“janey——!”
“yes, baldy.” jane sat up in bed, dreams still in her eyes. she had been late in getting to sleep. there had been so much to think of—frederick towne’s proposal—the startling change in evans——
“it’s a telegram. open the door, dear.”
she caught up her dressing-gown and wrapped it around her. “a telegram?” she was with him now in the hall. “baldy, is it judy?”
“yes. she’s ill. asks if you can come on and look after the kiddies.”
“of course.” she swayed a little. “hold on to me a minute, baldy. it takes my breath away.”
“you mustn’t be scared, old girl.”
“i’ll be all right in ... a minute....”
his arms were tight about her. “it seems as if i should go, too, janey.”
“but you can’t. i’ll get things ready and ride in with you in the morning. i’ll pack my trunk if you’ll bring it down from the attic. i can sleep on the train to-morrow.”
and when he had brought it she made him go back to bed. the house was very still. merrymaid,[184] waked by the unusual excitement, came up-stairs and sat, round-eyed, by jane, watching her fold her scant wardrobe and purring a song of consolation. jane found time now and then to stop and smooth the sleek head, and once she picked merrymaid up in her arms, and the tears dripped on the old cat’s fur.
philomel sang very early the next morning. it was baldy who made the coffee, and who telephoned sophy and the follettes. mrs. follette insisted that baldy should stay at castle manor in jane’s absence. “it will do evans good, and we’d love to have him.”
so that was settled. and evans came over while the young people were breakfasting.
“don’t worry about anything,” he said. “baldy and i will look after the chickens—and take the little cats over to castle manor. i’ll wrap them all in cotton wool rather than have anything happen to them. so don’t worry.”
the thing she worried about was judy. “she told me in one of her letters that she wasn’t well.”
baldy went to bring his car around, and evans stood with his hand on the back of jane’s chair, looking down at her. “you’ll write to me, jane?”
“oh, of course.”
he shifted his hand from the chair back to her shoulder. “dear little girl, if my blundering prayers will help you any—you’ll have them.”
she turned in her chair and looked up at him.[185] she could not speak. their eyes met, and once more jane had that breathless sense of fluttering wings within her that lifted to the sun.
then baldy was back, and the bags were ready, and there was just that last hand-clasp. “god bless you, jane....”
frederick towne was at the train. he had been dismayed at the news of jane’s departure. “do you mean that you are going to stay indefinitely?” he had asked over the wire.
“i shall stay as long as judy needs me.”
frederick had flowers for her, books and a big box of sweets. people in the pullman stared at jane in the midst of all her magnificence. they stared too, at towne, and at briggs, who rushed in at the last moment with more books from brentano.
edith and baldy were on the platform. edith had come down with towne. so frederick, alone with jane, said, “i want you to think of the things we talked about yesterday——”
“please, not now. oh, i’m afraid——”
“of me? you mustn’t be.”
“not of you—of everything—life.”
he took her hand and held it. “is there anything else i can do for you? everything i have is—yours, you know—if you want it.”
he had to leave her then, with a final close clasp of the hand. she saw him presently standing beside baldy on the station platform—the center of[186] the eyes of everybody—the great frederick towne!
as the city slipped away and she leaned her head against the cushions and looked out at the flying fields—it seemed a stupendous thing that a man like towne should have laid his fortune at her feet. yet she had no sense of exhilaration. she liked the things he had to offer—yearned for them—but she did not want him at her side.
in her sorrow her heart turned to the boy who had stumbled over the words, “if my blundering prayers will help you——”
she found herself sobbing—the first tears she had shed since the arrival of the telegram.
when she reached chicago, her brother-in-law, bob heming, met her. “judy’s holding her own,” he said, as he kissed her. “it was no end good of you to come, janey.”
“have you a nurse?”
“two. day nurse and night nurse. and a maid. judy is nearly frantic about the expense. it isn’t good for her, either, to worry. that’s half the trouble. i tried to make her get help, but she wouldn’t. but i blame myself that i didn’t insist.”
“don’t blame yourself, bob. judy wouldn’t. she told me she could get along. and when judy decides a thing, no one can change her.”
“well, times have been hard. and business bad. and judy knew it. she’s such a good sport.”
they were in a taxi, so when tears came into[187] heming’s eyes, he made no effort to conceal them.
“i’m just about all in. you can’t understand how much it means to me to have you here.”
“and now that i am here,” said jane, with a gallantry born of his need of her, “things are going to be better.”
the apartment was simply furnished and bore the stamp of judy’s good taste. a friend had taken the children out to ride, so the rooms were very quiet as jane went through them.
judy in bed was white and thin, and jane wanted to weep over her, but she didn’t. “you blessed old girl,” she said, “you’re going to get well right away.”
“the doctor thinks i may have to have an operation. that’s why i felt i must wire you.” judy was anxious. “i couldn’t leave the babies with strangers. and it was so important that bob should be at his work.”
“of course,” said jane; “do you think anything would have made me stay away?”
judy gave a quick sigh of relief. how heavenly to have janey! and what a dear she was with her air of conquering the world. jane had always been like that—with that conquering air. it cheered one just to look at her.
the babies, arriving presently in a rollicking state of excitement over the advent of auntie jane, showed themselves delightful and adoring.
[188]“junior,” said jane, “are you glad i’m here?”
“did you bring me anything?”
“something—wonderful——”
“what?”
she opened her bag, and produced towne’s box of sweets. “may i give him a chocolate, judy?”
“one little one, and just a taste for baby. jane, where did you get that gorgeous box?”
“frederick towne.”
“really? my dear, your letters have been tremendously interesting. haven’t they, bob?”
her husband nodded. he was sitting by the bedside holding her hand. “towne’s a pretty big man.”
in a moment of vaingloriousness, jane wanted to say to them, “what do you think of your ugly duckling? mr. towne wants her to be his wife.” but of course she didn’t. not before bob. she’d tell judy, later, of course.
the nurse came in then, and jane went with bob and the babies to the dining-room.
junior over his bread and milk was frankly critical. “i didn’t think you’d be so old. mother said you’d play with me.”
“i can play splendid games, junior.”
“can you? what kind?”
“well, there’s one about a pussy-cat. and i’m the big cat and you’re the little cat—and my name is merrymaid.”
“what is the little cat’s name?”
[189]“we’ll have to find one. we can’t just call him kitty, can we?”
“yes, we can. my name’s kitty, and your name is merrymaid, and—what do we do, aunt janey?”
“we drink milk,” promptly.
“an’ what else?”
“we play with balls—i’ll show you after dinner.”
“i want you to show me now.”
his father interposed. “aunt janey’s tired. wait till she’s had her dinner.”
junior drank his milk thoughtfully. “i’m a kitty—and you’re a cat. why don’t you drink milk, too, aunt janey?”
jane smiled at bob. “do i have to answer all his questions?”
“whether you do or not, he’ll keep on asking.”
but after dinner, junior went to sleep in jane’s arms, having been regaled on a rapturous diet of “the three bears” and “the little red hen.”
“they’re such beauties, judy,” said jane, as she went back to her sister. “but they don’t look like any of the barnes.”
“no, they’re like bob, with their white skins and fair hair. i wanted one of them to have our coloring. do you know how particularly lovely you are getting to be, janey?”
“judy, i’m not.”
“yes, you are. and none of us thought it. and so mr. towne wants to marry you?”
[190]“how do you know?”
“it is in your eyes, dear, and in the cock of your head. you and baldy always look that way when something thrilling happens to you. you can’t fool me.”
“well, i’m not in love with him. so that’s that, judy.”
“but—it’s a great opportunity, isn’t it, jane?”
“i suppose it is,” slowly, “but i can’t quite see it.”
“why not?”
“well, he’s too old for one thing.”
“only forty——? rich men don’t grow old. and he could give you everything—everything, janey.” judy’s voice rose a little. “jane, you don’t know what it means to want things for those you love and not be able to have them. bob did very well until the slump in business. but since the babies came—i have worked until—well, until it seemed as if i couldn’t stand it. bob’s such a darling. i wouldn’t change anything. i’d marry him over again to-morrow. but i do know this, that frederick towne could make life lovely for you, and perhaps you won’t get another chance to marry a man like that.”
“oh, don’t—don’t.” it seemed dreadful to jane to have judy talk that way, as if life had in some way failed her. life mustn’t fail, and it wouldn’t if one had courage. judy was sick, and things didn’t look straight.
[191]“see here, old dear,” jane said, “go to sleep and stop thinking about how to make ends meet. that’s my job, and i’ll do it.”
and judy slipping away into refreshing slumber had that vision before her of jane’s young strength—of jane’s gay young voice like the sound of silver trumpets....
