The unfortunate dinner at the Brevoort, where Jane had accidentally
joined her husband, only added fuel to his rage. It was obvious to both
of them that Miss Morton thought that Jane had merely refused to come to
her tea. Her cool nod of recognition, and her scornful glance at Jerry
made that point exceedingly evident.
It was perhaps characteristic of Jerry, that it was not so much anger at
Jane for being so fascinated by another man that she forgot to come, as
it was indignation at her public affront to his _amour-propre_. This
reception was his first conspicuous success since the pageant. He was
aware that Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon, acting as press agent, had played
up his supposed romance with the mysterious and beautiful creature who
had acted Salome. He knew that curiosity about his wife, and speculation
about Miss Morton's attitude toward that lady, had been much more potent
factors in attracting the big crowd which marched through the Mortons'
house, than any ardent desire to see his portrait of the daughter of the
house.
If Jane, quite unconsciously, had become the Hamlet of the feast, it was
a little too much to have her forget to appear! He had explained her
absence until he was hoarse. Miss Morton, with raised eyebrows and
suggestive tones, had repeated over and over, that for some reason,
Mrs. Paxton had not appeared. She planted the seed most delicately, that
Mrs. Paxton had not come because it was Althea's portrait, and Althea's
party. Jerry felt that she was taking advantage of the situation, but he
could think of no way to turn the trick against her, unless Jane came to
his rescue.
Later, in the restaurant, she had gloried in her suspicion. Jane had
looked much too well, too handsome, to have been the victim of a late
indisposition.
For the first time, Jerry faced the fact that he had married a
personality, not an automaton. The silent, efficient, machine Jane, of
the old days, was not the real Jane at all, or else matrimony had
changed her completely. He felt aggrieved. He could not see how he could
have made such a mistake. From his present point of view, in fact, his
marriage seemed to him like some fantastic act of a man in a fever. Had
he, in order to protect himself from Bobs and Althea, married a woman
more complex than either of them?
He began to wonder why he did not attract Jane? All his life women had
liked him, responded to his boyish charm and his handsome face. He could
not remember that she had once looked at him, as a woman admiring a
fine, bra' lad. She showed no interest in his career, either. He had
taken her from a life of drudgery, given her ease and his name. She
might at least have devoted herself to his interests. He could not spell
her out. She besieged his thoughts; he was never free from her.
He made up his mind to show her his displeasure at her ways. So he
spent as much time as possible away from the studio. Mrs. Brendon's
portrait was finished and displayed in her drawing-room. This time Jerry
escorted Jane himself. She was a great success; her gracious but
impersonal manner interested people. She was indifferent to their likes
or dislikes, yet not rudely so. Mrs. Brendon was impressed with her and
told Jerry so.
"She can be a great social success, Jerry."
"She can, but she won't. It bores her."
"What if it does? Has she no consideration for your career?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"We must make some plans to really launch her. Abercrombie says she has
brains."
"No use making any plans for Jane. She makes and breaks her own," said
Jerry.
It was an aggravation, the way she failed to follow up social
opportunities. He complained to her about it and she announced herself
absolutely ready to do anything he desired which would help his career.
"You can see that a portrait painter has to cultivate the people who
have portraits painted, can't you?"
"Wouldn't you be freer to work out your own ideas, to develop what is
really yours, if you did some other kind of painting, Jerry?"
"Yes, and we would be living in a garret."
"But I wouldn't mind that at all, if it meant that you were growing."
"I suppose you've been talking to Bobs."
"No. I don't discuss you with people, Jerry. But I think your friends
do feel this about you, that this is the line of the least resistance
for you, that it may end in your destruction as an artist."
"I am perfectly competent to decide about my work without the advice of
my friends. I want ease, luxury, and beauty. I'm sick of grubbing in
this little studio. I'm going to get out of it, and soon, too. I've got
two orders from the Brendon portrait. Next year I'll raise my prices,
and after that we'll see."
Jane sighed, but made no answer.
After this talk, which irked him more than he cared to admit to himself,
he was much away. In the tender care of Mrs. Brendon and Althea he
sailed and soared into the most ethereal social circles. He tead, and
lunched, hither and thither, always on business, as he told Jane. He
even went to a dinner or so, to which she was not invited, "to try to
pull off an order."
If she resented his desertion, she never showed it by a glance. In fact,
she had dropped back into the silent, brooding Jane of the days before
he married her. He came and went with as little comment as in those
days. But she went with him, in his mind. He promised himself that, as
soon as this campaign for orders was over, he would take time to
cultivate Jane, to learn to know her true self. He was becoming a trifle
afraid of her judgments.
As for Jane, she saw, understood, and accepted the situation. After her
one protest against his prostitution of his talent for "a handful of
silver," she let the matter rest. She meant to bring it up again,
however.
His absence from her gave her unrestricted time for her own work, which
she felt was progressing finely. She had many long consultations with
Christiansen, sometimes at the studio, sometimes in the Park where they
went to walk. He encouraged and stimulated her.
Bobs acquired the habit of dropping in on Jane, in her free hours. Jane
suspected that a deep pity for Jerry's neglected wife was the reason for
her attention, but she welcomed her cordially, and slowly a sure
friendship began to develop between them. There was an honesty and
simplicity in the two women which made them akin. By mutual and unspoken
consent they never discussed Jerry.
They had long talks, they went about to exhibitions together, where Jane
profited by Bobs's knowledge of art. She had set herself to some sort of
study and understanding of painting, with the shadowy thought that she
might be of some help to Jerry some time, if she understood his medium.
She read the books prescribed by Bobs, she saw all the permanent
exhibitions, and found with the new knowledge a deep pleasure. Bobs
often berated her for her taste, but admitted she was an intelligent
pupil.
"You've got the instinct, Jane, you ought to create something."
"Maybe, some day," Jane evaded.
As spring came on, Jane felt terribly dragged. She noticed it first by
the difficulty she had in getting upstairs to her workshop. Several
breathing spells were necessary, and a brief rest on the bed, when she
finally arrived. Then came long brooding spells, when she sat
motionless at her desk, feeling that all the forces in herself, in
nature without, were focussed within her own being. The work went
slowly, and unevenly.
It was in April that Jerry, watching Jane clear the table one night, saw
her go suddenly white and sit down quickly. He went to her hastily.
"What is it, Jane; are you faint?"
"Yes. Jerry, we are going to have a child."
His face went as white as hers; then the alarm, the protest registered
there, found expression.
"You don't mean to say----"
"I wanted it to happen. It is one of the responsibilities of marriage."
"But can't you see, we can't afford children yet?"
"We should have thought of that sooner."
"How can we have that happen, in this little, crowded place?"
"Large families are raised in half the space, Jerry."
"But this is my workshop," he began.
"Jerry, when I found, after our hasty marriage, that you expected me to
accept all the responsibilities of marriage, I made no protest. This is
another of the responsibilities we both share. I expect you to make no
protest."
"I beg your pardon, Jane. I know I'm not taking it very nicely, but it
is about as upsetting as anything could well be."
"It was to me, too."
"I suppose you do get the worst of it, hang it!"
Hands in pockets he paced up and down the studio.
"What are we going to do? We'll have to move, of course."
"I think not. Not at present anyway."
"When does it happen?"
"In October."
"You've seen a doctor?"
"Yes."
"Look here, Jane, why couldn't we find you some nice place in the
country, where you could be quiet, have plenty of out-of-door exercise,
and all that? You could go at once and I'd run out for week-ends."
"No, thanks. I prefer to stay here. After all, I shall not be in your
way now, any more than I have been before."
Something in her tone made him wince.
"Jane, my dear, I'm sorry. I've been a brute."
"Please don't sentimentalize over me, Jerry. I'm glad this has happened
to me. Whether you are glad or not, I must have your help. It is your
child as well as mine. I cannot be put off in the country, out of your
sight, because I'm ugly. I have a right to your consideration, but I
want nothing more."
There was no sign of hysteria, just the quiet, simple statement of her
case. In spite of his distress at her news, he admired her more at this
moment than ever before. He drew a chair near her and sat down.
"I understand. Will you tell me what plans you have made, or thought
of?"
"We could afford a little cottage in the country, for the summer, I
think, with a servant. If we went in June and I stay until I go to the
hospital, we could live inexpensively; you could paint, or go about
among your friends."
"I think that is a good scheme. We can begin to look for such a place at
once, if you are able."
"Certainly. I'm perfectly strong."
He held out his hand to her.
"Forgive me. Count on me. I want to do my part."
"I think that's only fair," she answered, and she laid her hand in his.