As she turned and came into the room again, Jane Loring met her in the middle of the rug, seized her in her arms, kissed her rapturously on both cheeks, and confessed, though not without some hesitation, the object of her visit. Nellie Pennington led her to a divan near the window, and seated there holding one of her visitor’s hands in both of hers, listened enchanted to the full tale of Jane’s romance. Her delight was undisguised, for Nina Jaffray’s rather frigid exit had already been forgotten by them both.
“Oh, Nellie, I’m so happy. I simply had to tell somebody. I wanted to come here yesterday, but I couldn’t muster up the courage.”
“And I’m not really ‘odious’?” asked Mrs. Pennington.
“No, no,” laughed Jane. “You’re a sister to the angels. I hated him, Nellie, that night. I would have died rather than let him know I cared for him—and yet—I did let him know it——”
“Love and hate are first cousins. Love hates because it’s afraid, Jane.”
“Yes, that’s true. I was afraid of myself—of him——”
“Not now?”
“No,” proudly. “Not even of Fate itself. We’ll face whatever is to come—together. I believe in him—utterly.”
[191]
Nellie Pennington kissed her.
“So do I, Jane. I always have—and in you. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you have told me all this. Flattered, too, child. I’m rather worldly wise, perhaps, even more so than your mother——”
“I haven’t told mother,” Jane put in with sudden demureness.
“Take my advice and do so immediately. Omit nothing. Your mother must put a stop to this story by telling the truth.”
“Mother, you know, had hoped that I would marry Coleman Van Duyn. She doesn’t approve of Phil, and father—” Jane paused as she remembered her father’s estimate of Phil Gallatin—“and neither does my father,” she finished thoughtfully.
“Oh, it will work out some way; such things do. But tell them at once.”
“I think I had already decided that. But it isn’t going to be easy. With me—with mother, my father is the soul of kindness, but with men——” She paused.
“Phil must take his chance.”
“Yes, but father must respect him.”
“Phil must earn his respect.”
Jane was silent for a moment.
“My father has a sharp tongue at times,” she went on. “He has mentioned Phil Gallatin’s name—unpleasantly. I couldn’t stand hearing him spoken about in that way. I couldn’t listen. I couldn’t tolerate it—even from my father. I have made a decision and father must abide by it. He must accept Phil as I have accepted him. I am satisfied. A man’s past is his own. He can only give a girl his future. I used to think differently, but I’m content with that. Phil’s future is mine, and I’ll take my half of it, whatever it is.”
[192]
At the mention of her father, Jane had risen and walked restlessly about, but as she finished speaking she turned and faced her companion squarely. Nellie Pennington rose and took her again in her arms.
“You’ll do, Jane. I’m not afraid for you—for either of you. Let me help you. I want to. I don’t think I could be happier if I were in love myself. He’s worthy of you. I’m sure of it. Shall you marry him soon, dear?”
Jane colored adorably.
“No—not soon, I think. We have not spoken of that. Phil wants time—to prove—to show—everybody——”
She paused and Nellie Pennington breathed a sigh of relief. Her responsibilities had oppressed her.
“Let him, Jane,” she urged quickly. “It’s better so. You’re very young. There’s plenty of time. A year or two and then——”
“I’ll marry him when he asks me to,” Jane finished simply.
Nellie Pennington pressed her hands warmly, and they sat for a long time side by side while Jane told of all that had happened in the woods, including the sudden and unpleasant termination of her idyl. Nellie Pennington listened soberly, and learned more of the definiteness with which fate had placed the steps of these two young people upon the same pathway into the future. Love dwelt in Jane’s eyes and confidence, a trust and belief in Phil Gallatin that put Nellie Pennington’s rather assertive indorsement of him to the blush. She realized now that below Jane Loring’s placid exterior, there was a depth of feeling, a quiet strength and resolution of which she had never even dreamed; for she, too, had thought Jane a “nice little thing”—a pretty, amiable, cheerful soul without prejudices, who would add much to her own joy of life, and to the intimate circle of young people she[193] chose to gather around her. Some of the girl’s faith found its way into her own heart and she saw Phil now, as she had always hoped to see him, taking his place among the workers of the world, using the brains God had given him, and accomplishing the great things that she knew had always been within his power to accomplish.
When Jane rose to go, Mrs. Pennington detained her a moment longer.
“How well do you know Nina Jaffray?” she asked slowly.
“Oh, we’ve always got along admirably, because we’ve never interfered with each other, I think. But I don’t understand her—nor does she me. Why do you ask?”
“Oh—I don’t know——”
“I thought you liked her, Nellie.”
“I do. I like everybody who doesn’t bore me. Nina amuses me because she keeps me in a continual state of surprise. That’s all very well so long as her surprises are pleasant ones; but when she wishes to be annoying, I assure you she can be amazingly disagreeable.”
“I imagine so. But I don’t think we’ll have differences—at least I hope——”
“Don’t be too intimate—that’s all. Understand?”
They kissed; after which Jane departed, and on the way uptown found herself wondering from time to time whether Nellie Pennington could have meant something more than Jane thought she did. But in her state of exaltation nothing could long avail to divert her spirit from its joyous flight among the enchanted realms that had been discovered to her. That afternoon late, it was only going to be very late in the afternoon she now remembered, Phil Gallatin was to walk home with her from somebody’s tea, to-morrow they were to dine at the Dorsey-Martin’s, and late in the week there was the party at the[194] “Pot and Kettle.” After that—but what did it matter what happened after that? Each day, she knew, was to be more wonderful than the one that had gone before and it was not well to question the future too insistently. Sufficient unto the day was the good thereof, and Solomon indeed was not arrayed—inwardly at least—as Jane was.
Taking Mrs. Pennington’s advice, as soon as she reached home she sought her mother’s room. Mrs. Loring was reclining at full length on a portable wooden table which had been set up in the middle of her large apartment, and an osteopath was busy manipulating her small body. There wasn’t really anything the matter with her except social fag, but she chose this method of rehabilitating her tired nerves instead of active exercise which she abhorred. It was almost with a feeling of pity that Jane sat beside her mother when the practitioner had departed, for she knew that a scene would follow her confidences. And she was not mistaken; for when half an hour later, Jane went to her own room, her mother was in a state of collapse upon her bed, and Jane’s nerves were singing like taut wires, while on her mind were unpleasantly impressed the final words of maternal recrimination. But Jane knew that in spite of the violence of her mother’s opposition, she was very much less to be dreaded than her father, and that by to-morrow she would be reconciled to her daughter’s point of view and even might be reckoned upon as an ally. Nor would she speak to Mr. Loring without her daughter’s acquiescence. This Jane had no intention of giving, for she was sure that a meeting of her father and Phil, which must, of course, ensue at once, was not to be looked forward to with pleasurable expectation.
It was therefore in no very happy mood that Jane met Phil Gallatin late that afternoon at the Suydams’[195] tea whence he went home with her. She had said nothing of her interview with her mother, and was relieved to learn at the house that Mrs. Loring had gone out.
She led Phil back into the library and they sat before the open fire.
“What is it, Jane?” he asked. “Are you regretting——?”
“No,” she smiled. “There isn’t room in my heart for regret. It’s full of—other things.”
“I’m very dense. Can you prove it?”
“I’ll try.”
The davenport was huge, but only one end of it complained of their weight.
“Phil, are you sure there is no mistake?”
“Positive.”
“And you never cared for any one else?”
“Never.”
“Not Nina Jaffray?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“She once told me you had a boy-and-girl affair.”
“Oh, that! She used to tease me and I would wash her face in the snow. That’s Nina’s idea of mutual affection.”
“It isn’t her idea now, is it?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Larry Kane.”
“And you don’t ever think about her?”
“No—except with vague alarm for the safety of the species.”
Jane laughed. “I don’t want you to be unkind,” she said, but was not displeased.
There was a silence in which Gallatin peered around the great room and his eyes smiled as they sought her face again.
[196]
“What are you thinking of?” she asked.
“Of this shelter—and another.”
“Up among the pine trees? Oh, how white and cold it must be there now! It’s ours though, Phil, so personal——”
“I’ll build another—here in New York.”
“Not like this?”
“No—hardly—” he smiled.
“I’m glad of that. This house oppresses me. It’s so big—so silent and yet so noisy with the money that has been spent on it. I don’t like money, Phil.”
“That’s because you’ve never felt the need of it. I’m glad you don’t, though. You know I’m not very well off.”
“I don’t suppose Daddy would ever let me starve,” she laughed.
His expression changed and he chose his words deliberately, his face turned toward the fire.
“It isn’t my intention to place you in any such position,” he said with curious precision. “I don’t think you understand. It isn’t possible for me to accept anything from your father, except yourself, Jane. I’ll take you empty-handed as I first found you—or not at all.”
“But even then you know it was my saucepan——”
But he shook his head. “It isn’t a question of saucepans now.”
“You’re not fair, Phil,” she murmured soberly. “Is it my fault that father has become what he is? Why shouldn’t I help? I have something of my own—some stock in——”
He closed her lips with a kiss.
“I’ve got to have my own way. Can’t you understand?” he whispered earnestly. “It’s my sanity I’m fighting for—sanity of body and mind, and the medicines are toil—drudgery—responsibility. I’ve never known[197] what work really meant. One doesn’t learn that sort of thing in the crowd I’ve been brought up with. It’s only the money a fellow makes himself that does him any good. I’ve seen other fellows raised as I was—losing their hold on life—slipping into the quagmire. I always thought I could pull up when I liked—when I got ready. But when I tried—I found I couldn’t.”
He paused and Jane pressed his hand in both of hers. But he went on decisively, “Desperate illnesses need desperate remedies, Jane. I learned that—up there with you. I’ve been ill, but I’ve found the cure and I’m taking it already. Downtown I’ve cut myself off from all financial support. I shan’t have a dollar that I cannot make. I’m driven to the wall—and I’m going to fight.”
He paused and then turned and looked into her eyes. “That’s why it is that I want you to come to me empty-handed. I want to remember every hour of the day that on my efforts alone your happiness depends—your peace of mind, your future.”
“Yes, I understand—but it might be made easier——”
“There isn’t any easy way. And, whatever my other sins, I wouldn’t climb to fortune on a woman’s shoulders. I’ve nothing to offer you but my love——”
“It’s enough.”
“No, I came into your life a pauper—a derelict—an idler—a dr——”
“Don’t, Phil,” she whispered, her fingers on his lips.
“I shall come to you sane and whole or I shall not come to you. I ask nothing of you. You must make me no promises.”
“I don’t see how you can prevent that,” she smiled. “I shall make them anyway.”
“No, you’re not promised to me.”
“I am.”
“No.”
[198]
“I don’t see how you can prevent my promising. I promise to love, honor and obey——”
“Then obey at once and stop promising.”
“I won’t——”
“Then what validity has a promise, broken the moment it’s made?” His logic was inevitable.
“Cherish, then,” she evaded.
He held her away from him, looked into her eyes and laughed. “If it establishes no precedent—er—you may cherish me at once.”
“What does cherish mean?”
He showed her.
“I’m afraid the precedent is already established, Phil,” she sighed. She sank back in his arms and he kissed her tenderly.
“I can’t stop seeing you, Jane,” he whispered at her ear. “You renew me, give me new faith in myself, new hope for the future. I know that I oughtn’t to have the right, but I can’t give you up. I need you. When I’m with you, I wonder how there could ever be any sin in the world. Your eyes are so clear, dear, like the pool—our pool in the woods and my image in them is as clear as they are. Whatever I’ve said I don’t want that image to go out of them. Keep it there, Jane, no matter what happens, and believe in me.”
“I will,” she whispered, “whatever happens.”
“I’ll come for you some day, dear,—soon perhaps. I’m working on a big case, one that involves large issues. All of me that isn’t yours, I’m giving to that—and that’s yours, too.”
“You’ll win, Phil.”
“Yes, I’ll win. I must win,” he finished. “I must.”
“Oh, Phil, dear,” she murmured. “It doesn’t matter. What should I care whether you win or lose? Whatever[199] you have been, whatever you are or hope to be, you’ve kissed me and I’m yours—until the end. What does it matter what I promise—or what I fail to promise? I’ll wait for you because you wish it, but I would tell the world to-morrow if you’d let me.”
“No,” he said quickly. “Not yet. I want to look my Enemy in the eyes, Jane, for—for a long while. I’ll stare him down until he slinks away—not into the shadows behind me—but away—far off—so far that he shall not find me again—or I him—ever.”
“Is the Enemy here—now?” she questioned anxiously.
“No,” he smiled. “Not here. I drove away from him in an enchanted brougham.”
Jane straightened and looked into the fire.
“Phil.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve told Nellie Pennington and—and mother.”
He folded his arms and gazed steadily into the fire.
“What did they say?”
“Nellie Pennington was pleased; mother was not,” she said frankly.
“I’m sorry to hear that. But I could hardly have expected——”
“It doesn’t matter,” she went on hastily. “I thought you ought to know.”
“I shall see Mr. Loring,” he said, his brows tangling.
“Is it necessary—at once?”
“I think so. There mustn’t be any false positions. I hope I can make him understand. Obviously I can’t visit the house of a man who doesn’t want me there.”
Jane couldn’t reply at once. And when she did her face was as serious as his own.
“Won’t you leave that to me, Phil?” she said gently.