IV
Jane was waiting with her skates in the hall, when Stephen rang the doorbell. She opened the door herself. He smiled down at her.
“Prompt lady!” he said. He tucked her skates under his arm.
Jane ran down the front steps. The December night felt very fresh and cold. Pine Street was buried in snow. The tall arc lamp on the corner threw a flickering light, pale lavender in colour, and strange gigantic shadows of the elm boughs on the immaculate scene. They walked along briskly, single file, in the path shovelled out of the drifts. The December stars were glittering overhead. The noises of the city were muffled by the snow fall. Jane could hear sleigh bells, dimly, in the distance. When they reached the corner the sound of the band at the Superior Street rink fell gaily on her ears. It was playing “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” The path was wider, now. Stephen fell into step beside her. Jane began softly to sing:
“When you hear dem bells go ding, ling, ling,
All join ’round and sweetly you must sing,
And when the verse am through, in the chorus all join in,
There’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight—my baby—”
Jane was skipping in time to the tune.
“Oh, Stephen,” she said, “it’s a marvellous night! I’m so glad you asked me!”
“I’m glad you’re glad,” said Stephen cheerfully. “I love to see you love things.”
“I do love them,” said Jane seriously. “Ever so many.”
“I know you do,” said Stephen. “That’s one of the nicest things about you.” Jane skipped a moment in silence. “What did Agnes Johnson mean,” said Stephen a little irrelevantly, “about your doing something with your life?”
“She thinks I should,” said Jane.
“Well,” said Stephen, “aren’t you?”
“Why, no,” said Jane. “Not really. I’m just letting it happen.”
“Isn’t it all right?” said Stephen. “Your life?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jane. “But of course I don’t feel really settled.”
“Why not?” asked Stephen a little uneasily.
“Well—a girl doesn’t, you know, until—” Jane didn’t quite want to finish that sentence. “I mean I can’t go on this way forever—just living with Mamma and Papa—I mean—I probably won’t—” Jane abandoned that sentence also.
“No,” said Stephen very gravely, “I suppose not.”
They walked a few minutes in silence.
“Do you know,” said Stephen confidentially, “I really hate college women?”
Jane twinkled up at him.
“I’m a college woman,” she said.
“You?” Stephen burst out laughing.
“I’m a fighting feminist,” said Jane.
“Yes, you are!” said Stephen.
“Really I am,” said Jane. “I just haven’t the courage of my convictions.”
“I like you cowardly,” said Stephen.
“It has its advantages,” said Jane. “She who thinks and runs away, lives to think another day. I shall probably do a great deal more thinking than Agnes, before our lives are over. Agnes acts.”
“She doesn’t act like you,” said Stephen. They had reached the rink now. It was circled by a high hedge of cut evergreens, bound closely together, their trunks thrust down in the snowdrifts.
“I don’t act at all,” said Jane. “I just drift.”
They turned in at the gate. The music of the band was loud in their ears. The rink was not crowded yet. Just a few isolated couples were swerving about in the lamplight. Jane dropped on the wooden bench. Stephen knelt to put on her skates. Jane leaned her head back against the evergreens. They smelled faintly of snow and very strongly of pine needles, like a Christmas tree. Winter was lovely, thought Jane.
She sprang up, as soon as her skates were on. She glided out on the rink, and began to skate slowly, with long rhythmic strides, in tune with the band. She was halfway round before Stephen caught up with her. He held out his hands. Jane crossed her wrists and took them. She could feel his strong, warm grasp through their woollen gloves. Stephen was a beautiful skater. They glided on in perfect unison. Skating was even more fun than dancing, thought Jane, because you did it out-of-doors. You did it under the stars, with Orion and Sirius and the Dipper shining over your head, and the frosty winter wind in your nostrils.
“I never knew a girl,” said Stephen, “that skated as well as you. You’d love the river skating, near Boston.”
Jane knew she would.
“I’d like to take you out,” said Stephen, “for a day of it, with just a picnic lunch by a bonfire.”
Jane knew she would like a picnic lunch by a bonfire.
“There are lots of things,” said Stephen, “that I’d like to do with you.”
“Aren’t some of them in Chicago?” laughed Jane.
“I can’t think of a place,” said Stephen, “where some of them wouldn’t be.”
“Let’s try a figure eight,” said Jane. “Let’s try one backward.”
They swerved and swooped for some minutes in silence. Stephen ended up facing her, still skating easily, her hands held in his. He looked happily down at her, never missing a stride, never losing a beat of the band.
“Why, look who’s here!” cried a laughing voice. It was Muriel, standing at the bench side with Mr. Bert Lancaster. Stephen had almost run into them. He didn’t look too pleased.
“Let’s go four abreast,” said Muriel. The glint in her eye made Jane remember the days when Muriel used to giggle. She extended a hand obediently to Mr. Bert Lancaster.
Mr. Bert Lancaster was a good skater too, but the party of four was not a great success. Muriel couldn’t quite keep up. Every now and then she lost a step and stumbled. Twice round the rink they halted. Stephen edged, perceptibly, away from Muriel. Mr. Lancaster extended his hands once more to Jane. But Jane really felt that she hadn’t come out that perfect December night to skate with Mr. Bert Lancaster. She glided easily away from him.
“Stephen?” she said. His hands met hers in a moment. Muriel’s eyes held again that giggling glint. But Jane didn’t care. She didn’t care at all. She struck out, easily, with Stephen. She felt very much cheered and very confidential.
“I don’t like Bert Lancaster,” she said. “I don’t like him at all. Don’t let him get me!”
“You bet I won’t,” said Stephen. Stephen was terribly nice. And always to be counted on. They skated on in silence. The rink was crowded, now. Muriel and Mr. Lancaster were soon lost. The band was playing “Just One Girl.” Jane thought really she could skate all night with Stephen.
“Are you cold?” he asked presently. Jane suddenly realized that she was. Her feet were like cakes of ice.
“What time is it?” she inquired. Stephen released one hand and looked at his watch.
“Not ten,” he said.
“We’d better go back,” said Jane. “The band stops at ten. I am a little chilly.”
They glided slowly up to the wooden bench. Stephen knelt at her feet once more. Side by side they mounted the wooden steps and turned into Pine Street.
“Are you hungry?” said Jane. “Would you like some crackers and cheese? Mamma said she’d leave some beer on ice.”
“I’m ravenous,” said Stephen, smiling.
They walked along in silence.
“Jane,” said Stephen presently, “did you really mean that about your life? That you didn’t feel settled?”
“Why, yes,” said Jane. “In a way I meant it.”
“You—you’re not thinking of doing anything else are you?” asked Stephen anxiously. “Going away, I mean, or—or anything?”
“What else could I do?” said Jane simply.
Stephen looked down at her in silence. His face was very eloquent.
“I couldn’t do anything,” said Jane promptly, answering her own question.
Stephen didn’t speak again until she handed him her door-key.
“Sooner or later you’ll do it, Jane,” he said, then, very soberly.
Mrs. Ward was waiting up in the library. The beer was on ice, she said. Did Stephen like Edam cheese? There was cake in the cakebox.
“You know where everything is, Jane,” she remarked tactfully. “I’m going upstairs, now. I have letters to write.”
Jane led the way to the pantry. There was the beer, two beaded bottles, and the crackers, and the cake, and a round, red, Edam cheese.
“Let’s take them in by the dining-room fire,” said Jane.
Stephen carried the tray, Jane lit two candles on the dining-room table. The fire had sunk to a rose-red glow. But the room was very warm. The candle flames were reflected in the polished walnut and in the two tall tumblers. The Edam cheese looked very bright and gay.
Jane sat down in her father’s chair and leaned her elbows on the table. She felt her cheeks burning, after the winter cold. Stephen’s were very red and his blue eyes were bright. He drew up a chair very near her.
“Not much beer,” said Jane. “I don’t like it.”
He poured her half a glass, then filled his own. Jane dug out a spoonful of cheese. Stephen drained his beer in silence. Jane crunched a cracker.
“You’re not so very ravenous,” said Jane at length, “after all.”
“No,” said Stephen, “I’m not. I came in under false pretences.”
Jane looked up at him quickly.
“I came, Jane,” said Stephen, “to—to talk to you again.”
“To—talk to me?” said Jane faintly.
“To talk to you about—us,” said Stephen.
“I don’t think you’d better,” said Jane.
“Jane,” said Stephen, “I’m not getting over you—I’m not getting over you at all. I—I care more than ever.”
“Oh, Stephen,” said Jane pitifully, “don’t say that.”
“Do you want me to get over you?” asked Stephen.
Jane pondered a moment, in silence. Life would seem strangely empty without Stephen.
“N—no,” she said honestly. “I—I don’t think I do.”
“Well, then,” said Stephen eagerly, “don’t you think that you—you’re beginning to care?”
“I don’t know,” said Jane.
“Jane,” said Stephen very persuasively, “you can’t go on like this forever. You said yourself you didn’t feel settled. You—you’ll have to marry some time. Wouldn’t you—couldn’t you—?” He paused, his eyes on hers.
“Stephen,” said Jane very miserably, “I don’t know.”
“You would know,” cried Stephen earnestly, “if you’d just let me teach you.”
“Teach me what?” said Jane.
“Teach you what it’s like—to love,” said Stephen simply.
“Teach me,” thought Jane. There was a moment of silence.
“Love isn’t taught,” said Jane finally.
Stephen’s eyes had never left hers.
“Jane,” he said solemnly, “you don’t know.”
Jane shook her head. She couldn’t explain. But she knew. Love was no hothouse flower, forced to reluctant bud. Love was a weed that flashed unexpectedly into bloom on the roadside. Love was not fanned to flame. Love was a leaping fire, sprung from a casual spark, a fire that wouldn’t be smothered, a fire that—
“Stephen,” said Jane, “I’m sure I don’t love you. I’ll never marry you unless I do.”
“But you think,” said Stephen still eagerly, “you think perhaps you might—”
“I don’t know,” said Jane.
Stephen stood up abruptly.
“I’ll ask you and ask you,” said Stephen, “until some day—”
Jane rose and put out her hand.
“I wish I could love you,” said Jane. “I’d like to.”
“Just keep on feeling that way,” said Stephen hopefully. “You didn’t talk like this last May.”
“Good night,” said Jane.
“Good night,” said Stephen.
Jane stood quite quietly by the candlelit table until she heard the front door open and close. Then she blew out the candles. She turned out the hall light and tiptoed very silently upstairs in the darkness. Nevertheless, she heard her mother’s door open expectantly. Mrs. Ward’s eyes wandered critically over her.
“We had a grand time,” said Jane very firmly. “The ice was quite cut up, but Muriel and Bert were there.” She walked on to her bedroom. At the door she turned. She abandoned herself to fiction. “Stephen taught Muriel the figure eight. I’m quite getting to like Bert Lancaster.” She heard her mother’s door close softly. Jane turned up her light. She laughed a little excitedly, to herself. It was nice to be loved. It was nice to be loved by Stephen.