KENNETH was roused by a light tap upon the door. Opening it, Mamie
stood on the threshold. Inquiring whether Kenneth had finished his
work, and on being told he had, she entered. "Kenneth, why do you
spend all your time here in the office? Don't you think mamma and I
want to talk with you occasionally?"
Mamie seated herself on the arm of Kenneth's chair.
"Seems like you're becoming a regular hermit since you've been back.
Come on in the parlour—Jane Phillips is in there and she wants to
see you. Remember her?"
Kenneth smiled. "Remember Jane Phillips? Of course I do. Scrawny
little thing—running all to legs and arms. She was a homely little
brat, wasn't she?"
It was now Mamie's turn to smile.
"I'm going to tell her what you said," she threatened. "She's lots
different from the girl you remember."
They went into the parlour.
Jane Phillips stood by the piano. She turned as Kenneth and Mamie
entered the room, and came towards them, a smile on her face.
Kenneth, as he advanced towards her, was frankly amazed at the
transformation in the girl whom he had not seen for nine years. Jane
laughed.
"Don't you know me, Kenneth? Or must I call you Dr. Harper now?"
"No, my name is still Kenneth⸺" he answered.
"Tell Jane what you called her a few minutes ago, or I will,"
interrupted Mamie. Kenneth looked embarrassed. Jane insisted on
being told, whereupon Mamie repeated Kenneth's description of Jane
as a child.
Caught between the upper and nether millstones of the raillery of
the two girls, Kenneth tried to explain away his embarrassment, but
they gave him no peace.
"Let me explain," he begged. "When I went away you were a scrawny
little thing, a regular tomboy and as mischievous as they make them.
And now you're a—you're—you're" Jane laughed at his attempt,
somewhat lacking in fullness, to say what she had become with the
passage of the years.
"Whatever it is you are trying to say, I hope it's something all
right you are calling me—though from your tone I'm not at all sure,"
she ended, letting a note of mock concern creep in her voice.
By this time Kenneth had somewhat recovered his composure. He
entered into the spirit of play himself by telling her his surprise
had been due to his finding her unchanged from the little girl he
had once known, but Jane laughed at his ineffectual efforts to
answer Mamie's and her teasing. To change the conversation, he
demanded that she tell him all that she had been doing since he saw
her last.
"There isn't much to tell," she declared. "I went away soon after
you did, going to Fisk University, graduated last June, got a
position teaching in North Carolina, and am home for the holidays.
Next year I want to have enough money to go to Oberlin and finish my
music. That's all there is to my little story. You are the one who
has been having all sorts of experiences. I want to hear your
story."
"Mine isn't much longer," answered Kenneth. "Four years of medical
school. A year's interneship in New York at Bellevue. Three months
in training camps. A year and a half in France. Six months at the
Sorbonne. Then New York. Then exams at Atlanta for my licence. Home.
And here I am."
"Don't you believe him, Jane," said Mamie.
"That's just his way of telling it. Ken has had all sorts of
exciting experiences, yet he has come home and we can't get him to
talk about a thing except building a practice and a hospital."
"What do you want me to talk about?" asked Kenneth.
"Paris—school—army life what did you see?—how do you like New
York?—is New York as good a place to live in as Paris?"
Kenneth threw up his hands in mock defence at the barrage of
questions Jane and Mamie fired at him.
"Just a minute—just a minute," he begged them. "I could talk all
night on any one of the questions you've asked and then not finish
with it or tell you more than half. If you two will only be quiet,
I'll tell you as much as I can."
Mrs. Harper, hearing the voices, came into the room. The three women
sat in silence as Kenneth told of his years at school, of his stay
in New York, his experiences in the army, of the beauties of Paris
even in war time, of study at a French university. He gave to the
narrative a vividness and air of reality that made his auditors see
through his eyes the scenes and experiences he was describing.
Though none of them had been in France, he made them feel as though
they too were walking through the Place de la Concorde viewing the
statues to the eight great cities of France or shopping in the Rue
de la Paix or attempting to order dinner in a restaurant with an
all-too-inadequate French vocabulary. He finished.
"Now you've got to sing for me, Jane, as a reward for all the
talking I've been doing."
With the usual feminine protests that she had no music with her,
Jane went to the open piano. She inquired what he would like to have
her sing.
"Anything except the ‘Memphis Blues,' which is all I've heard since
I came back to Central City," he answered.
Jane ran over the keys experimentally, improvising. A floor lamp
stood near the piano casting a soft light over her. Her long,
delicately pointed fingers lingered lovingly on the ivory keys, and
then she played the opening bars of Saint-Saën's "My Heart at Thy
Sweet Voice." Her voice, a rounded, rich contralto, showing
considerable training, gave to the song a tender pathos, a yearning,
a promise of deep and understanding love. She sang with a grace and
clear phrasing that bespoke the simple charm of the singer. Kenneth
gazed at her in wonder at the amazing metamorphosis of the shy,
gawky child Jane whom he had only rarely noticed, and then with the
condescending air of twenty looking at twelve. In her stead had come
a woman, rounded, attractive even beautiful, intelligent, and
altogether desirable. The chrysalis had changed to the gorgeously
coloured butterfly. Her skin was a soft brown—almost bronze. He
thought of velvety pansies richly coloured—of the warmth of rubies
of great price of the lustrous beauty of the sky on a spring
evening. Her eyes shone with a sparkling and provocative clearness,
looking straight at one from their brown depths. Little tendrils of
her black hair at the back of her neck were disturbed every now and
then by the breeze from the open windows, while above were piled
masses of coiled blackness that shone in the dim light with a glossy
lustre. To Kenneth came visions of a soft-eyed _señorita_ in an old
Spanish town leaning from her balcony while below, to the
accompaniment of a muted guitar, her lover sang to her of his ardent
love. Kenneth blushed when he realized that in every picture he had
cast himself for the rôle of gallant troubadour.
His mother had quietly slipped from the room to retire for the
evening. Mamie had gone to prepare something cool for them to drink.
Kenneth had not heard them go. In fact, lost in the momentary
forgetfulness created by Jane and the song, he had completely
forgotten them. He did not, however, fail to realize that the dreams
he was having were in large measure due to the soft light, to
surprise at the great changes in Jane, to the lulling seductiveness
of the music. He was sure that his feeling was due in largest
measure to a reaction from his unpleasant conversation with Roy
Ewing. He vaguely realized that when on the morrow he saw Jane by
daylight, she would not seem half so charming and attractive. Yet he
was of such a temperament that he could give himself up to the spell
of the moment and extract from it all the pleasure in it. It was in
that manner he put aside the things which were unpleasant, enabling
him to shake off memories like mists of the morning ascending from
the depths of a valley.
The song was ended. Herself caught in its spell, Jane swung into
that most beautiful of the Negro spirituals, "Deep River." Into it
she poured her soul. She filled the room with the pathos of that
song born in the dark days of slavery of a people torn from their
home and thrust into the thraldom of human bondage.
And then Jane sang "Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen." The song
ended, her fingers yet clung to the keys but her hands hung
listless. Kenneth knew not how or when he had risen from his chair
and gone to the piano where he stood behind Jane. Something deep
within them had been touched by the music—a strange thrill filled
them, making them oblivious to everything except the presence of
each other. Kenneth lightly placed his hands on her shoulders.
Without speaking or turning, she placed her hands for a moment on
his. He bent over her while she raised her face to his, her eyes
misty with tears born of the emotion aroused by the song. Though
often laughed at in real life and often distorted in fiction, love
almost at first sight had been born within them. Kenneth slowly
brought her face nearer his while Jane, with parted lips, let the
back of her head rest against his breast. Love, with its strange
retroactive effects, brought to both of them in that moment the
sudden realization, though neither of them had known it, that they
had always loved each other. Not a word had been spoken—each was
busy constructing his love in silence. A great emptiness in their
lives had been suddenly, miraculously filled.
Their lips were almost touching when a noise brought them to
themselves with a shock. It was Mamie. She entered the room bearing
a tray on which were sandwiches, cakes, and tall glasses in which
cracked ice clinked coolingly. Kenneth hid his annoyance and, with
as nonchalant an air as possible, went back to his chair.
When they had eaten, Jane rose to go. Kenneth walked home with her.
Neither spoke until they had reached her gate. Jane entered as
Kenneth held it open for her. He would have followed her in but she
turned, extended her hand to him as a sign of dismissal, and asked
him to leave her there. Kenneth said nothing, but his face showed
his disappointment at being hastened away by the same girl who less
than half an hour before had almost been in his arms.
"Please don't say anything, Ken," she pleaded. "It was my fault—I
shouldn't have done what I did. I used to worship you when I was
little, but I thought I had gotten over that—until to-night."
Her voice sank almost to a whisper. In it was a note of trouble and
perplexity. She went on:
"I—oh, Kenneth—what happened to-night must not be repeated."
Puzzled and a bit hurt, he asked her what she meant.
"Don't get the wrong idea, Ken. I wouldn't do anything to hurt you
for the world."
"But what is it, Jane?" begged Kenneth. "I love you, Jane, have
always loved you. I was blind—until to-night⸺"
Kenneth poured forth the words in a torrent of emotion. Whirling
thoughts tore through his brain. He sought to seize Jane's hand and
draw her to him, but she eluded him.
"No—no—Kenneth, you mustn't. I can't let you make love to me. Let's
be friends, Ken, and enjoy these few days and forget all we've said
to-night, won't you, please?" she ended pleadingly.
Kenneth said nothing. He turned abruptly and strode away without
even saying good night. Hands thrust deep into his pockets, his head
hanging in disappointment and wounded pride, he hurried home without
once turning to look back. …
Her ten days of vacation passed all too soon for Jane. She and
Kenneth saw each other frequently, but never alone until the night
before she returned to North Carolina. It was at a dance given in
her honour. All evening he had been seeking a dance with her, but
met with no success until the party was almost over. They danced in
silence. Jane seemed suddenly sad. All evening she had been happy,
gay, even flirtatious, but now that she was with Kenneth, her gaiety
had been dropped like a mask. Half-way through the dance they came
near a door that opened on a balcony overlooking a flower garden.
Saying nothing to Jane, Kenneth danced her through the door and on
to the balcony, where they sat on a bench that stood in the
semi-darkness. Though it was December, the air was warm. No sound
disturbed the silence of the night save the music and voices which
floated through the open door.
"Haven't you anything to say?" Kenneth anxiously inquired, taking
one of Jane's hands in his.
"Nothing except this—I don't know whether I care for you or not,"
said Jane as she freed her hand and drew herself away. Her voice was
firm and determined. Kenneth, ignorant of the ways of a maid with a
man, said nothing, but his shoulders drooped dejectedly.
"What happened the other night was madness—I was very foolish for
allowing it." She paused, and then went on. "Kenneth, I don't know,
I want my music, I want to see something of life I want to live! I
just can't tie myself down by marrying—I don't know whether I'll
ever want to. You'll have to wait—if you care to⸺"
It was half command, half question. He said nothing.
He did not know how she longed for him to argue with her, override
her objections, convince her against her will. She waited a full
minute. Still he sat there silent. She rose and re-entered the
house, leaving him there alone.