Behind the tenderness in Jimmy’s eyes glittered the ghost of his twinkle.
“Well, that’s very sweet of you, darling,” he said. “But don’t you think that assurance, taken by itself, is just a little barren? It has a note of finality—”
“It is final,” said Jane. “That’s all I have to say to you.”
“Well,” said Jimmy, drawing a long breath, “I’ve a great deal more than that to say to you. Listen, you ridiculous child—if you think I’m going to let you ruin both our lives with a phrase—”
“Jimmy,” said Jane, “I beg of you not to go into this again. I’ve had—really I’ve had—a terrible five days. But I haven’t changed my mind. I haven’t changed it one iota. I’m glad you’re going away. I hope I don’t see you again for years. It just kills me to see you. It kills me to live with your memory, but I wouldn’t forget you for anything in the world.” His eyes were very bright as he stood looking down at her. Jane turned her head to gaze out over the flat, sunny Skokie Valley. After a moment she spoke again. Her voice had changed abruptly. It had grown dull and lifeless. “When are you going?” she asked.
“That depends upon you,” said Jimmy.
“If it depends upon me,” said Jane, still not turning her head, “you can’t go too soon.”
“Jane,” said Jimmy, dropping quickly down beside her on the parapet. “You—you really won’t come with me?”
“No,” said Jane.
“You don’t want to live?”
“I’ll live,” said Jane tonelessly, “for Stephen and the children. That sounds very melodramatic, I know, but it’s exactly what I’m going to do. There’s just one other thing I want to say to you, Jimmy. I thought of it after you’d gone the other day.” She turned her head to look into his eyes. “I’m never going to tell Stephen anything about this, and I hope you won’t tell Agnes. I couldn’t decide, at first, just what I ought to do about that. I couldn’t decide whether it was courage or cowardice that made me want not to tell. I couldn’t decide whether Stephen ought to know. You see”—she smiled a little gravely—“I really feel terribly about it, and I know, no matter how dreadful the telling was, I’d feel better after I’d told it. Confession is good for the soul. I wish I were a Catholic, Jimmy. I wish I were a good Catholic and could pour the whole story into the impersonal ear of a priest in the confessional. But I’m not a Catholic and Stephen isn’t a priest. So I think I’ll just have to live with a secret. I’ll just have to live with Stephen, knowing that I know, but he doesn’t, just what I did.”
Jimmy’s sad little smile was very tender.
“You didn’t do so awfully much, you know, Jane,” he said.
“But I felt everything,” said Jane soberly, “I think it’s not so much what you do that matters, as what you feel. What I felt is somehow what I can’t tell Stephen. I’ve never had a secret before, Jimmy. I’ve never had anything I couldn’t tell the world. I hope—I hope you’ll feel that way about Agnes. For I really feel about Agnes just the way I do about Stephen.”
“I’m not going back to Agnes,” said Jimmy suddenly.
Jane stared at him in horror.
“You’re not—going back—to Agnes?” she faltered.
“Did you think I could?” said Jimmy harshly.
“Why not?” asked Jane. Her eyes searched his. Suddenly her mouth began to tremble. “Why not—if I can—stay with Stephen?”
“Oh—my darling!” breathed Jimmy.
“You must go back to her, Jimmy,” said Jane. “Don’t you see—if you don’t, I’ll have ruined her life just as if I’d gone away with you?”
“I can’t go back to her,” said Jimmy. He stood up suddenly and took a few steps across the terrace, then turned to look at her again. “No, Jane. If you won’t come with me, I’m going without you. I’m going to see the world before I die, I’m going West—out to the coast—to sail on the first boat I can catch for the Orient. I don’t know just how I’ll manage it, but I’ll work my way somehow.”
“But you’ll come back?” said Jane. She rose as she spoke and walked anxiously over to him. “You’ll have to come back, you know.”
“Oh—I suppose one always comes back,” said Jimmy uncertainly. “I’ll probably die in East St. Louis.”
“But before you die,” urged Jane, attempting a shaky little smile, “before you die, you will come back to Agnes?”
“Well—nothing’s impossible,” said Jimmy. He looked moodily down at her. “Except, apparently, one thing.”
“When are you leaving?” asked Jane.
“Tomorrow, perhaps. It’s Saturday, you know. I need my last paycheck.”
“Then this is goodbye?” They were strolling, now, side by side, back to the terrace doors.
“I guess it is, Jane. Considering how you feel.”
He opened the door for her and they crossed the living-room in silence. He picked up his hat from the hall table and stood looking down at her by the front door.
“Do you want me to kiss you goodbye?” said Jimmy.
Jane shook her head. Two great tears that were trembling on her lashes rolled down her cheeks. She ignored them proudly.
“Well—I’m going to do it anyway!” said Jimmy. He caught her roughly in his arms. In the ecstasy of that embrace, Jane knew that she was crying wildly. Suddenly, he put her from him. Without a word of farewell, he had opened the door and was gone. Jane leaned helplessly against its panels, exhausted by emotion. Suddenly she turned and ran rapidly up the stairs to the window on the landing. But she was too late. The gravel road was empty. Jimmy had disappeared around the bushes at the entrance of the drive.
V
I
Jane stood staring at the map of Europe that Stephen had tacked up on the living-room wall. She was staring at the little irregular row of red-and-blue thumbtacks that marked the battle-line
