AN INTERLUDE
_The day after Christmas._
“Baldy, darling: The operation is over, and the doctor gives us hope.
That is the best I can tell you. I haven’t been allowed to see Judy,
though they have let Bob have a peep at her, and she smiled.
“You can imagine that we have had little heart for good times. But
the babies had a beautiful Christmas Day, with a tree--and stockings
hung above the gas logs. How I longed for our own little wood fire,
but the blessed darlings didn’t know the difference. We couldn’t
spend much money, which was fortunate. The things that came from the
east were so perfect. Yours, honey-boy, only you shouldn’t have made
the check so large. I shan’t spend it unless it is very necessary.
Mr. Towne sent flowers, loads of them--and perfectly marvellous
chocolates in a box of gold lacquer--and Edith sent a string of
carved ivory beads, and there was a blue Keats from Evans, and a
ducky orange scarf from Mrs. Follette.
“I wish you could have seen the babies. Julia staggered around the
tree on her uncertain little feet as if she were drunk, and then
settled down to an adorable stuffed bunny, and Junior had eyes for
nothing but the red automobile that the Townes ordered for him. I
think it was dear of Edith and her uncle. Junior is such a charming
chap, with beautiful manners like his dad, but with a will of his own
at times.
“I roasted a chicken for dinner, and--well, we got through it all.
And now the babies are in bed, and Bob is at the hospital, and I am
writing to you. But my heart is tight with fear.
“I mustn’t think about Judy.
“Give my love to everybody. I have had Christmas letters from Evans
and Edith and Mr. Towne. Baldy, Mr. Towne wants to marry me. I
haven’t told you before. It is rather like a dream and I’m not going
to think about it. I don’t love him, and so, of course, that settles
it. But he says he can make me, and, Baldy, sometimes I wish that he
could. It would be such a heavenly thing for the whole family. Of
course that isn’t the way to look at it, but I believe Judy wants it.
She believes in love in a cottage, but she says that love in a palace
might be equally satisfying, with fewer things to worry about.
“Somehow that doesn’t fit in with the things I’ve dreamed. But
dreams, of course, aren’t everything....
“I had to tell you, dear old boy. Because we’ve never kept things
from each other. And you’ve been so perfectly frank about Edith. Are
things a bit blue in that direction? Your letter sounded like it.
“Be good to yourself, old dear, and love me more than ever.”
Jane signed her name and stood up, stretching her arms above her head.
It was late and she was very tired. A great storm was shaking the
windows. The wind from the lake beat against the walls with the boom
of guns.
Jane pulled back the curtains--there was snow with the storm--it
whirled in papery shreds on the shaft of light. All sounds in the
street were muffled. She had a sense of suffocation--as if the storm
pressed upon her--shutting her in.
She went into the next room and looked at the babies. Oh, what would
they do if anything happened to Judy? What would Bob do? She dared not
look ahead.
She walked the floor, a tense little figure, fighting against fear. The
storm had become a whistling pandemonium. She gave a cry of relief when
the door opened and her brother-in-law entered.
“I’m half-frozen, Janey. It was a fight to get through. The cars are
stopped on all the surface lines.”
“How is Judy?”
“Holding her own. And by the way, Janey, that friend of yours, Towne,
sent another bunch of roses. Pretty fine, I call it. She’s no end
pleased.”
“It’s nice of him.”
“Gee, I wish I had his money.”
“Money isn’t everything, Bobby.”
“It means a lot at a time like this.” His face wore a worried frown.
Jane knew that Judy’s hospital expenses were appalling, and bills were
piling up.
“I work like a nigger,” Bob said, ruefully, “and we’ve never been in
debt before.”
“When Judy is well, things will seem brighter, Bob.” She laid her hand
on his arm.
He looked up at her and there was fear in his eyes. “Jane, she must get
well. I can’t face losing her.”
“We mustn’t think of that. And now come on out in the kitchen and I’ll
make you some coffee.” Jane was always practical. She knew that, warmed
and fed, he would see things differently.
Yet in spite of her philosophy, Jane lay awake a long time that night.
And later her dreams were of Judy--of Judy, and a gray and dreadful
phantom which pursued....
The next day she went to the hospital and took Junior with her.
When he saw his mother in bed, Junior asked, “Do you like it,
Mother-dear?”
“Like what, darling?”
“Sleeping in the daytime?”
“I don’t always sleep.” She looked at Jane. “Does little Julia miss me?
I think about her in the night.”
Jane knew what Judy’s heart wanted. “She does miss you. I know it when
she turns away from me. Perhaps I oughtn’t to tell you. But I thought
you’d rather know.”
“I do want to know,” said Judy, feverishly. “I don’t want them to
forget. Jane, you mustn’t ever let them--forget.”
Jane felt as if she had been struck a stunning blow. She was, for a
moment, in the midst of a dizzy universe, in which only one thing was
clear. _Judy wasn’t sure of getting well!_
Judy, with her brown eyes wistful, went on: “Junior, do you want Mother
back in your own nice house?”
“Will you make cookies?”
“Yes, darling.”
“Then I want you back. Aunt Janey made cookies, and she didn’t know
about the raisins.”
“Mother knows how to give cookie-men raisin eyes. Mothers know a lot of
things that aunties don’t, darling.”
“Well, I wish you’d come back.” He stood by the side of the bed. “I’d
like to sleep with you to-night. May I, Mother-dear?”
“Not to-night, darling. But you may when I come home.”
But days passed and weeks, and Judy did not come home. And the first
of February found her still in that narrow hospital bed. And it was in
February that Frederick Towne wrote that he was coming to Chicago. “I
shall have only a day, but I must see you.”
Jane was not sure that she wanted him to come. He had been very good to
them all, and he had not, in his letter, pressed for an answer unduly.
But she knew if he came, he would ask.
The next time she went to the hospital, she told Judy of his expected
arrival. “To-morrow.”
“Oh, Jane, how delightful.”
“Is it? I’m not sure, Judy.”
“It would be perfect if you’d accept him, Jane.”
“But I’m not in love with him.”
Judy, rather austere, with her black braids on each side of her white
face, said, “Janey, do you know that not one girl in a thousand has a
chance to marry a man like Frederick Towne?”
There was a breathless excitement about the invalid which warned Jane.
“Now, darling, what real difference will it make if I don’t marry him?
There are other men in the world.”
“Bob and I were talking about it,” Judy’s voice was almost painfully
eager, “of how splendid it would be for--all of us.”
_For all of us._ Judy and Bob and the babies! It was the first time
that Jane had thought of her marriage with Towne as a way out for Judy
and Bob....
* * * * *
From his hotel at the moment of arrival, Towne called Jane up. “Are you
glad I’m here?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t say it that way.”
“How shall I say it?”
“As if you meant it. Do you know what a frigid little thing you are?
Your letters were like frosted cakes.”
She laughed. “They were the best I could do.”
“I don’t believe it. But I am not going to talk of that now. When can I
come and see you? And how much time have you to spare for me?”
“Not much. I can’t leave the babies.”
“Your sister’s children. Can’t you trust the maids?”
“Maids? Listen to the man! We haven’t any.”
“You don’t mean to tell me that you are doing the housework.”
“Yes, why not? I am strong and well, and the kiddies are adorable.”
“We are going to change that. I’ll bring a trained nurse up with me.”
“Please don’t be a tyrant.”
“Tut-tut, little girl,” she heard his big laugh over the telephone,
“I’ll bring the nurse and someone to help her, and a load of toys to
keep the kiddies quiet. When I want a thing, Jane, I usually get it.”
He and the nurse arrived together. A competent houseworker was to
follow in a cab. Jane protested. “It seems dreadfully high-handed.”
They were alone in the living-room. Miss Martin had, at once, carried
the kiddies off to unpack the toys.
Frederick laughed. “Well, what are you going to do about it? You can’t
put me out.”
“But I can refuse to go with you”--there was the crisp note in her
voice which always stirred him.
“But you won’t do that, Jane.” He held out his hand to her, drew her a
little towards him.
She released herself, flushing. “I am not quite sure what I ought to
do.”
“Why think of ‘oughts’? We will just play a bit together, Jane. That’s
all. And you’re such a tired little girl, aren’t you?”
His sympathy was comforting. Everybody leaned on Jane. It was
delightful to shift her burdens to this strong man who gave his
commands like a king.
“Yes, I am tired. And if the babies will be all right----”
“Good. Now run in and see Miss Martin, and I think you’ll be satisfied.”
Jane found Junior rapturous over a Noah’s Ark, with all the animals
clothed in fur and hair, and the birds in feathers, and small Julia
cuddled against the nurse’s white breast, bright-eyed with interest
over the Three Kittens.
“They’ll be all right, Miss Barnes,” Miss Martin said, smiling.
Jane sighed with relief. “It will seem good to play for a bit.”
“You see how I get my way,” Frederick said, as he helped her into the
big hired limousine. “I always get it.”
“It is rather heavenly at the moment,” Jane admitted, “but you needn’t
think that it establishes a precedent.”
“Wouldn’t it be always--heavenly?”
“I’m not sure. You have the makings of a--Turk.”
Yet she laughed as she said it, and he laughed, too. He was really very
handsome, ruddy and bright and big--and with that air of gay deference.
She liked to sit beside him, and listen to the things he had to tell
her. It was peaceful after all the strenuous days.
She was aware that if she married Towne life would be always like this.
A glorified existence. She would be like Curlylocks of the nursery
rhyme....
“What are you smiling at?” Frederick demanded. His eyes as they met
hers burned a bit. Jane was half-buried in a black fur robe--with only
the white oval of her face and her little gray hat showing above it.
“Nursery rhymes.” The smile deepened.
“Which one?”
“Curlylocks.”
“I don’t remember it. Oh, yes, by Jove, I do. She was the damsel who
sat on a cushion and sewed a fine seam, and feasted on strawberries,
sugar and cream?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That’s what I want to do for you. You know it?”
“Yes. But it might be--monotonous.”
“What better thing could happen to you than to have someone take care
of you?”
Jane sat up. “Oh, I want to _live_,” she said, almost with fierceness.
“I’d hate to think my husband was just a sort of--feather cushion.”
“Is that the way you think of me?” His vanity was untouched. She
didn’t, of course, mean it.
“No. But love is life. I don’t want to miss it.”
“You won’t miss it if you marry me. I swear it, Jane, I’ll make you
love me.”
He was in dead earnest. And in spite of herself she was swayed by his
attitude of conviction.
“Oh, we mustn’t talk of it,” she said, a bit breathlessly. “I’d rather
not, please.”
They lunched at a charming French restaurant, where Frederick had dared
Jane to eat snails. She acquiesced rather unexpectedly. “I have always
wanted to do it,” she told him, “ever since I was a little girl and
read Hans Andersen’s story of the white snails who lived in a forest of
burdocks, and whose claim to aristocracy was that their ancestors had
been baked and served in a silver dish.”
They had a table in a corner. He ordered the luncheon expertly.
“I can’t tell you how much I am enjoying it,” she said gratefully, as
he once more gave her his attention.
“Do you really like it?”
“Immensely.”
“Why not have it for the rest of your life?”
Her color deepened. “Sometimes I think it would be----” she hesitated.
“Heavenly,” he finished the sentence for her. “Jane, you only have to
say the word.”
The waiter, with the first course, interrupted them. When he once more
disappeared, Frederick persisted. “I’m going away to-morrow. Won’t you
give me my answer to-night? After lunch I’ll take you home and you can
rest a bit, and then I’ll come for you and we’ll dine together and see
a play.”
She tried to protest, but he pleaded. “This is my day. Don’t spoil it,
Jane.”
It was nearly three o’clock when they left the table, and they had a
long drive before them. Darkness had descended when they reached the
house. It was still snowing.
Bob was up-stairs, walking around the little room like a man in a dream.
“I can’t tell you,” he confided to Jane after Frederick had left, “how
queer I felt when I came in and found Miss Martin with the babies,
and that stately old woman in the kitchen. And everything going like
clockwork. Miss Martin explained, and--well, Towne just waves a wand,
doesn’t he, Janey, and makes things happen?”
“I don’t know that I ought to let him do so much,” Jane said.
“Oh, why not, Janey? Just take the good the gods provide....”
Before Frederick Towne reached his hotel he passed a shop whose windows
were lighted against the early darkness. In one of the windows, flanked
by slippers and stockings and a fan to match, was a French gown, all
silver and faint blue, a shining wisp of a thing in lace and satin.
Towne stopped the car, went in and bought the gown with its matching
accessories. He carried the big box with him to his hotel. Resting a
bit before dinner he permitted himself to dream of Jane in that gown,
the pearls that he would give her against the white of her slender
throat, the slim bareness of her arms, the swirl of a silver lace about
her ankles--the swing of the boyish figure in its sheath of blue.
He permitted himself to think of her, too, in other gowns. His thoughts
of her frocks were all definite. He had exquisite taste. If he married
Jane, he would dress her so that people would look at her, and look
again. Even in her poverty, she had learned to express herself in
the things she wore. His money would make possible even more subtle
expression.
So he thought of her in gray chiffon, black pearls in her ears--oh, to
think of Jane in earrings!--with a touch of jade where the draperies
swung loose--and with an oyster-white lining to the green cape which
would cover the gown--a lynx collar up to her ears.
Or a tea-gown of tangerine lace--with bands of sable catching the open
sleeves at the wrist--or in white--Jane’s wedding dress must be heavy
with pearls--she lent herself perfectly to medieval effects.
His mind came back to the blue and silver. It hung on the bed-post,
shimmering in the light from his lamp. He wondered if he offered it to
Jane, would she accept? He knew she wouldn’t. Adelaide would have made
no bones about it. There had been a lovely thing in black velvet he had
given her, too, a wrap to match.
But Jane was different. She would shrug her shoulders and with that
charming independence, decline his favors, tilting her chin, and
challenging him with her lighted-up eyes.
Well, he liked her for it. Loved her for it. And some day she would
wear the blue and silver frock. As he rose and put it back in the box,
he seemed to shut Jane in with it. There hung about it the scent of
roses. He knew of a rare perfume. He would order a vial of it for Jane.
It merely hinted at fragrance.
The evening stretched ahead of him, full of radiant promise. He knew
Jane’s strength but he was ready for conquest.
His telephone rang. And Jane spoke to him.
“Mr. Towne,” she said, “I can’t dine with you. But can you come over
later? Judy is desperately ill. I’ll tell you more about it when I see
you.”