This was a very up-to-date hurdy-gurdy. The tune was a new one, but already familiar. Freddy Waters never missed an opportunity to sing.
“Goodbye, Dollie, I must leave you,
Though it breaks my heart to go.
Something tells me I am wanted
At the front to fight the foe—”
Jane moved a trifle uneasily. She wished that Freddy wouldn’t sing the silly words quite so sarcastically. You couldn’t laugh away war—not even with the most banal of love songs. She was glad when the hurdy-gurdy slipped into the safer strains of “Cavalleria Rusticana.”
“Well—we must go,” said Muriel. Muriel was beginning to take care of herself at last. She rose to her feet a little clumsily. Incredible, thought Jane, to think of Muriel with a baby. It was coming in August. Mr. Bert Lancaster steadied her arm. How awful, thought Jane, to have Mr. Lancaster for your baby’s father. It didn’t seem possible that he could have had anything to do with Muriel’s baby. Jane resented his protective air.
“We’ll walk along with you,” said Rosalie. Her little girl was almost a year old now. And Isabel’s boy would be two in July. All three of them, thought Jane, with babies. Babies mysteriously produced and brought into the world—with fathers. They were all growing old.
Isabel rose to her feet. She was still humming, half unconsciously, the chorus of “Dollie Grey.”
“Come, Robin,” she said.
Jane’s mother rose in her turn.
“It’s growing very chilly,” she remarked, with a little shiver.
Mr. Ward tossed his half-finished cigar over the balustrade. It fell on the black turf in a shower of sparks, then glowed, incandescently, for a moment in the darkness.
“Good night,” said Robin. He slipped his arm through Isabel’s. They wandered off together up Pine Street. Mr. Ward rose from his seat on the steps with a heavy sigh.
“It’s only a question of days,” he repeated.
Stephen was standing up, now, at Jane’s feet.
“Good night,” he said.
The question trembled once more on Jane’s lips and once more remained unspoken.
“Good night,” said Jane.
Stephen turned and went down the steps. Jane watched his slender figure disappearing down the darkened street. Under the arc light she could see it again quite clearly. Beyond it he vanished instantly into the night. Jane turned to her father.
“Are—are you sure, Papa?” she asked. Mr. Ward nodded gravely. He picked up her mother’s chair. Jane stooped to gather up the little rug. Mrs. Ward had already opened the front door. Several blocks away Jane could still hear the hurdy-gurdy.
“Something tells me I am wanted
At the front to fight the foe—”
The mock pathos of the jingling tune held a dreadful irony. Jane had suddenly a desperate sense of a trap, closing in upon her. Life shouldn’t be like this. Life shouldn’t force your hand. In moments of decision you should always be calm, untrammelled by circumstance.
“Come, kid,” said Mr. Ward. He was standing by the open door. Jane followed him slowly into the front hall.
Life wasn’t fair, thought Jane.
III
“Miss Jane,” said Minnie, “Mr. Carver has called.”
“Mr. Carver?” questioned Jane. It was only four o’clock on a weekday afternoon. Why wasn’t Stephen at the bank?
“Tell him that I’ll come down,” said Jane.
Minnie departed in silence. Jane turned slowly toward the bureau, but merely from force of habit. What was Stephen doing on Pine Street at this hour? She rearranged her hair absentmindedly. Stephen never left the bank until five. Jane picked up her mirror and gazed very thoughtfully at the knot at the back of her neck. She didn’t see it at all. What did Stephen want of her? Facing the glass once more she plumped up the sleeves of her plaid silk waist with care. Day before yesterday the United States had declared war.
Jane walked very slowly down the stairs.
“Stephen?” she called questioningly.
“Here, Jane,” he answered. His voice came from the library. Jane entered the room.
Stephen was standing very straight and tall by the smouldering fire. He grinned as she entered. Nevertheless he looked a little solemn.
“What are you doing here in office hours?” smiled Jane. “Come to sell me a bond?”
“No,” said Stephen simply. “I haven’t.”
Jane dropped down on the sofa by the fire. She gazed up at Stephen in silence.
“I’ve come to sell you,” said Stephen, “this idea of going to war.”
Jane’s heart gave a great jump beneath her plaid silk bodice. The unspoken question was answered.
“I’m going to join the Rough Riders,” said Stephen firmly. “I made up my mind this morning. There’s no excuse for my sticking around here a minute longer.”
“When—when are you going?” said Jane faintly.
“Right away,” said Stephen. “I spoke to my boss this afternoon. I’ll write to Father tonight.”
“Oh—Stephen!” said Jane again still more faintly.
“I want to go,” said Stephen. “It’s not so often that you want to do what you ought.”
That was true enough, thought Jane. But who could want to go to war?
“Lots of Harvard men have joined up,” said Stephen, “because of Roosevelt—some men I know in Boston are going. They wrote me last week. I’m all signed up with them. We’re going to meet in San Antonio.”
“When?” asked Jane.
“As soon as they can make it,” said Stephen. “One of them has to tie up his business. Another one’s married.”
“How—how long do you think?” asked Jane.
“Oh—we ought to be down there in two weeks,” said Stephen.
Jane sat in silence on the sofa. Two weeks.
“It will be fun,” said Stephen. “Roosevelt’s got a great crowd down there.”
Jane still sat in silence.
“Don’t look so solemn, Jane,” said Stephen.
“I feel solemn,” said Jane.
“You wouldn’t want me not to go,” said Stephen.
“Yes, I would,” said Jane promptly.
Stephen looked very much pleased. And a little amused.
“When it comes to the point,” said Jane, “I guess I’m not much of a patriot.”
“Oh, yes,” said Stephen persuasively, “you want to win the war.”
Jane felt a refreshing flash of levity.
“Do you expect to win it?” she asked lightly.
Stephen flushed a
