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.”