HAUNTED
It was after the day when she had met Evans in the Glen that Jane began
to be haunted by ghosts.
There was a ghost who wandered through Sherwood on moonlights, a
limping, hesitating ghost who said, “You’re wine, Jane. I must have my
daily sip of you.”
And there was a ghost who came in a fog and said, “You are a lantern,
Jane--held high.”
And that ghost in the glow of the hearth-fire--“You are food and drink
to me, Jane. Do you know it?”
Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts; holding out appealing hands to her. And always
she had turned away. But now she did not turn. Over and over again she
lent her ears to those whispering words, “Jane, you are wine.... Jane,
you are a lantern.... You are food and drink, Jane....”
Well, she was having her punishment. She had not loved him when he
needed her. And now that she needed him, she must not love him.
She hardly knew herself. All the years of her life she had seen things
straight, and she had tried to live up to that vision. She saw them
straight now. She did not love Frederick Towne. She had no right to
marry him. Yet she must. There was no way out.
Towne was aware of a difference in her when he returned from New York.
She was more remote. A little less responsive. Yet these things caused
him no disquiet. Her crisp coolness had always constituted one of her
great charms. “You are tired, dearest,” he told her. “I wish you would
marry me right away, and let me make you happy.”
They were lunching at the Capitol in the Senate restaurant. Frederick
was an imposing figure and Jane was aware of his importance. People
glanced at him and glanced again, and then told others who he was. Some
day she would be his wife, and everybody would be telling everybody
else that she was the wife of the great Frederick Towne.
The attentive waiter at her elbow laid toast on her plate, and served
Maryland crab from a silver chafing-dish. Frederick knew what she
liked and had ordered without asking her. But the delicious food was
tasteless. She had been afraid Frederick would say something about an
immediate marriage, and now he was saying it.
“Oh,” she told him, earnestly, “you promised I might wait until Judy
could come on. In June.”
“I know. But it will be very hot, and you’ll have a whole lifetime in
which to see Judy.”
“But not at my wedding. She’s my only sister.”
“I see,” but his voice showed his annoyance; “but it seems as if
your family have demanded enough of you. Can’t you think a bit about
yourself--and me?”
She pressed her point. “Judy is like my mother. I can’t be married
without her and the babies.”
“If the babies come, you’ll be looking after them until the last
moment, and it will be a great strain on you, sweetheart.”
“Oh, it won’t be. I adore babies.”
His quick jealousy flared. “I don’t,” he said, with a touch of
sulkiness. “I’m not fond of children.”
She ate in silence. And presently he said repentantly, “You must think
me a great boor, Jane. But you don’t know how much I want you.”
He was like a repentant boy. She made herself smile at him. “I think
you are very patient, Mr. Towne.”
“I am not patient. I am most impatient. And when are you going to stop
calling me Mr. Towne?”
“When I can call you--husband.”
“But I don’t want to wait until then, dearest.”
“But ‘Frederick’ is so long, and ‘Fred’ is so short, and ‘Ricky’ sounds
like a highball.” She had thrown off her depression and was sparkling.
“Nobody calls me ‘Ricky’ but Adelaide. I always hated it.”
“Did you?” She was demure. “I might say ‘my love,’ like the ladies in
the old-fashioned novels.”
He laughed delightedly. “Say it.”
She acquiesced unexpectedly. “My love, we are invited to a week-end
with the Delafield Simms, at their new country place, Grass Hills.”
“Are we?” Then in a sudden ardent rush of words, “Jane, I’d kiss you if
the world wasn’t looking on.”
“The reporters would be ecstatic. Headlines.”
“I am tired of headlines. And what do you mean about going to Delafield
Simms?”
“They are asking a lot of his friends. It is his wife’s introduction to
his old crowd. Much will depend on whether you and Edith will accept.
And it was Edith who asked me to--make you come----”
She gave him the truth, knowing it to be better than diplomacy. “I told
her that I couldn’t make you. But perhaps if you knew I wanted it----”
She paused inquiringly.
He leaned towards her across the table. “Ask me, prettily, and I’ll do
it.”
“Really?” She laughed, blushed and did it. “Will you go--my love?”
“Could I say ‘no’ to that?” He radiated satisfaction. “Do you know how
charming you are, Jane?”
“Am I? But it is nice of you to go. I know how you’ll hate it.”
“Not if you are there. And now, who else are asked?”
“Oh, Mrs. Laramore and Eloise Harper and a lot of others. Lucy says
she’ll be like a fish out of water, but Delafield has made up his mind
that his friends shan’t think that he’s ashamed of her.”
When their ices came and their coffee, Frederick said, “I’ve got to
spend a half-hour in a committee room. Shall I take you up to the
Senate Gallery?”
“No--there’s nothing interesting, is there? I’ll wait in Statuary Hall.”
Jane loved the marble figures that circled the Hall. Years ago there
had not been so many. They had been, then, perhaps, more distinctive.
As a child, she had chosen as her favorites the picturesque Colonials,
the frontiersmen in leather tunics and coonskin caps. She had never
liked the statesmen in stiff shirts and frock coats, although she had
admitted their virtues. Even the incongruous classic draperies were
more in keeping with the glamour which the past flung over the men who
had given their best to America.
But it was Fulton who had captured her imagination, with his little
ship, and Pere Marquette with his cross, the peace-loving Quaker who
had conquered; adventurer, pioneer, priest and prophet--builders all of
the structure of the new world.
She wondered what future generations would add to this glorious
company. Would the Anglo-Saxon give way to the Semite? Would the
Huguenot yield to the Slav? And would these newcomers hold high the
banner of national idealism? What would they give? And what would they
take away?
There were groups of sightseers gathered about the great room--a guide
placing them here and there on the marble blocks. The trick was to put
someone behind a mottled pillar far away, and let him speak. Owing to
some strange acoustic quality the sound would be telephoned to the
person who stood on the whispering stone.
Years ago Jane had listened while a voice had come echoing across
the hollow spaces of the great Hall, “My country--right or wrong--my
country----”
Another ghost! The ghost of a boy, patriotic, passionately devoted to
the great old gods. “Of course they were only men, Jane. Human. Faulty.
But they blazed a path of freedom for those who followed....”
When Frederick came, he found her standing before the prim statue of
Frances Willard.
“Tired, sweetheart?”
“No.”
“I stayed longer than I expected.”
“It didn’t seem long. I have had plenty of company.”
He was puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“All these.” Her hand indicated the marble men and women.
He laughed. “Great old freaks, aren’t they?”
Freaks!
Gods!
Well, of course, it all depended absolutely on the point of view.
“I like them all,” she said, sturdily, “even the ones in the hideous
frock coats.”
“Surely not, my dear.”
“Yes, I do. They may be bad art, but they’re good Americans.”
His laugh was indulgent. “After you’ve been abroad a few times, you
won’t be so provincial.”
“If being provincial means loving my own, I’ll stay provincial.”
“Travel broadens the mind, changes the point of view.”
“But why should I love my country less? I know her faults. And I know
Baldy’s. But I love him just the same.”
As they walked on, he fell into step with her. “We won’t argue. You are
probably right, and if not, you’re too pretty for me to contradict.”
His gallantry was faultless, but she wanted more than gallantry. There
had been the vivid give and take of her arguments with Evans. They had
had royal battles, youth had crossed swords with youth. And from their
disagreements had come convictions.
She had once more the illusion of Frederick as a feather cushion! He
would perhaps agree with her always!
And her soul would be--smothered!