“And your mother, André. They’ll never let you!”
“Oh, yes, they will,” said André. “When I tell them.”
“Marry you,” said Jane wonderingly. “Marry you—now?”
“If you will,” said André.
“I—I couldn’t—now.” The thought of temporizing brought a little hope. “I am too young.”
“Well—later, then,” said André confidently. “In the fall. When your family are used to it. I’ll come back and get you—”
Suddenly just his saying it seemed to make it true.
“Oh, André,” breathed Jane. “I—I can’t believe it.”
“What?” said André.
“That we’re—engaged.”
“You bet we are,” said André.
“André!” It was his mother’s voice. “You must bring Jane back. We’re leaving, now.”
“Kiss me, again,” said André. He took her once more in his arms. This second kiss was not quite so wildly unexpected. And his mother was calling.
“André!”
“Yes, Mother! We’re coming.” They turned back across the beach.
“I have you, now,” said André. “I have you.”
Jane didn’t deny it. She clung to his arm until they were very near the oak grove.
The supper was all packed away. Mr. Duroy still sat beneath his tree but Mrs. Duroy was erect by the tandem. She looked at André still a little anxiously, Jane thought.
They pushed their wheels in silence back to the car tracks.
“Stay with us, children,” said André’s mother. “It’s very late.” They pedaled slowly home. The park was filled with bicycles. Their myriad lamps glittered like fireflies in its bosky alleys. Jane kept glancing at André’s face in the moonlight. It was very stern again. But beautiful, Jane thought. He threw her a smile, now and then. A happy, confident smile. Mr. and Mrs. Duroy went with them to her house. André, however, walked into the yard. She went to the side door because she had her bicycle. Mr. and Mrs. Duroy were waiting at the curb. As Jane was getting out her key, he pulled her quickly into the vestibule.
“Good night,” said André, taking her in his arms.
“Good night,” she breathed, against his lips.
“I’ll come—tomorrow afternoon—to see your father.”
“Oh, André,” she whispered fearfully.
“You’re mine,” said André, “and I’ll never give you up.”
Jane unlocked the door.
“Good night,” she said again, and smiled up at him. He blew her a little kiss. She slipped into the hall. He vanished, down the path. Jane closed the door and stood a moment, quite still, leaning against the panels. “I’m his,” she thought. “He’ll never give me up.” It was very late. The family were all in bed. Jane turned out the back hall light. “He loves me,” she thought, as she crept up the stairs. “André loves me.” She paused a moment by her mother’s door. She tapped gently on the wooden panels.
“I’m in,” said Jane. A sleepy murmur was the only reply. Then, “Did you turn out the light?”
“Yes,” said Jane and went on down the hall. “He loves me,” she thought, as she opened her bedroom door. “André loves me.”
III
Jane came downstairs, next morning, a little late to breakfast. The family were all at the table. Isabel was talking of Robin Bridges. He had invited her to go to the theatre with Rosalie and Freddy Waters. As Rosalie and Freddy were engaged, Isabel thought it would be quite proper for the four of them to go alone. But her mother was standing firm.
“No,” she said. “Not without a married couple.”
Jane slipped silently into her seat and unfolded her napkin. It seemed very strange to hear her mother and Isabel, arguing just as usual, and to see her father buried, as always, in the morning Tribune, and to realize that for them this golden morning was just like any other. For her it opened a new era. Jane felt a little guilty as she hugged her happy secret to her heart. And very much frightened. And terribly excited.
Just after breakfast the telephone rang. Jane rushed to the pantry to answer it. Yes, it was André. His voice sounded just a little confused, but cheerful, too.
“Hello,” he said. “How—how are you?”
“Oh—I’m fine,” said Jane. Her heart was beating fast.
“Happy?” said André.
“Oh—yes,” breathed Jane. That was all. It seemed to satisfy André.
“When does your father come home?” asked André.
“Half-past five,” said Jane.
“Mother thinks,” said André, “that I—I oughtn’t to see you again, until I speak to him.”
“What else does she think?” asked Jane anxiously.
“Well,” said André, and his voice sounded just a little rueful. “She—she thinks it’s all right—now.”
“What did your father say?” asked Jane.
André’s voice seemed to hesitate.
“He—he was awfully surprised,” he said. “Much more surprised than Mother. But they—they understood—after I talked to them.”
“André,” said Jane miserably, “they don’t like it.”
“Oh, yes—they do,” said André uncertainly. “At least—”
Then with increasing confidence, “They like you, Jane. It’s—it’s just what they think—” He stopped.
“We’re young,” said Jane.
“Yes,” said André.
“Well—we are,” said Jane.
“Anyway,” said André cheerfully, “Father said of course I must tell your father.”
There was a little pause.
“It’s really all right,” said André.
Jane wished she could be sure of that.
“Well—goodbye,” said Jane. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
A funny little sound clicked in Jane’s ear.
“That was a kiss,” said André. “Goodbye—dear.”
Jane hung up the receiver and pressed her forehead weakly against the mouthpiece. Dear André—darling André. She was terribly frightened. Yet radiantly happy, through and through. She could hear his voice still, with that funny little break at the end. “Goodbye—dear.” He did love her. She had said she would marry him. Marry—André. But they were much too young. Her mother—
Jane walked slowly up the stairs to her own bedroom and closed the door. She sat down at the window and looked out at the willow tree. It seemed only yesterday that she and André had climbed it. The remnants of their tree house—a few weather-beaten planks—were still visible in its middle branches. She was going to marry André. She was going to be his wife.
At five o’clock Jane took up her stand in the parlor window to wait for her father. Isabel was out playing tennis, thank goodness, on the Superior Street courts. Her mother was in the kitchen
