III
“Marion,” said Agnes confidently, “is surely going to get the European fellowship.”
“Why not you, Agnes?” asked Jane.
They were sitting side by side on the brown velvet sofa in Mr. Ward’s little library. Agnes was having tea with Jane. She was spending the Christmas holidays in Chicago.
“I haven’t a chance,” said Agnes. “Marion’s had wonderful marks these last two years.”
Jane thought of the little dark-eyed Freshman she had met that first night in Pembroke Hall and of her father’s sapient comment, “I bet she’ll amount to something some day.” Marion amounted to a great deal already.
“And I don’t want it,” said Agnes. “I don’t want to study any more. I only want to write. I’m going to live in New York next winter. I’m going to look for a job on a newspaper.”
Agnes seemed terribly capable and confident and self-sufficient. Jane couldn’t imagine how she would set about finding that job, but she knew that she would get it. Jane tried to think of herself, turning up alone in New York, looking for a living wage and a good boardinghouse. It wasn’t thinkable.
“What have you been doing, Jane?” said Agnes. “What are you going to do?”
Jane couldn’t think of any adequate answer to those incisive questions. She wasn’t going to do anything. She hadn’t done anything, in the Bryn Mawr idiom, since she had left Bryn Mawr.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I—I’ve just been home.” Then she added honestly, “I’ve liked it a lot.”
Agnes’s friendly, freckled face was just a little incredulous.
“You can’t like it, Jane,” she said. “Not really.”
“Oh, yes, I do,” said Jane. She felt terribly unworthy.
“You’re too good for a life like this,” said Agnes. “And much too clever.”
Jane didn’t deny the soft impeachment.
“You can be clever anywhere,” she said.
Agnes looked a little uncomprehending.
“You can think about people,” said Jane. “You can learn about life.”
“If you don’t look out, Jane,” said Agnes very seriously, “you’ll marry one of these days—marry a cotillion partner—and never do anything again as long as you live.”
“I’d like to marry,” said Jane honestly.
“So would I,” said Agnes with equal candour. “I expect to, some day. But not a cotillion partner.”
“There are all kinds of cotillion partners,” said Jane, defensively. The Bryn Mawr point of view seemed just a little restricted.
Agnes drank her tea for a moment in silence. Then silently stirred the sugar in the cup.
“Jane,” she said presently, her eyes on the teaspoon, “Jane—have you ever heard from André?” Jane felt a sudden shock at the name.
“No, Agnes,” she said very gently. “I never have.”
There was a little pause.
“Agnes,” said Jane, a trifle tremulously, “have—have you?”
“No,” said Agnes.
Silence fell on the room, once more.
“You’ll be twenty-one in May,” said Agnes. “I bet he writes.”
“He—he’s probably forgotten all about me,” said Jane. “You know, Agnes, we were just children.”
“It was very clever of your mother,” said Agnes, “not to allow any letters.”
Jane felt a little stir of loyalty in her perplexed heart.
“It was probably very wise of her,” she said.
“Possibly,” said Agnes.
“I—I’ll never see him again, I suppose,” said Jane. “He’ll always live in Paris.”
Agnes continued to stir her tea.
“It would be dreadful,” said Jane, “if I were still in love with him.”
“I suppose it might be,” said Agnes at last. “Four years is a long time.”
“He must be very different,” said Jane. “I’m very different myself.”
“Of course,” said Agnes meditatively, “you’ve both met a lot of people.”
Jane heard the doorbell ring. She almost hoped that this conversation would be interrupted. It was too disturbing.
“And done a lot of things,” she said cheerfully. “Think what André’s life must have been, Agnes. I can’t even imagine it.”
Minnie stood at the library door. Before she could speak, however, Jane heard Stephen’s cheerful tones in the hall.
“Hi! Jane! Where are you?”
“Here in the library,” called Jane. “Come in, Stephen.”
Stephen stood in the doorway, overcoat thrown open, hat in hand.
“I just stopped in,” he said, “to see if you’d go skating this evening.” Then he saw Agnes.
“Miss Johnson, Mr. Carver,” said Jane promptly. “Sit down and have some tea, Stephen. Agnes Johnson was my Bryn Mawr roommate.”
Stephen seated himself in a leather armchair. He looked very young and charming and debonair, with his blond hair just a little ruffled from his soft felt hat and his cheeks bright red from the December wind. Jane really felt quite proud of him. She looked over at Agnes with a mischievous smile. She was a little dismayed at the expression of Agnes’s funny, freckled face. “Cotillion partner!” was written all over it.
“I’ve just been telling Jane,” said Agnes, a trifle severely, “that she ought to be doing something with her life.”
Stephen looked extremely astonished.
“Why—isn’t she?” he asked.
“Nothing important,” said Agnes.
“Must Jane do something important?” asked Stephen. Jane handed him his tea.
“She could,” said Agnes firmly, “if she would.”
“I never have liked,” said Stephen dreamily, “important women.”
Jane began to feel a trifle amused. She didn’t know that Stephen had it in him. Agnes didn’t reply. Jane knew that Agnes always felt above a cheap retort. Stephen was left a little up in the air with his last remark. It began to sound ruder than it was, in the silence.
“Agnes,” said Jane lightly, “is a serious-minded woman.”
“I can see that,” said Stephen. He tried to muster an admiring smile, but, under Agnes’s dispassionate eye, it didn’t quite come off.
“Life is real and life is earnest,” explained Jane sweetly, “and the grave is not its goal.”
Stephen grinned at her very appreciatively. He was grateful for her levity. But Agnes was quite disgusted. She rose abruptly.
“I must go,” she said.
The front door opened and closed.
“Don’t go, Agnes,” said Jane. “Here’s Papa. He’ll want to see you.”
Mr. Ward appeared in the library door. His hands were full of newspapers and illustrated weeklies.
“Why, Agnes!” he said. He shook hands warmly. He was very glad to see her. “How’s the busy little brain working?”
“One hundred percent,” grinned Agnes. “But we miss Jane.”
“I missed her myself,” said Mr. Ward heartily, “for two long years.” He walked across the room and put his papers down on the desk.
“What does Bryn Mawr think about Spain, Agnes?” he asked. “Are we going to have war?” Mr. Ward was very much interested in Cuba. He was always talking of intervention.
“War?” said Agnes vaguely. “What war?”
“Ever hear of ‘Cuba libre’?” questioned Mr. Ward with a smile.
“Oh, yes,” said Agnes. “But I can’t say I’ve thought much about it.”
“Did you read the President’s message to Congress?” Mr. Ward had read it, himself, to Jane.
Agnes shook her head.
“What’s the matter with Miss Thomas?” said Mr. Ward. “I thought you women’s rights girls would be getting up a battery!”
Agnes laughed.
“In the cloister,” she said, “our wars are of the spirit. But I must go.” Mr. Ward walked with her to the door. He came back into the library, chuckling.
“Agnes is a great kid,” he said. “Bright girl, Stephen. You ought to know her. Keep you jumping to get ahead of her.”
Stephen looked as if he wouldn’t care very much for that form of exercise.
“Will you come skating?” he said.
“Yes,” said Jane, “I’d love to.”
“Eight o’clock?” said Stephen.
“Yes,” said Jane.
“Good evening, sir,” said Stephen meticulously to Jane’s father.
“Good night,” said Mr. Ward. He was looking at Stephen with that air of faint amusement, with which he always looked at him. Stephen went out into the hall.
“That’s a nice boy, Jane,” said Mr. Ward. Jane nodded. Her father walked around the desk and put his arms around her. He twisted her about, so that he could look into her face.
“But don’t get too fond of him,” said Mr. Ward.
“I won’t,” said Jane, promptly.
Mr. Ward was looking down at her very tenderly.
“Don’t get too fond of anyone, kid,” he said, “just yet.”