SPRING COMES TO SHERWOOD
Jane was home again. Judy was better. Philomel sang. The world was a
lovely place.
“Oh, but it’s good to be back,” Jane was telling Baldy at breakfast.
The windows were wide open, the fragrance of lilacs streamed in, there
were pink hyacinths on the table.
“It’s heavenly.”
Baldy smiled at her. “The same old Jane.”
She shook her head, and the light in her eyes wavered as if some breath
of doubt fanned it. “Not quite. The winter hasn’t been easy. I’m a
thousand years older.”
“And with a wedding day ahead of you.”
“Yes. Do you like it, Baldy?”
He leaned back in his chair and surveyed her. “Not a bit--if you want
the truth--I shall be jealous of Mr. Frederick Towne.”
“Silly. You know I shall never love anybody more than you, Baldy.”
She was perfectly unconscious of the revelation she was making, but he
knew--and was constrained to say, “Then you don’t really love him.”
“Oh, I do. He’s much nicer than I imagined he might be.”
“Oh, well, if you think you are going to be happy.”
“I know I am--dearest,” she blew a kiss from the tips of her fingers.
“Baldy, I’m going to have a great house with a great garden--and invite
Judy and the babies--every summer.”
“Towne’s not marrying Judy and the babies. He’s marrying you. He won’t
want all of your poor relations hanging around.”
“Oh, he will. He has been simply dear. I feel as if I can never do
enough for him.”
She was very much in earnest. Baldy refrained from further criticism
lest he cloud the happiness of her home-coming. The thing was done.
They might as well make the best of it. So he said, “Do you always call
him ‘Mr. Towne’?”
“Yes. He scolds, but I can’t say Frederick--or Fred. He begs me to do
it--but I tell him to wait till we’re married and then I’ll say ‘dear.’
Most wives do that, don’t they?”
“I hope mine won’t.”
“Why not?”
“I shall want my wife to invent names for me, and if she can’t, I’ll do
it for her.”
Jane opened her eyes wide. “Romance with a big R, Baldy?”
“Yes, of course. I should want to be king, lover, master--friend to the
woman who cared for me. That’s the real thing, Janey.”
“Is it?” But she did not follow the subject up; she drew another cup
of coffee for herself, and asked finally, “When is Evans coming back?”
“Not for several days. He will go to Boston when he finishes with New
York.”
“I see. And he’s much better?”
“I should say. You wouldn’t know him.”
He rose. “I must run on. We’re to dine at Towne’s then?”
“Yes. Just the five of us. It seems funny that I haven’t met Cousin
Annabel. But she’s able to take her place at the head of the table,
Mr. Towne tells me. He told me, too, that she wants to meet me. But I
have a feeling that she won’t approve of me, Baldy. I’m not fashionable
enough.”
“Why should you be fashionable? You are all right as you are.”
“Am I? Baldy, I believe my stock has gone up with you.”
“It hasn’t, Janey. You were always a darling. But I didn’t want to
spoil you.”
“As if you could,” she smiled wistfully. “Sometimes I have a feeling,
Baldy, that I should like life to go on just as it is. Just you and me,
Baldy. But of course it can’t.”
“Of course it can, if you wish it. You mustn’t marry Towne if you have
the least doubt.”
“I haven’t any doubts. So don’t worry.” She stood up and kissed him.
“Briggs will come out for me--and we are all to see a play together
afterward.”
“Edith told me.”
“Baldy,” she had hold of the lapel of his coat, “how are things going
with--Edith?”
“Do you mean, am I in love with her? I am.”
“Are you going to marry her?”
“God knows.”
She looked up at him in surprise. “What makes you say it that way? Has
she told you she didn’t care?”
“She has told me that she does care. But do you think, Janey, that I’m
going to take her money?”
He patted her on the cheek and was off. She went to the top of the
terrace and watched him ride away. Then she walked in the little shaded
grove behind the house. Merrymaid followed her and the much-matured
kitten. There was a carpet underfoot of pine needles and of fragrant
young growth. Several of her old hens scratched in the rich mould--and
their broods of tiny chicks answering the urgent mother-cry were like
bits of yellow down blown before a breeze.
Jane picked a spray of princess-pine and stuck it in her blouse. Oh,
what an adorable world! Her world. Could there be anything better that
Frederick Towne could give her?
Baldy’s words rang in her ears--“Do you think I am going to take her
money?”
Yet she was taking Frederick Towne’s money. She wished it had not been
necessary. Each day it seemed to her that the thought burned deeper:
she was under obligations to her lover that could be repaid only by
marriage. And they were to be married in June.
Yet why should the thought burn? She loved him. Not, perhaps, as Baldy
loved Edith. But there were respect and admiration, yes, and when she
was with him, she felt his charm, she was carried along on the whirling
stream of his own adoration and tenderness.
Yet--there were things to dread. She would have to meet his friends. Be
judged by them. There would be formal entertaining. Edith had said once
that the demand of society on women was really high-class drudgery.
“Much worse than washing dishes.”
Jane didn’t quite believe that. Yet there must be a happy medium. Her
dreams had had to do with a little house--a little garden.
She went back to her own little house, and found a great box of roses
waiting. She spent an hour filling vases and bowls with them. Old Sophy
coming in from the kitchen said, “Looks lak dat Mistuh Towne’s jes’
fascinated with you, Miss Janey.”
“Aren’t the roses lovely, Sophy?” Jane wanted to tell Sophy that
Mr. Towne would some day be her husband. But she still deferred the
announcement of her engagement.
“I’ve told one or two people,” Frederick had said.
“Whom?”
“Well, Adelaide. She’s such an old friend. And I told Annabel, of
course. I don’t see why you should care, Jane.”
“I think I’m afraid that when I go into a shop someone will say, ‘Oh,
she’s going to marry Frederick Towne, and see how shabby she is.’”
“You are never shabby.”
“That’s because I made myself two new dresses while I was at Judy’s.
And this is one of them.”
“You have the great art of looking lovely in the simplest things. But
some day you are going to wear a frock that I have for you.” He told
her about the silver and blue creation he had bought in Chicago. “Now
and then I take it out and look at it. I’ve put it in your room, Jane,
and it is waiting for you.”
She thought now of the blue and silver gown, as Sophy said, “Miss
Jane, I done pressed that w’ite chiffon of yours twel it hardly hangs
together.”
“I’ll wear it once more, Sophy. I’m having a sewing woman next week.”
* * * * *
With the old white chiffon she wore a golden rose or two--and sat at
Frederick’s right, while on the other end of the great table, Cousin
Annabel weighed her in the balance.
Jane knew she was being weighed. Cousin Annabel was so blue-blooded
that it showed in the veins of her hands and nose--and her hair was
dressed with a gray transformation which quite overpowered her thin
little face with its thin little nose.
As a matter of fact, Cousin Annabel felt that Frederick had taken leave
of his senses. What could he see in this short-haired girl--who hadn’t
a jewel, except the one he had given her?
Jane wore Towne’s ring, hidden, on a ribbon around her neck. “Some day
I’ll let everybody see it,” she had said, “but not now.”
“You act as if you were ashamed of it.”
“I’m not. But Cinderella must wait until the night of the ball.”
It was while they were drinking their coffee in the drawing-room that
the storm came up. It was one of those cyclonic winds that whip off the
tops of the trees and blow the roofs from unsubstantial edifices. The
thunder was a ceaseless reverberation--the lightning was pink and made
the sky seem like a glistening inverted shell.
Cousin Annabel hated thunder-storms and said so. “I think I shall go to
my room, Frederick.”
“You are not a bit safer up there than here,” Towne told her.
“But I feel safer, Frederick.” She was very decided about it. What she
meant to do was to sit in the middle of her bed and have her maid give
her the smelling salts. She would be thus in a sense fortified.
So she went up and Baldy and Edith wandered across the hall to the
library, where Edith insisted they could observe other aspects of the
storm.
Jane and her lover were left alone, and presently Frederick was called
to the telephone.
“I’m not sure that it’s safe, sir, in this storm,” Waldron warned.
“Nonsense, Waldron,” Towne said, and stepped quickly across the
polished floor.
Thus it happened that Jane sat by herself in the great drawing-room of
the Ice Palace, while the wind howled, and the rain streamed down the
window glass, and all the evil things in the world seemed let loose.
And she was afraid!
Not of the storm, but of the great house. She was so small and it was
so big. Her own little cottage clasped her in its warm embrace. This
great mansion stood away from her--as the sky stands away from the
desert. All the rest of her life she would be going up and down those
great stairs, sitting in front of this great fireplace, presiding at
the far end of Frederick’s great table--dwarfed by it all, losing
personality, individuality, bidding good-bye forever to little Jane
Barnes, becoming until death parted them the wife of Frederick Towne.
She sat huddled in her chair, panting a little, her eyes wide.
“Silly,” she said with a sob.
The sound of her voice echoed and reëchoed, “_Silly, silly, silly._”
The noise without was deafening--the wind shook the walls. She stood
up, her hands clenched, then ran swiftly into the hall.
A thundering crash and the lights went out.
She heard Frederick calling, “Jane, Jane!”
She called back, “I’m here,” and saw the quick spurt of a match as he
lighted it, holding it up and peering into the dark.
“There you are, my dearest.” He lighted another match and came towards
her, as Waldron, with a brace of candles, appeared in one door and
Baldy and Edith in another.
Frederick lifted Jane in his strong arms. “Why, you’re crying,” he
said; “don’t, my darling, don’t.”
Then Baldy came up and demanded, “What’s the matter, Kitten? You’ve
never been afraid of storms.”
She tried to smile at him. “Well, I’ve gone through such a lot lately.”
But Baldy wasn’t satisfied. A Jane who dissolved into tears was a
disturbing and desolating object. He glowered at Frederick, holding him
responsible.
At this moment Waldron reappeared to say that Briggs had pronounced the
streets impassable. Branches had been blown down--and there was other
wreckage.
“That settles it,” Frederick said. “You two young things may as well
stay here for the night. Jane’s not fit to go out anyhow.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” she protested.
Edith suggested bridge, so they played for a while. The big room was
still lighted by the candles, so that the shadows pressed close. Jane
was very pale, and now and then Frederick looked at her anxiously.
“You and Edith had better go up,” he said at last. “And you must have
Alice get you some hot milk--I’ll send Waldron with a bit of cordial to
set you up.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want it.”
“But I want you to have it.” There was a note of authority which almost
brought her again to tears. She hated to have anyone tell her what she
should do. She liked to do as she pleased. But later, when the glass of
cordial came up to her, she drank it.
She did not go to sleep for a long time. Edith sat by the bed and
talked to her. “I shouldn’t,” she apologized; “Uncle Fred told you to
rest.”
Jane curled up among her pillows, and said rebelliously, “Well, I don’t
have to obey yet, do I?”
“Don’t ever obey.” Edith, in her winged chair with her Viking braids
and the classic draperies of her white dressing-gown, looked like a
Norse goddess. “Don’t ever obey, or you’ll make a tyrant out of him.”
“But I hate--fighting.”
“You won’t have to fight. I do it because it’s my temperament. But you
can manage him--by letting things go a bit--and coaxing will do the
rest----”
“I don’t want to manage--my husband,” said Jane.
“All women do----”
“Would you want to manage--Baldy?”
Edith flushed. “That’s different,” she evaded.
“Not different. You know you wouldn’t go through life with him,
pulling wires, making a puppet of him--of yourself--you want
comradeship--understanding. You’ll flare up now and then. Baldy and I
do. But--oh, we love each other.” Jane’s voice shook.
Edith looked at her thoughtfully. “Jane, are you happy?”
“I ought to be----”
“But are you?”
“I’m tired, I think. I don’t know. Ever since I came home I’ve been
nervous. Perhaps it is the reaction.”
“Jane, I’m going to say something. Don’t marry Uncle Fred unless
you’re--sure. I went through all that with Del. And you see how little
I knew of what I had in my heart to give----” She stopped, her lovely
face suffused with blushes. “I’ve learned--since then. And you mustn’t
make my--mistake. And, Jane dear,” she leaned over the younger girl
like some splendid angel, “don’t worry about material things. Baldy
and I will want you always with us----”
Jane sat up. “Are you going to marry Baldy?”
“I am,” sighing a little, “some day, when his ship comes in. He isn’t
willing to share my cargo--yet.”
“He loves you,” said Jane, “dearly.”
Edith bent down and kissed her. “I know,” she said, “and my heart sings
it.”
When Edith went away, they had not touched again on the question of
Jane’s marriage. Jane, lying awake in the dark, reflected that of
course Edith could not know of her debt to Frederick. No one knew
except Baldy.
In the morning Towne had gone when Jane came down. She and Edith had
had breakfast in their rooms--and there had been a great rose on Jane’s
tray, with a note twisted about the stem--“To my golden girl.” Her
lover had called her up by the house telephone, and had told her he was
leaving for New York at noon. “A telegram has just come. I’ll see you
the moment I get back.”
Jane had a sense of relief. She would have three days to herself. Three
days at Sherwood--with the blossoming trees, and the mating birds, and
Merrymaid and the kitten, and old Sophy with her wise philosophy--and
Baldy on the other side of the little table--and Philomel singing....
Briggs took her out at noon, and Sophy came in to say, “Mr. Evans
called you-all up. He’s back fum New York. He say he’ll come over
to-night.”
That was news indeed! Old Evans! Jane got into the frock of faded lilac
gingham and went about the house singing. Three days! Of freedom!
It was after lunch that she told the old woman, “I’m going down in the
Glen--there should be wild honeysuckle--Sophy.”
Sophy surveyed her. “The whole place is chock-full of flowers, Miss
Janey. And I’ll miss my guess effen dey ain’ mo’ of ’em dis afternoon.”
“But--wild honeysuckle, Sophy? The florists haven’t that for me, have
they?”
So Jane put on a wide-brimmed hat, and away she went down the long road
with the pines on each side of it--the wide creek, which washed in
shallow ripples over the brown stones, or eddied in still pools under
the great old willows.
There were bees in the Glen and butterflies, and a cool silence. On
the other side of the creek were pasture, and cattle grazing. But no
human creature was in sight. Jane, walking along the narrow path, had a
sense of utter peace. Here was familiar ground. She felt the welcome of
inanimate things--the old willows, the singing stream, the great gray
rocks that stuck their heads above the edges of the bank.
On the slope of the bank she saw the rosiness of the flowers she
sought. She climbed up, picked the fragrant sprays and sat down under
a hickory tree to make a bouquet. From where she sat she could view the
broad stream and a rustic bridge just at a turn of the path.
And now, around the turn of the path, came suddenly a man and two boys.
They carried fishing-rods and stopped at a jutting rock to bait their
hooks. One of the boys went out on the bridge and cast his line. His
voice came to Jane clearly.
“Mr. Follette, there’s a thing I hate to do, and that’s to bait my hook
with a worm. I’d much rather put on something that wasn’t alive. Why is
it that everything eats up something else?”
Jane peered down at the man poised on the rock. It _was_ Evans! He was
winding his reel against a taut line. “I’ve caught a snag,” he said;
“look out, Sandy, there’s something on your hook.”
As they landed the small catch with much excitement, Jane was aware
of the strong swing of Evans’ figure, the brown of his cheeks, the
brightness of his glance as he spoke to the boys.
He gave the death stroke to the silver flapping fish with a jab of his
knife-blade, and the boy on the bridge complained, “There you are,
killing things. I don’t like it, do you? Everything we eat? The woods
are full of killing. It is dreadful when we think of it.”
“It is dreadful.” Evans sat down on the rock and looked across at
the boy on the bridge. “But there are more dreadful things than
death--injustice, and cruelty, and hate. And more than all--fear. And
you must think of this, Arthur, that what we call a violent death is
sometimes the easiest. An old animal with teeth gone, trying to exist.
That’s dreadfulness. Or an old person racked by pains. Much better if
both could have been dead in the glory of youth.”
He had always had that quick and vivid voice, but this certainty
of phrase was a resurrection. He spoke without hesitation. Sure of
himself. Sure of the things he was about to say.
“You boys needn’t think that I don’t know what I am talking about.
I do. When I came back from France there was something wrong. I was
afraid of everything. I lived for months in dread of my shadow. It was
awful. Nothing can be worse. Then, one night I came to see that God’s
greatest gift to man is--strength to endure.”
He flung it at them--and their wide eyes answered him. After a moment
Arthur said, huskily, “Gee, that’s great.”
Sandy sighed heavily. “I saw a picture the other day of a boy who
wanted to play baseball, and he had to hold the baby. I reckon that’s
what you mean. Most of us have to hold the baby when we want to play
baseball.”
The others laughed, then young Arthur said, “It looks to me as if life
is just one darned thing after another.”
“Not quite that.” Evans stood up. “I’m afraid I’m an awful preacher,”
he apologized, “but you will ask questions.”
“Most grown-ups don’t answer them,” said Arthur, earnestly; “they just
say, ‘Be good and let who will be clever.’”
“They’d better say ‘Be strong.’” Evans was reeling in his line. “We
must be getting towards home. Do you see those shadows? We’ll be
late----”
He stopped suddenly. There had been the crack of a twig and he had
turned his eyes towards the sound. And there, poised above him, her
eyes lighted up, her hands held out to him, her hat off, the warm wind
blowing her bobbed black hair, blowing, too, the folds of the lilac
frock back from her slender figure, stood Jane ... _Jane_....
He went charging up the bank towards her.
“My dear,” he said, “my dear.”
That was all. But he was there, holding her hands, devouring her with
his eyes.
Then he dropped her hands. “I thought you were a ghost,” he said, a
little awkwardly. “I called you up this morning and Sophy said you were
in town.”
“I came out at noon. The day was so perfect. I had to see the Glen.”
“It is perfect. When I found you were out, I got the boys. I am taking
a half-holiday after my trip.”
He was talking naturally now, smiling up at her as she stood above
him. She found herself trembling, almost afraid to speak again lest her
voice betray her. She had been more shaken than he by the encounter.
She wondered at his ease.
She was to wonder more, as he walked home with her. The presence of the
boys barred, of course, personalities. But Evans’ clear eyes met hers
without a shadow of self-consciousness. He asked her about her journey,
about Judy, about the babies, about Bob. The only subject on which he
did not touch was her marriage with Frederick Towne.
And so it happened that, woman-like, as they walked alone at last after
the boys had left them in the little pine grove back of the house, that
Jane said, “Evans, you haven’t wished me happiness.”
“No,” he said, and his eyes met hers squarely. “I think you might spare
me that, Jane.”
She flushed. “Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry.”
He laid his hand for a moment on her shoulder. “Don’t be sorry, little
Jane. But we won’t talk about it. That’s the best way for both of
us--not to talk.”
He stayed to dinner, stayed for an hour or two afterward--fitting
himself in pleasantly to former niches. Jane could hardly credit the
change in him. It was, she decided, not so much a resurrection of the
body as of the spirit. His hair was gray, and now and then his eyes
showed tired, his shoulders sagged. But there was no trace of the old
timidity, the old withdrawals. He was interested, responsive, at times
buoyant. The things she had loved in him years ago were again there.
_This man did not think dark thoughts!_
When he went away, she and Baldy stood together on the terrace in the
warm darkness and watched him.
“He still limps a little,” Jane said.
“Yes. Shall we go in now, Jane?”
“No. Let’s sit on the steps and see the moon rise.”
They sat side by side. “When is Towne coming back?” Baldy asked.
“In three days.”
Tree-toads were shrilling in monotonous cadence--from far away came the
plaintive note of a whippoorwill. But there was another plaintive note
close at hand.
“Jane, you’re crying,” Baldy said, sharply. “What’s the matter, dear?”
He put his arm about her. “What’s the matter?”
“Baldy, I don’t want to get--married. I want to stay with
you--forever----”
“You shall stay with me.”
She sobbed and sobbed, and he soothed her. “Little sister, little
sister,” he said, “you are crying too much in these days.”
She sat up, wiped her eyes with his handkerchief, smoothed her hair
with shaking hands. “It is rather silly, Baldy.”
“Nothing of the kind, Janey. I knew the whole thing was a mistake.”
She stopped him with a touch of her hand on his arm. “Don’t,” she said,
“it isn’t a mistake, Baldy. I was just a bit--low--in my mind----”
“Do you think I am going to let you marry Towne?”
There was a long silence. The bird in the Glen said,
“Whippoorwill--whippoorwill,” in dull reiteration, the tree-toads
shrilled, the rising moon drew a line of gold across the horizon.
At last Jane spoke. “Dearest, I must marry him. There’s no way out.
He’s done so much for me--and some day, perhaps, I’ll love him.”