III + 

“Miss Jane,” said Minnie, “Mr. Carver has called.” + 

“Mr. Carver?” questioned Jane. It was only four o’clock on a weekday afternoon. Why wasn’t Stephen at the bank? + 

“Tell him that I’ll come down,” said Jane. + 

Minnie departed in silence. Jane turned slowly toward the bureau, but merely from force of habit. What was Stephen doing on Pine Street at this hour? She rearranged her hair absentmindedly. Stephen never left the bank until five. Jane picked up her mirror and gazed very thoughtfully at the knot at the back of her neck. She didn’t see it at all. What did Stephen want of her? Facing the glass once more she plumped up the sleeves of her plaid silk waist with care. Day before yesterday the United States had declared war. + 

Jane walked very slowly down the stairs. + 

“Stephen?” she called questioningly. + 

“Here, Jane,” he answered. His voice came from the library. Jane entered the room. + 

Stephen was standing very straight and tall by the smouldering fire. He grinned as she entered. Nevertheless he looked a little solemn. + 

“What are you doing here in office hours?” smiled Jane. “Come to sell me a bond?” + 

“No,” said Stephen simply. “I haven’t.” + 

Jane dropped down on the sofa by the fire. She gazed up at Stephen in silence. + 

“I’ve come to sell you,” said Stephen, “this idea of going to war.” + 

Jane’s heart gave a great jump beneath her plaid silk bodice. The unspoken question was answered. + 

“I’m going to join the Rough Riders,” said Stephen firmly. “I made up my mind this morning. There’s no excuse for my sticking around here a minute longer.” + 

“When⁠—when are you going?” said Jane faintly. + 

“Right away,” said Stephen. “I spoke to my boss this afternoon. I’ll write to Father tonight.” + 

“Oh⁠—Stephen!” said Jane again still more faintly. + 

“I want to go,” said Stephen. “It’s not so often that you want to do what you ought.” + 

That was true enough, thought Jane. But who could want to go to war? + 

“Lots of Harvard men have joined up,” said Stephen, “because of Roosevelt⁠—some men I know in Boston are going. They wrote me last week. I’m all signed up with them. We’re going to meet in San Antonio.” + 

“When?” asked Jane. + 

“As soon as they can make it,” said Stephen. “One of them has to tie up his business. Another one’s married.” + 

“How⁠—how long do you think?” asked Jane. + 

“Oh⁠—we ought to be down there in two weeks,” said Stephen. + 

Jane sat in silence on the sofa. Two weeks. + 

“It will be fun,” said Stephen. “Roosevelt’s got a great crowd down there.” + 

Jane still sat in silence. + 

“Don’t look so solemn, Jane,” said Stephen. + 

“I feel solemn,” said Jane. + 

“You wouldn’t want me not to go,” said Stephen. + 

“Yes, I would,” said Jane promptly. + 

Stephen looked very much pleased. And a little amused. + 

“When it comes to the point,” said Jane, “I guess I’m not much of a patriot.” + 

“Oh, yes,” said Stephen persuasively, “you want to win the war.” + 

Jane felt a refreshing flash of levity. + 

“Do you expect to win it?” she asked lightly. + 

Stephen flushed a bit. + 

“Don’t mock me, Jane,” he said seriously. Then a little hesitantly. “I’m awfully glad you’re sorry.” + 

“Of course I’m sorry,” said Jane. “But I don’t know that you ought to be glad about it.” + 

“Just the same, I am,” said Stephen a little tremulously. + 

Silence fell on the room once more. + 

“Jane⁠—” said Stephen presently and paused. He was still standing on the hearth rug. He was looking down at Jane very steadily. + 

“Yes,” said Jane nervously. Her eyes were on the fire. + 

“Don’t you think⁠—don’t you think,” said Stephen almost humorously, “that it’s just about time for me to ask you again?” + 

It was very disarming. Jane couldn’t help twinkling up at him. + 

“There’s no time like the present,” she said. + 

“Jane!” In a moment he was beside her on the sofa. “Jane⁠—does that mean⁠—” He had her hands in his. + 

“It doesn’t mean anything,” said Jane hastily. + 

“I don’t believe you,” said Stephen. He was very close to her. His eyes were gazing eagerly into hers. His lips were twisted in a funny little excited smile. + 

“I don’t believe you at all,” said Stephen. “Jane⁠—” And suddenly he kissed her. His moustache felt rough and bristly against her lips. + 

“Oh!” said Jane, drawing back. Her heart was beating fast. That kiss was strangely exciting. + 

“Darling!” said Stephen. His arms were around her now. Jane’s hands were pressed against the tweed lapels of his coat. + 

“Kiss me again!” said Stephen. + 

“I⁠—I didn’t kiss you!” cried Jane in protest. “I⁠—I didn’t at all!” + 

“But you will,” said Stephen. His face was flushed and eager. His eyes were gazing ardently into her own. Jane stared into them, fascinated. She could see the little yellow specks that seemed to float on the blue iris. She had never noticed them before. + 

“You will!” he declared again. And again his lips met hers. This⁠—this was dreadful, thought Jane. She⁠—she shouldn’t allow it. He pressed his cheek to hers. It felt very hard and just a little rough, against her own. + 

“Stephen,” said Jane weakly. “Really⁠—you mustn’t.” + 

“Why not?” said Stephen. “I love you.” + 

Jane felt herself relaxing in his arms. + 

“You know I love you,” said Stephen. + 

“Well,” said Jane faintly, her head on his shoulder, “don’t⁠—don’t kiss me again⁠—anyway.” + 

Stephen laughed aloud at that. A happy, confident laugh. + 

“You darling!” he said. Then very happily, “I⁠—I’m so glad you told me, Jane, before I went.” + 

Before he went, thought Jane desperately! Of course⁠—he was going. She had forgotten that. But she hadn’t told him. It was all wrong, somehow. Jane looked despairingly up into his face. + 

“Stephen,” she said pitifully, “I⁠—I don’t know, yet, if I love you.” + 

“Of course you do,” said Stephen promptly. Jane wondered, in silence. + 

“Jane,” said Stephen presently, “it⁠—it’s going to be terribly hard to leave you.” + 

Jane did not speak. She felt all torn up inside. His tremulous voice was very moving. + 

“Jane,” said Stephen very quietly, “you⁠—you wouldn’t marry me⁠—before I went?” + 

Jane gave a great start. She slipped from his embrace. + 

“Oh⁠—no!” cried Jane. + 

“I⁠—I was afraid you wouldn’t,” said Stephen humbly. + 

“Oh⁠—I couldn’t!” said Jane. “I⁠—I couldn’t⁠—marry⁠—anyone.” + 

Stephen was smiling at her very tenderly. + 

“I don’t want you to marry anyone but me,” he said cheerfully. + 

The levity in his tone was very reassuring. + 

“Stephen,” said Jane, “you are a dear.” + 

Stephen looked absurdly pleased. It was fun to please Stephen so easily. + 

“What sort of ring shall I get you?” he asked. + 

That, again, seemed oddly terrifying. + 

“Oh⁠—” said Jane evasively. “I⁠—I don’t care. Don’t⁠—don’t get a ring just yet.” + 

“Of course I will,” said Stephen. “I’ll get it tomorrow.” + 

Jane heard the doorbell ring⁠—three brief peremptory peals. + 

“That’s Mamma!” said Jane. Then in a sudden panic. “Oh, Stephen, please⁠—please go. I don’t want to tell her.” + 

“We needn’t tell her,” said Stephen calmly. + 

“She’d guess!” cried Jane. “You don’t know Mamma!” She heard Minnie’s step in the hall. “Oh, Stephen! Please go!” + 

“All right,” said Stephen. He rose a bit uncertainly. + 

“Come back!” said Jane wildly. “Come back after dinner! But now⁠—I⁠—I can’t talk to Mamma. I⁠—I want to think.” She heard the front door open. She rose to her feet. + 

“Kiss me,” said Stephen. He took her in his arms. Jane slipped quickly out of them. She fairly pushed him to the door. She heard him meet her mother in the hall. + 

“Why Stephen!” Her mother’s voice was pleased and, mercifully, unsuspecting. Stephen’s answer was inaudible. Jane turned to poke the fire. Her mother entered the room. + 

“What was Stephen doing here at this hour?” she asked pleasantly. + 

“He came to talk about the war,” said Jane, turning over the bits of charred birch very carefully. + 

“The war?” said Mrs. Ward. + 

“He thinks he’ll enlist,” said Jane. + 

“Oh⁠—I think that’s a mistake,” said Mrs. Ward earnestly. + 

“Well⁠—maybe he won’t,” said Jane casually, still busy with the fire. + 

Mrs. Ward walked over to the desk. She laid some letters down before her husband’s chair. + 

“You’re a funny girl, Jane,” she said. “Don’t you care at all if he does?” + 

“Oh, yes,” said Jane, “I care⁠—of course. But it’s for him to decide.” She turned to face her mother. “Is that the mail?” she asked. + 

“Yes,” said her mother. She was watching Jane very closely. Jane went over to the desk. + 

“Anything for me?” she asked. + 

“I didn’t notice,” said Mrs. Ward. There was a faint suggestion of irritation in her tone. Jane picked up the letters. She felt her air of indifference was just a little elaborate. Her mother left the room, however, without further parley. + 

Jane stood quietly, leaning against her father’s desk, absently holding the letters in her hand. What had she done, thought Jane? How had it happened? Was she glad or sorry? She could hardly believe it, now Stephen had left the room. A moment ago she had been in his arms, on that sofa. He had⁠—kissed her. Three times. She had let him do it. She had sat with him, on that sofa that always, always, made her think of André, of that dreadful moment when André had left her⁠—she had sat there and let him kiss her⁠—But Stephen was going to war. She would have time. She wouldn’t tell a soul. Not a soul⁠—except her father. She would think it all over. She would tell Stephen tonight, that, at best, it must be just an understanding⁠—Suddenly Jane’s eye fell on the French stamp of the topmost letter in her hand. A⁠—French⁠—stamp! Jane gazed at it, in horror. Yes⁠—“Miss Jane Ward”⁠—in handwriting that, though changed, was unmistakably André’s. She would be twenty-one next week. He had written! Of course he had written. She had always known he would write! And she⁠—faithless⁠—within the hour had let Stephen Carver kiss her. Had let Stephen think that⁠—Jane dropped the other letters on the desk. Holding André’s close above her heart she rushed frantically out of the room and up the stairs and gained the sanctuary of her own bedroom. Softly she locked the door. Then sank into the chair by the window overlooking the amber willow tree. André had written. He had not forgotten. André was going to come. + 

Jane slowly drew the letter from the thin-papered envelope. It looked strangely foreign. The very writing, faintly blotted on that sheer French paper, had a subtly alien air. But it was undeniably André’s own. Yes⁠—at the end of the twelfth closely written sheet, there was his name, “Your André.” Her André! Jane turned to the first page and began to read. + 

“Dear Jane, I hardly know what to say to you, or how to say it. But of course I want to write. I want to write, even though I have no idea, now, what sort of a person you may have grown up to be, how you may have changed from the child that I loved.” + 

Loved, thought Jane with a faint chill of foreboding? And child? + 

“We were both children, of course. We see that now. And in the four years that have passed you have grown up into a woman. I have a strange sense of embarrassment in writing to you. For I have grown up, too, Jane, and I am not at all sure that you will welcome my letter. Perhaps you do not even remember that I was to have written it.” + 

Remember, thought Jane! What had she ever forgotten? + 

“When I left you that day on Pine Street⁠—that day which, now, perhaps, you may not even care to recall⁠—I thought my heart was breaking. I thought your heart was breaking too. But I was nineteen, Jane, and of course, I have learned that hearts are of tougher fibre than I thought. + 

“I was miserable all summer long. Miserable all winter, too, though I was working very hard over my modelling. I thought of nothing but you and counted the days until I could see you. Actually counted them, Jane, on a calendar I made, crossing one off every evening.” + 

Darling André, thought Jane! + 

“But I was nineteen, Jane. And life is life. I began, almost against my will, to be interested in all sorts of things. The Sorbonne and the studio and lots of other pure frivolities, though I was dreadfully ashamed of that, at first. Then I began to see, of course, that we would both have to go on living and growing up and changing into the kind of people that we were meant to be, and when the four years were over, we would meet and see each other again and know, instantly, if we still cared. I couldn’t imagine not caring about you. But what the four years would do to you, I couldn’t imagine either. I was awfully afraid of them. + 

“Mother wrote me about you, of course, as long as Father was in Chicago. I knew that you went to Bryn Mawr with Agnes and I was terribly glad. I knew you wanted to go and, besides that, it seemed, somehow, to put off life for you, to keep you safe in an environment that I could imagine, to shut out the world. I never heard anything about you, after that. I thought of writing Agnes, but I never did. Mother didn’t think it was quite on the level, after my promise to your father, to write Agnes letters that were really for you. + 

“And then, Jane, I entered the Beaux Arts and my work began to get me. I began to care terribly about it. I always had, of course, but this was very different. I was thrilled over what I was doing. I was thrilled all the time, day and night. I am still. I can’t think of any time, during the last three years, when I haven’t been terribly excited and happy to be working with my clay. I hope I can make you understand that⁠—how much it has come to mean to me. + 

“For, Jane, I have just been told that I am to be awarded the Prix de Rome. It means three years’ work in Italy. It means a chance for accomplishment that I have never known before. It means living for three years with the other students in bachelor quarters in the Villa Medici. I’ll live like a monk, there, in a little white cell, working night and day to get all I can out of the opportunity the three years give me. + 

“Jane⁠—I did mean to try to get to the States this summer. To work my way over on some boat just as soon as my courses were over and I’d finished a fountain I’m doing. I meant to spend next winter in Chicago. I thought I’d take a studio there and try to get a job at the Art Institute. I did mean to, I mean, if you, by any chance, still wanted me to come. I meant to write you a letter at this time, saying I would come like a shot if you would tell me to. But, Jane, surely you see that this is a chance that I can’t let slip. I’ve got to take advantage of it. Next spring, if you want me, I’ll come without fail. I’ll leave Rome for a month or two⁠—I’ll manage it somehow⁠—I’ll come and we can see each other. Just as I write the words, Jane, I feel all the old emotion. Do you, I wonder, feel it, too? I feel so very strange with you. What have the four years done to you? Are you the same Jane? You can’t be, of course. But are you a little like the girl that⁠—” + 

The sentence was not finished. Jane sat with burning cheeks, gazing at the closely written paper. How could he write like that⁠—as if he still cared when he was taking this Prix de Rome? The Prix de Rome? What was the Prix de Rome? Jane didn’t know and felt she didn’t care. What was any prize, any reward, any opportunity compared with love? Love, such as she and André had known? He had forgotten. She must face that fact. He must have forgotten. If he had remembered, nothing would have counted, counted for one moment, against the joy of reunion. “Next spring, if you want me, I’ll come without fail!” Pallid words! Insulting words. Really insulting, from André to her. What had the four years done to her? What had they done to him? Jane turned again to the letter. + 

“Write me, dear Jane, that you understand. And tell me that you will want to see me, next spring, only half as much as I want to see you. + 

“ ‘Her⁠—André’!” Jane’s cheeks flushed again at the irony of the phrase. But there was still a postscript. + 

“I think you’d like my fountain. It’s the best thing I’ve done. I wish I could show it to you. It’s a study of Narcissus, gazing at his own reflection in the water. There’s a nymph behind him, a deserted nymph, standing with arms outstretched, ignored, forgotten, as he stares, infatuated, in the crystal pool. There’s something of you in the nymph, Jane. There’s something of you in all my nymphs and Eves and saints and Madonnas. Something you brought into my life. Romance, I guess it is. Nothing more tangible. + 

Something of her in the deserted nymph! Something of him, thought Jane, with unwonted irony, in the fatuous Narcissus! And for this André she had been keeping herself for the last four years! This André who would rather go to Italy and take his Prix de Rome than cross the ocean to see the girl that⁠—For this André she had been steeling her heart against Stephen. Stephen who loved her and wanted her and was going to war, still wanting her more than life itself. Stephen who had been her very slave for the last eighteen months, who had loved her from the moment that he set eyes on her in Flora’s little ballroom. + 

Jane rose and went to her desk. She pulled out her best notepaper and seated herself squarely before her little blotter. When you killed things, thought Jane grimly, you killed them quickly. + 

“Dear André,” she wrote, “I loved your letter. And of course I remember everything. Quite as much, I am sure, as you do yourself. I understand perfectly about the Prix de Rome and I hope very much you will come to Chicago next spring. I should love to see you and I should love to have you meet the man I am going to marry. His name is Stephen Carver and he is going to war, immediately, to fight the Spaniards. I shall marry him before he goes. + 

“As you say, we were both children, four years ago.” Jane paused a moment, trying vainly to blink away her tears. It had been just a dream, she knew, but the end of even a dream was very dreadful. “Like you I was awfully upset, at first, but as you say, life is life. I loved my years at Bryn Mawr with Agnes. Soon after I came home I met Stephen. He has just persuaded me to marry him. Of course I am terribly happy.” + 

Jane paused to wipe her eyes, then added, as an afterthought. “Except for the war.” That seemed to dispose of everything she thought. Just one more word was needed. She wrote it⁠—“Jane.” + 

She mailed the note before dressing for dinner. When she came up to her room again André’s letter was still lying on her desk. She made a sudden movement as if to tear it into a hundred pieces. Then checked herself and slowly put it back in its envelope. André might be incredibly different. André might have forgotten. She would pluck him from her heart. But the André that he used to be was still the lover of her childhood. Jane felt an odd sense of outrage at the thought of denying the past. She slipped the letter into a desk drawer. Jane turned slowly toward her closet door. She would wear her prettiest dress for Stephen. She would tell him at once that she would marry him. She would try to make up to him for the way she had treated him. What if Stephen, discouraged, had forsaken her? Jane felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for Stephen’s faithfulness. She had never appreciated it before. Of course she loved him. She loved him and she would marry him. It was perfectly terrible that he was going to war. + 