FLIGHT
Young Baldwin Barnes, on Saturday morning, ate breakfast alone in the
little house. He read his paper and drank his coffee. But the savor of
things was gone. He missed Jane. Her engaging chatter, the spirited
challenge, even the small irritations. “She is such a darling-dear,”
was his homesick meditation.
Oh, a man needed a woman on the other side of the table. And when Jane
was married, what then?
_Edith!_
Oh, if he might! If Philomel might sing for her! Toast and poached
eggs! Nectar and ambrosia! His little house a castle!
“But it isn’t mine own,” the young poet reminded himself; “there is
still the mortgage.” He came down to earth, cleared the table, fed the
pussy-cats. Then he went down to the post-box to get the mail.
The Barnes’ mail was rarely voluminous, rarely interesting. A bill or
two, a letter from Judy--some futile advertising stuff.
This morning, however, there was a long envelope. In one corner was
the name of the magazine to which, nearly six months before, Baldy had
sent his prize cover design. The thing had almost gone out of his
thoughts. He had long ceased to hope. Money did not miraculously fall
into one’s lap.
He tore open the envelope. Within was a closely typed letter and a pale
pink check.
The check was for two thousand dollars. He had won the prize!
Breathless with the thought of it, deprived of strength, he sat down
on the terrace steps. Merrymaid and the kitten came down and angled
for attention, but Baldy overlooked them utterly. The letter was
astounding. The magazine had not only given him the prize but they
wanted more of his work. They would pay well for it--and if he would
come to New York at their expense, the art editor would like to talk it
over!
Baldy, looking up from the pregnant phrases and catching Merrymaid’s
eye upon him, demanded, “Now, what do you think of that? Shall I resign
from the office? I’ll tell the world, I will.”
Oh, the thing might even make it possible for him to marry Edith. He
could at least pay for the honeymoon--preserve some sense of personal
independence while he worked towards fame. If she would only see it.
That he must ask her to live for a time--in the little house. He’d make
things easy for her,--oh, well, the thing could be done--it could be
done.
He flew up the steps on the wings of his delight. He would ride like
the wind to Virginia--find Edith, in a rose-garden, fling himself at
her feet! Declare his good fortune! And he would see her eyes!
Packing his bag, he decided to stop in Washington, and perpetrate a few
extravagances. Something for Edith. Something for Jane. Something for
himself. There would be no harm in looking his best....
He arrived at Grass Hills in time for lunch. His little Ford came up
the drive as proudly as a Rolls-Royce. And Baldy descending was a gay
and gallant figure. There was no one in sight but the servants who took
his bag, and drove his car around to the garage. A maid in rose linen
said that Mr. and Mrs. Simms were at the stables. Miss Towne was on the
links with the other guests, and would return from the Country Club in
time for lunch at two o’clock. Miss Barnes was up-stairs. Her head had
ached, and she had had her breakfast in bed.
“Will you let her know that I am here?”
The maid went up and came down again to say that Miss Barnes was in the
second gallery--and would he go right up.
The second gallery looked out over the river. Jane lay in a long chair.
She was pale, and there were shadows under her eyes.
“Oh, look here, Janey,” Baldy blurted out, “is it as bad as this?”
“I’m just--lazy.” She sat up and kissed him. Then buried her face in
his coat and wept silently.
“For heaven’s sake, Jane,” he patted her shoulder, “what’s the matter?”
“I want to go home.”
He looked blank. “Home?”
“Yes.” She stopped crying. “Baldy, something has happened--and I’ve
got to tell you.” Tensely, with her hands clasped about her knees, she
rehearsed for him the scene between Adelaide and Frederick Towne. And
when she finished she said, “I can’t marry him.”
“Of course not. A girl like you. You’d be miserable. And that’s the end
of it.”
“Utterly miserable.” She stared before her. Then presently she went on.
“I stayed up-stairs all the morning. Lucy and Edith have been perfect
dears. I think Edith lays it to the announcement of my engagement
to-night. That I was dreading it. Of course it mustn’t be announced,
Baldy.”
He stood up, sternly renouncing his dreams. “Get your things on, Jane,
and I’ll take you home. You can’t stay here, of course. We can decide
later what it is best to do.”
“I don’t see how I can break it off. He’s done so much for us. I can’t
ever--pay him----”
In Baldy’s pocket was the pink slip. He took it out and handed it to
his sister. “Jane, I got the prize. Two thousand dollars.”
“Baldy!” Her tone was incredulous.
He had no joy in the announcement. The thing had ceased to mean
freedom--it had ceased to mean--Edith. It meant only one thing at the
moment, to free Jane from bondage.
He gave Jane the letter and she read it. “It is your great opportunity.”
“Yes.” He refused to discuss that aspect of it. “And it comes in the
nick of time for you, old dear.”
Their flight was a hurried one. A note for Lucy and one for Towne. A
note for Edith!
Jane was not well was the reason given their hostess. The note to Towne
said more than that. And the note to Edith was--renunciation.
Edith coming home to luncheon found the note in her room. All the
morning she had been filled with glorious anticipation. Baldy would
arrive in a few hours. Together they would walk down that trellised
path to the fountain, they would sit on the marble coping. She would
trail her hand through the water. Further than that she would not let
her imagination carry her. It was enough that she would see him in that
magic place with his air of golden youth.
But she was not to see him, for the note said:
“Beloved--I make no excuse for calling you that because I say it
always in my heart--Jane has made up her mind that she cannot marry
your uncle. So we are leaving at once.
“I can’t tell you what the thought of these two days with you meant
to me. And now I must give them up. Perhaps I must give you up, I
don’t know. I came with high hopes. I go away without any hope at
all. But I love you.”
Edith read the note twice, then put it to her lips. She hardly dared
admit to herself the keenness of her disappointment.
She stood for a long time at the window looking out. Why had Jane
decided not to marry Uncle Frederick? What had happened since yesterday
afternoon?
From Edith’s window she could see the south lawn. The servants were
arranging a buffet luncheon. Little tables were set around--and wicker
chairs. Adelaide, tall and fair, in her favorite blue and a broad black
hat stood by one of the little tables. She was feeding the peacock with
bits of bread. She made a picture, and Towne’s window faced that way.
“I wonder----” Edith said, and stopped. She remembered coming in from
the movies the night before and finding Adelaide and Towne on the
porch. And where was Jane?
Towne did not eat lunch. He pleaded important business, and had his car
brought around. But everybody knew that he was following Jane. Mystery
was in the air. Adelaide was restless. Only Edith knew the truth.
After lunch, she told Lucy. “Jane isn’t going to marry Uncle Fred. I
don’t know why. But I am afraid it is breaking up your house party.”
“I hope it is,” said Lucy, calmly. “Delafield is bored to death. He
wants to get back to his pigs and roses. I am speaking frankly to
you because I know you understand. I want our lives to be bigger
and broader than they would have been if we hadn’t met. And as for
you”--her voice shook a little--“you’ll always be a sort of goddess
blessing our hearth.”
Edith bent and kissed her, emotion gripping her. “Your hearth is
blessed without me,” she said, “but I’ll always be glad to come.”
Towne, riding like mad along the Virginia roads, behind the competent
Briggs, reread Jane’s letter.
“I was not up-stairs last night when you came. I was asleep in the
window-seat of the living-room, just off the porch. And your voice
waked me and I heard what you said, and Mrs. Laramore. And I can’t
marry you. I know how much you’ve done for me,--and I shall never
forget your goodness. Baldy will take me home.”
Enclosed was a pink check.
Towne blamed Adelaide furiously. Of course it was her fault. Such
foolishness. And sentimentality. And he had been weak enough to fall
for it.
Yet, as he cooled a bit, he was glad that Jane had showed her
resentment. It was in keeping with his conception of her. Her innocence
had flamed against such sophistication. There might, too, be a hint of
jealousy. Women were like that. Jealous.
As they whirled through Washington, Briggs voiced his fears. “If we
meet a cop it will be all up with us, Mr. Towne.”
“Take a chance, Briggs. Give her more gas. We’ve got to get there.”
With all their speed, however, it was four o’clock when they reached
Sherwood. Towne was still in the clothes he had worn on the links. He
had not eaten since breakfast. He felt the strain.
He stormed up the terrace, where once he had climbed in the snow. He
rang the bell. It whirred and whirred again in the silence. The house
was empty.