, but she insisted. “No, John. No letters until Jane’s twenty-one. You must promise that, André. I won’t have her tied down to any understanding.”
“I guess that’s right, André,” said Jane’s father soberly. “You’d better promise.”
Jane and André exchanged a glance of despair. There was a brief pause.
“How about it, my boy?” said Jane’s father.
“I—I promise,” said André huskily.
Jane’s mother gave a sigh of relief. She had the situation in hand now.
“I think you had better go, André,” she said very kindly.
“Can I see Jane again?” André asked.
“I think you’d better not,” said Jane’s mother. “It would only be painful.”
“Then I’d like—I’d like—” said André steadily, “to say goodbye to her now.”
“Of course,” said Jane’s father, very promptly rising. “Come, Lizzie.”
Jane’s mother looked very reluctant to leave the room.
“I don’t like this,” she said.
“Mrs. Ward,” said André, “you can trust me.”
Jane’s father threw him an admiring glance. He fairly pushed her mother from the room. He closed the door behind them. Jane turned to gaze at André.
“André,” she said breathlessly, “what—what can we do?”
“We can wait,” said André. “And we can think of each other.”
“André,” said Jane earnestly, “did—did your father and mother talk like that, too?”
“They didn’t talk like that—but they thought the same things. I—I could see them thinking.”
“They didn’t—like it?”
“They like you,” said André. “Father said you were a girl in a thousand.”
“Well, then?” said Jane.
“Mother thought I was much too young and she thought I ought to be able to support a wife before I asked a girl to marry me. She thought it was pretty rotten—my asking you. And Father—well, Father had always expected me to marry in France, of course. And we’re—we’re all Catholics. That doesn’t mean much to me, but it does to him. But when I told them how—how I felt about you—well, they said—all right I could try my luck with your father. I—didn’t have much. Though he was awfully decent. I haven’t a leg to stand on, of course. I can’t support you and I—I’ve got to go to France—you—you—understand that, Jane—I’ve got to go—to study, you know, if I’m ever going to amount to anything. Father and Mother both said that. I couldn’t do anything here. I—I guess I don’t sound like much of a son-in-law—”
“But, André,” said Jane, “do you mean—do you mean that there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, that we can do?”
“Well,” said André, “what is there?” What was there, indeed?
“I—I shouldn’t have asked you,” said André.
“Oh, André!” cried Jane. “You must never think that!”
“Why not?” said André.
“You made me so happy,” said Jane simply.
André took a quick step toward her. Then he stopped. He remembered.
“Oh, Jane!” he said, and dropped down on the sofa. “Jane—my love!” He buried his face in his hands.
Jane sank down on her knees beside him. She pulled his hands away from his face. André was crying. She took him in her arms.
“André!” she said breathlessly, “André!” She looked eagerly up at him.
“I—I promised your mother,” he said huskily.
“I didn’t promise anyone!” cried Jane desperately. “André—you must kiss me goodbye!”
He took her in his arms. His lips met hers. The world was lost again. But this time Jane knew that it was really there, pressing close about them, menacing them, parting them, saying they were—young. She slipped from his embrace. She rose to her feet. André stood up, too, and held out his hands. She seized them in her own. He stooped to kiss her fingers.
“Goodbye,” he said.
“André,” she said, “I’ll always—”
He managed a wavering smile.
“No promises,” he said. “Just thoughts.”
“All my thoughts!” said Jane. He stumbled toward the door. On the threshold he turned again.
“Goodbye,” he said.
“André!” cried Jane. “I—I can’t bear it!” She heard her father’s voice in the hall.
“I’m sorry, André. You—you’ve behaved so well, both of you.” Their steps died down the passage. Jane heard the front door open and close. She rushed to the window. André was walking, furiously fast, up Pine Street. At the corner he turned to look back. She waved wildly. She kissed her hand. He smiled again, very bravely. Then turned and vanished. Jane flung herself face downward on the sofa. The mark of André’s elbow was still on the pillow. She buried her face in it passionately. She heard her father enter the room. He walked slowly over to the sofa.
“Little Jane,” he said, “don’t cry like that.”
Jane only buried her face the deeper. There was a little pause.
“Kid,” said her father, “you’re so young that you don’t know that you’ll get over it. You get over everything.”
Jane thought that was a horrible philosophy. She heard her father moving about a little helplessly. Then he bent over and touched her shoulder.
“I’ll see you go to Bryn Mawr,” he said, “with Agnes.”
“Oh, let me alone!” cried Jane. “Just—let—me—alone!” She heard her father turn and walk quietly out of the room. Jane put both her arms tightly around André’s pillow. She was sobbing as if her heart would break. She thought it was breaking.