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 tlie 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 CicUy. 'And lock myself up on a campus for four years?'
Lock herself up on a campus, thought Jane. That was what college hfe 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 icemed a Ufe of liberty, positively bordering upon licence. To Cicily it seemed ridiculous servitude.
'1 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 knov/ledge 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 GicUy 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 neer understand a hedonist. "Not the fixiit 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, bum 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 ery immoral doctrine,' she said.
'But didn't you think it was swell,' said Jimmy, 'when you 6rst 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 wc always read everything when we're too young to know what it means. And the trouble ^vith life is that we're always too busy to re-read it later. There's more sense in books, Gicily, 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 home work, 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 to-night.'
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 moonht 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, ver)' 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 dojou 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 jo«,' 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 compUcates everything, for of course you'U want to consider him.'
^Consider him!' cried Jane. 'Of course I want to consid
er 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 love-making. 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, to-night, or to-morrow 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 Uvey 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 hei 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 cars. It had fluttered from her lips before she was aware. The words themselves gave actuaUty 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 faindy. '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 — 1 am thinking!' said Jane pitifully.
'Don't do it!' said Jimmy.
But Jane stcadfastiy put away his arms.
'Jimmy,* she said desperately, 'we must think. We must think of every one. 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 Jinmiy, *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, darhng!' 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 aU.'
'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 arma.*
VI
When Jane opened her eyes next morning, the cold light of the April dawn was breaking over the garden. She had come into the house with Jimmy some four hours before. They had turned out the lights in the living-room and crept silently up the stairs and exchanged one last kiss at the door of Jane's bedroom. She had opened the door with elaborate precaution and moved quietly into her room. Precautions, however, were unnecessary. Stephen was sound asleep on the sleeping-porch. Jane had slipped out of her clothes and into her nightgown in the darkness and had stood, for a mo* ment, in her bedroom window gazing out at the sUvery garden. She had raised her bare arms in the moonlight, as if to fold to her heart a phantom lover. She bad smiled at their milky whiteness. Then she had jumped into bed and covered herself up and waited, a little fearfully, for besieging thoughts. They had not come, ho^vever. Defeated by victorious feeling, perhaps they lay in ambush. Jane won-
dered and, while wondering and feeling, fell serenely asleep.
She was wakened at dawn by the chirping of birds in the oak trees on the terrace. She opened her eyes in her familiar blue bedroom. She did not remember, for a moment, what had happened in the garden. Then the thoughts pounced on her. They had been in ambush. Serried ranks of thoughts, battalions of thoughts, little valiant warrior thoughts that rose up singly from the ranks and stabbed her mind before she was aware of their coming. She recalled the events of the evening with horror and increduHty. It could not have happened. If it had, she must have been mad. She was Jane Carver — Mrs. Stephen Can-er — Stephen Carver's wife and the mother of his three children. She was Jane Ward — little Jane Ward —John Ward's daughter — who had been bom on Pine Street and gone to Miss Milgrim's School with Agnes and to Bryn Mawr with Agnes. Little Jane Ward, who had loved Andre and grown up and married Stephen. She had been Stephen Carver's wife for nearly sixteen years. Yes, she must have been mad last night in the moonlit garden. Mad — to let Jimmy speak, to let him hold her i
n his arms. Mad to sit with him there — beneath the apple tree — how many hours? Four — five — six hours she had sat with Jimmy beneath the apple tree, deceiving Stephen and betraying Agnes and planning to abandon her children.
Had it really happened? Was it a dream? Something should be done about dreams like that. You should not even dream that you were deceiving your husband or betraying your friend or planning to abandon your children. But it was not a dream. If it were a dream, she would be lying be* side Stephen in her bed on the sleeping-porch. No — it had happened. It had irrevocably happened. The long path into which she had turned at the moment that she had looked into Jimmy's eyes on the threshold of the Greenwich Village flat
had come to its perhaps inevitable ending. She loved Jimmy. She had, incredibly, told him so. The telling had changed everything. It had changed Jimmy. It had changed herself, most of all. It had changed everything, Jane saw clearly in the light of the April dawn, but the most essential facts of the situation. You did not deceive your husband — you did not betray your fiiend — you did not abandon your children.
Yet she had promised Jimmy only four short hours ago, on the bench beneath the apple tree, to do all those things. She had promised him, just before parting. Jane closed her eyes to shut out the awful clarity of the April dawn, to shut out the familiar walls of the bedroom, to shut out the serried ranks of thoughts that clustered about her bed. It was no use — the thoughts were still there, crowding behind her eyehds. They would not be denied — battering, besieging thoughts. No feehng left, curiously enough, or almost none, to combat them. Only an incredulous bruised memory of feehng — feeling so briefly experienced, to be forever forsworn.
Of course she would forswear it. She had been mad in the garden. Moon-mad. Man-mad. She had been everything that was impossible and undefendable. She had not been Jane Carver or httie Jane Ward. She had been some incredible changeUng. But she was Jane Carver now, and Jane Ward, too. Little Jane Ward, who had been brought up on Pine Street by a Victorian family to try to be a good girl and mind her parents. Jane Carver, who had behind her the strength of fifteen incorruptible years of honest hving as Stephen's wife. Of course she would forswear the feeUng. She would teU Jimmy that morning.
Years of Grace Page 32
