The day of Mrs. Brendon's first sitting began a new era for Jane. As soon as the studio was in order, on the morning she was expected, Jane appeared in hat and coat, ready for the street.
"Aren't you going to stay to receive Mrs. Brendon?" Jerry asked, faintly aggrieved.
"Why, no. It is scarcely necessary, is it? I have some other things to do."
"Just as you like, of course."
She nodded to him, and went out. Once on the street, she drew a deep breath, and turned her steps into an old and frequent walk, across the square to the crooked street, where grew the model tenement, where Jane Judd had spent her nights for so many years. She climbed the stairs gaily, and found Mrs. Biggs at home.
"I got yer letter," she said, after a cordial greeting, "and I ain't done nuthin' to the room, just like you told me."
"Thanks. I mean to keep it for awhile, Mrs. Biggs, to store some of my things in. I want a place of my own to spread out in. You see, our flat is mostly studio, and Mr. Paxton's things take up all the room."
"Sure. Awful messy, ain't they, them painters?"
"You can't expect them to paint and be neat, too. How are you and Billy?"
"All right. We miss ye like anything, Miss Judd, I should say Mrs. Paxton. You never was much of a talker, but we got used to you, an' it seems real lonesome without ye. Milly misses you awful."
"Where is she?"
"Out on the fire-escape, in the sun."
She opened the window and urged Milly in. Jane spoke to her, but Milly showed no signs of recognition. She permitted Jane to pet her, and when she started for the old room, the cat followed, out of habit.
Inside the room with the door locked, and Milly in her old accustomed chair, Jane laid off her things and looked about her fondly. She threw open the windows to let in the air and sun. She dusted, sat down at her desk, filled her pen, and drew the old notebook to her.
For a while she did not write, she just sat and contemplated. It seemed years instead of months since she belonged here, in this cool, white, impersonal place. She had grown used to warm harmonies of colour in her surroundings, but it seemed to her that she could never create there, she needed this space, and peace. For days she had felt the urge to write, and the thought of this haven of hers had been always in her mind.
She had not told Jerry of her determination to retain her old room. It needed so much explanation, so much self-revelation, which she was not prepared to give him yet, nor he to accept. Meanwhile, when he was busy with his great ladies, she could slip away to her own work.
She drew the page nearer and began to write....It seemed five minutes later that Mrs. Biggs knocked at the door.
"One o'clock," she called.
"Oh, is it? Thank you," answered Jane, like one coming out of a trance. In ten minutes she had locked her door, hurried away, elate, happy. Mrs. Brendon had departed, carrying Jerry off to lunch. They had left a note for her. She was glad to be alone, and she hummed softly as she laid out her slight meal. Bobs came in.
"All alone? Where's Jerry?"
"Gone to lunch with Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon."
"Jane, don't you let him do it. I tell you, it is the beginning of the end for you, if you let him go about with these women alone," she said hotly.
"They would have asked me, if I had been here. I was out."
"Don't you stand for it, Jane!"
"After all, it is a part of Jerry's business."
"Jerry's business is to make women care for him. It is very dangerous business and apt to be bitter for his wife," said Bobs.
"I think I understand his temperament and his temptations fairly well, but I prefer to trust him."
"You'll regret it, mark my words."
"Sit down and have lunch with me. There isn't much to tempt you, but I'd like to have you."
"Thanks, I will. I get blue these days. I'm all off my form."
"You take such poor care of yourself. Meals when you remember; no exercise, just work."
"I wish I could work myself to death. I'm sorry I can't."
"Do you sleep well?"
"No."
"How is 'Woman' coming along?"
"Very uneven. Some days good, some days awful."
"Come over to Union Square with me this afternoon. The I. W. W. people are going to explain the Paterson strike."
"Are you interested in the Paterson strike?"
"Yes, because it affects so many women. I'm deeply interested in woman's industrial fight, aren't you?"
"I used to be. But what's the use? Woman is trying to fight her way against the two strongest forces in the world, first, Nature—her own damnable, emotional impotence—second, Man, the cave-dweller."
"You think men don't want her to advance?"
"Man wants things to go on as they did a hundred years ago; woman, the dependant, the begetter, the chattel."
"Not all of them——"
"Well, we won't get anywhere until men are with us, and help us, and that's—never!"
"It's too late to say that. We're started, we are far on the way, we've got to convert them."
"Have you tried your hand at converting Jerry?" Bobs laughed. "I advise you not to try. He once put it all into a phrase— The woman I marry must have only one career—Jerry Paxton.'"
Jane made no comment.
"They don't know what we're talking about; they don't want to know. They refuse to admit what education and economic conditions have done to us. It means a readjustment. It's uncomfortable. They won't have it."
"It's human nature to fight change, but change takes place every second, just the same," said Jane.
"I hope change breeds a brand of us without sex instinct before I come again," said Bobs, and went away.
Jane sat still where she had left her for several minutes. She was weak, as if she had looked on at a fellow creature bleeding to death. When she went out later, her thoughts were still full of Bobs and how she could help her. It was part of her problem now. If Jerry's careless philandering had thrown all the forces of the girl's nature into panic and revolt, surely it was a part of the new woman-thought in the world that Jerry's wife should work for her restoration.
Daily visits to her secret room followed. Jerry was absorbed in his work, restless and overwrought when he had leisure. They lived like two ghosts, passing to and fro, each unaware of the other.
Mrs. Brendon and the Bryces both entertained at dinners, in honour of the Paxtons. Jane went through both ordeals with credit, looked handsome, and was much admired. Jerry complimented her on the way home from the Brandons', and inquired if she enjoyed it.
"Not much. They never seem to talk of things that interest me."
"What does interest you?" he asked curiously.
"All the big, vital things that are going on in the world."
"What kind of things, Jane?"
"Well, the problems of labour, of women, of education, of international politics. Scores of things that these people seem unaware of."
"They talk about the war enough."
"No, they merely tell their opinions, their heated antipathies toward the belligerents."
"What did you touch old Brendon up on? I saw him raving at you."
"I said I thought trusts were dangerous and lawless. He got very excited defending them."
"But, Lord, Jane, he's head of heaps of trusts."
"I can't help that."
"Did you tell him why they were dangerous?"
"I tried to. I said that powerful boards of directors authorized cruel and unlawful things to be done, which no individual would do, no matter how rich and powerful he might be."
"Jane, Lot's wife never gave him more of a turn than you've given me! I didn't know you thought about this sort of thing. What did Brendon say?"
"He treated me like a naughty child."
"Must have given him some shock! Go easy, Jane, for the right hand of Brendon is going to sign the check that starts the house that Jerry builds," he laughed.
For a day or so after that talk she found him looking at her with a sort of wondering scrutiny.
"Both Mrs. Brendon and Miss Morton think it is queer that you are never here when they come," he said one day.
"I hope you explain to them that I am busy in the morning."
"But what on earth do you do?"
"Oh, there are lots of things to do," she smiled.
When the portrait of Miss Morton was finished, she sent out cards for a huge tea, at which it was to be exhibited. The day the picture was to be sent away, Jerry came upon Jane inspecting it.
"Do you like it?"
"I think it looks just like her."
"Thanks. Said to be desirable in a portrait. You don't care for her type?'
"She looks like a calla lily."
"But that is ugly."
"Oh, no. It's pure, white, cold, ecclesiastical. Many people admire them."
"Do you think it is good painting?" he inquired.
"I know very little about painting," she evaded.
"We must begin your art education, Jane."
The day of the reception, Jerry took luncheon at the Morton house, and spent the early afternoon directing the proper placing for the portrait. He called Jane on the 'phone, explaining that he would not have time to come to the studio for her, and asking her to meet him at the tea.
Unfortunately for Jerry's plans, just as Jane had completed her costume for this most distasteful party, Martin Christiansen arrived, and in the joy of seeing him, she forgot everything else.
"It is good to see you," she said.
"And you. But you are very gorgeous," he added, with the tribute of his eyes. "How does life run these days, Jane Judd?"
"Full to the very banks. I'm at work again."
"Good. But not here?"
"No. I kept the old room at Mrs. Biggs's. I go every morning while Jerry is at work."
"He asks no questions?"
"None so far."
"Admirable husband! And what is the opus?"
She began to outline the idea of a sustained piece of work, based on her own experience and thoughts. She told her plot dramatically and well. To any one who knew her as the silent Jane, this pulsing creature would have been a marvel. There was something in Christiansen that gave her tongue. She was at ease with him, sure of complete understanding.
They argued, they planned, they debated points of psychology, they were perfectly absorbed and unaware of time. Into this meeting came Jerry, angry as he could possibly be at Jane's defection, but infuriated when he saw the cause.
"Jerry!" she exclaimed, at sight of him.
"Don't let me interrupt you, pray. Good-afternoon, Mr. Christiansen."
"But the tea isn't over?"
"Naturally. It is after seven."
"I had no idea it was so late," said Christiansen, rising. "Have I kept you from some social duty, Mrs. Paxton?"
"No doubt she was glad of an excuse," laughed Jerry forcedly.
"Miss Morton had a tea to exhibit Jerry's portrait. It was dreadful of me to forget," she said earnestly.
"The fault is entirely mine, the apologies must be mine, Mr. Paxton. I have kept your wife so besieged by my talk that she has had no chance to escape."
"No matter at all, I assure you," said Jerry.
Christiansen made hasty adieux.
"You must believe that I intended to come, Jerry. You see I am dressed for it."
"It was a trifle embarrassing when everybody asked for you."
"I am so sorry."
"You may not be interested in my work, or my friends, but, as my wife, you certainly must show them some respect," he stormed.
"I hope I have shown them every respect," she began.
"Not at all. You've run away every time a sitter has appeared in this studio, and now you have deliberately insulted Miss Morton."
"Oh, Jerry, that's not fair. It was an accident."
The telephone rang.
"There she is now. What do you expect me to tell her?"
"Whatever you like. I should tell her the truth."
He answered the call and explained at great length that Mrs. Paxton had been suddenly taken ill, in the afternoon, and could not come out. She was covered with chagrin at missing the tea.
"Nice fix to put a man in," he began again.
"Jerry, I cannot be nagged. I have told you the truth. I am sorry I offended you and your friends. Let's not discuss it any further, please."
"We might discuss Christiansen possibly. The fascinating gentleman who makes you forget time, and obligations to your husband."
"You were rude to him."
"I don't care if I was."
"But you expect me to be courteous to Miss Morton."
"That's a different matter."
"I do not find it so. If I am polite to your friends, I expect you to be the same to mine."
"I won't discuss it with you," he interrupted her. He took his hat and banged out of the studio.
Jane thought it over for a few moments. Then she, too, put on her things and went to the Brevoort for her dinner. The waiter bowed a welcome, and led her to the table where Jerry sat.
"Oh, no," said Jane to the waiter.
"For heaven's sake, sit down!" growled Jerry, rising.
Althea Morton sat at a near-by table, with a party of friends!
The unfortunate dinner at the Brevoort, where Jane had accidentally joined her husband, only added fuel to his rage. It was obvious to both of them that Miss Morton thought that Jane had merely refused to come to her tea. Her cool nod of recognition, and her scornful glance at Jerry made that point exceedingly evident.
It was perhaps characteristic of Jerry, that it was not so much anger at Jane for being so fascinated by another man that she forgot to come, as it was indignation at her public affront to hisamour-propre. This reception was his first conspicuous success since the pageant. He was aware that Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon, acting as press agent, had played up his supposed romance with the mysterious and beautiful creature who had acted Salome. He knew that curiosity about his wife, and speculation about Miss Morton's attitude toward that lady, had been much more potent factors in attracting the big crowd which marched through the Mortons' house, than any ardent desire to see his portrait of the daughter of the house.
If Jane, quite unconsciously, had become the Hamlet of the feast, it was a little too much to have her forget to appear! He had explained her absence until he was hoarse. Miss Morton, with raised eyebrows and suggestivetones, had repeated over and over, that for some reason, Mrs. Paxton had not appeared. She planted the seed most delicately, that Mrs. Paxton had not come because it was Althea's portrait, and Althea's party. Jerry felt that she was taking advantage of the situation, but he could think of no way to turn the trick against her, unless Jane came to his rescue.
Later, in the restaurant, she had gloried in her suspicion. Jane had looked much too well, too handsome, to have been the victim of a late indisposition.
For the first time, Jerry faced the fact that he had married a personality, not an automaton. The silent, efficient, machine Jane, of the old days, was not the real Jane at all, or else matrimony had changed her completely. He felt aggrieved. He could not see how he could have made such a mistake. From his present point of view, in fact, his marriage seemed to him like some fantastic act of a man in a fever. Had he, in order to protect himself from Bobs and Althea, married a woman more complex than either of them?
He began to wonder why he did not attract Jane? All his life women had liked him, responded to his boyish charm and his handsome face. He could not remember that she had once looked at him, as a woman admiring a fine, bra' lad. She showed no interest in his career, either. He had taken her from a life of drudgery, given her ease and his name. She might at least have devoted herself to his interests. He could not spell her out. She besieged his thoughts; he was never free from her.
He made up his mind to show her his displeasure ather ways. So he spent as much time as possible away from the studio. Mrs. Brendon's portrait was finished and displayed in her drawing-room. This time Jerry escorted Jane himself. She was a great success; her gracious but impersonal manner interested people. She was indifferent to their likes or dislikes, yet not rudely so. Mrs. Brendon was impressed with her and told Jerry so.
"She can be a great social success, Jerry."
"She can, but she won't. It bores her."
"What if it does? Has she no consideration for your career?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"We must make some plans to really launch her. Abercrombie says she has brains."
"No use making any plans for Jane. She makes and breaks her own," said Jerry.
It was an aggravation, the way she failed to follow up social opportunities. He complained to her about it and she announced herself absolutely ready to do anything he desired which would help his career.
"You can see that a portrait painter has to cultivate the people who have portraits painted, can't you?"
"Wouldn't you be freer to work out your own ideas, to develop what is really yours, if you did some other kind of painting, Jerry?"
"Yes, and we would be living in a garret."
"But I wouldn't mind that at all, if it meant that you were growing."
"I suppose you've been talking to Bobs."
"No. I don't discuss you with people, Jerry. ButI think your friends do feel this about you, that this is the line of the least resistance for you, that it may end in your destruction as an artist."
"I am perfectly competent to decide about my work without the advice of my friends. I want ease, luxury, and beauty. I'm sick of grubbing in this little studio. I'm going to get out of it, and soon, too. I've got two orders from the Brendon portrait. Next year I'll raise my prices, and after that we'll see."
Jane sighed, but made no answer.
After this talk, which irked him more than he cared to admit to himself, he was much away. In the tender care of Mrs. Brendon and Althea he sailed and soared into the most ethereal social circles. He tead, and lunched, hither and thither, always on business, as he told Jane. He even went to a dinner or so, to which she was not invited, "to try to pull off an order."
If she resented his desertion, she never showed it by a glance. In fact, she had dropped back into the silent, brooding Jane of the days before he married her. He came and went with as little comment as in those days. But she went with him, in his mind. He promised himself that, as soon as this campaign for orders was over, he would take time to cultivate Jane, to learn to know her true self. He was becoming a trifle afraid of her judgments.
As for Jane, she saw, understood, and accepted the situation. After her one protest against his prostitution of his talent for "a handful of silver," she let the matter rest. She meant to bring it up again, however.
His absence from her gave her unrestricted time for her own work, which she felt was progressing finely. She had many long consultations with Christiansen, sometimes at the studio, sometimes in the Park where they went to walk. He encouraged and stimulated her.
Bobs acquired the habit of dropping in on Jane, in her free hours. Jane suspected that a deep pity for Jerry's neglected wife was the reason for her attention, but she welcomed her cordially, and slowly a sure friendship began to develop between them. There was an honesty and simplicity in the two women which made them akin. By mutual and unspoken consent they never discussed Jerry.
They had long talks, they went about to exhibitions together, where Jane profited by Bobs's knowledge of art. She had set herself to some sort of study and understanding of painting, with the shadowy thought that she might be of some help to Jerry some time, if she understood his medium. She read the books prescribed by Bobs, she saw all the permanent exhibitions, and found with the new knowledge a deep pleasure. Bobs often berated her for her taste, but admitted she was an intelligent pupil.
"You've got the instinct, Jane, you ought to create something."
"Maybe, some day," Jane evaded.
As spring came on, Jane felt terribly dragged. She noticed it first by the difficulty she had in getting upstairs to her workshop. Several breathing spells were necessary, and a brief rest on the bed, when she finally arrived. Thencame long brooding spells, when she sat motionless at her desk, feeling that all the forces in herself, in nature without, were focussed within her own being. The work went slowly, and unevenly.
It was in April that Jerry, watching Jane clear the table one night, saw her go suddenly white and sit down quickly. He went to her hastily.
"What is it, Jane; are you faint?"
"Yes. Jerry, we are going to have a child."
His face went as white as hers; then the alarm, the protest registered there, found expression.
"You don't mean to say——"
"I wanted it to happen. It is one of the responsibilities of marriage."
"But can't you see, we can't afford children yet?"
"We should have thought of that sooner."
"How can we have that happen, in this little, crowded place?"
"Large families are raised in half the space, Jerry."
"But this is my workshop," he began.
"Jerry, when I found, after our hasty marriage, that you expected me to accept all the responsibilities of marriage, I made no protest. This is another of the responsibilities we both share. I expect you to make no protest."
"I beg your pardon, Jane. I know I'm not taking it very nicely, but it is about as upsetting as anything could well be."
"It was to me, too."
"I suppose you do get the worst of it, hang it!"
Hands in pockets he paced up and down the studio.
"What are we going to do? We'll have to move, of course."
"I think not. Not at present anyway."
"When does it happen?"
"In October."
"You've seen a doctor?"
"Yes."
"Look here, Jane, why couldn't we find you some nice place in the country, where you could be quiet, have plenty of out-of-door exercise, and all that? You could go at once and I'd run out for week-ends."
"No, thanks. I prefer to stay here. After all, I shall not be in your way now, any more than I have been before."
Something in her tone made him wince.
"Jane, my dear, I'm sorry. I've been a brute."
"Please don't sentimentalize over me, Jerry. I'm glad this has happened to me. Whether you are glad or not, I must have your help. It is your child as well as mine. I cannot be put off in the country, out of your sight, because I'm ugly. I have a right to your consideration, but I want nothing more."
There was no sign of hysteria, just the quiet, simple statement of her case. In spite of his distress at her news, he admired her more at this moment than ever before. He drew a chair near her and sat down.
"I understand. Will you tell me what plans you have made, or thought of?"
"We could afford a little cottage in the country, for the summer, I think, with a servant. If we went in Juneand I stay until I go to the hospital, we could live inexpensively; you could paint, or go about among your friends."
"I think that is a good scheme. We can begin to look for such a place at once, if you are able."
"Certainly. I'm perfectly strong."
He held out his hand to her.
"Forgive me. Count on me. I want to do my part."
"I think that's only fair," she answered, and she laid her hand in his.
The search for the place in the country proved to be rather jolly. They would start off early in the morning, sometimes with luncheon in a box, more often depending upon the chance inn to supply their wants. Jerry found Jane a comfortable companion. If it suddenly rained, or if they were late getting lunch it never made any difference to her, and he was ashamed to admit that it did to him. She showed a sort of heroic disregard of any physical disability. She walked for miles and refuted any suggestion of weariness. He admired this in her as extravagantly as all æsthetes admire Spartan qualities.
Jane, on her side, delighted in Jerry's whole-hearted boyishness. He was like a kid on a holiday. He would have taken every house they looked at, regardless of size or rent, if she had not prevented him. Some feature about each one seemed to him irresistible.
After weeks of prowling in all directions out of New York, they foundit. On the Sound, in Connecticut, they discovered a little Colonial house, all shut away, in its own grounds, by high hedges and iron gates. A charming, many-windowed little house it was, and Jane's heart went out to it. It answered almost all of their requirements as to space and equipment.
"This is it, isn't it, Jane?" Jerry asked her.
"It's more than we intended to pay."
"Oh, well, I expected to pay more than we intended to. You like it, and I can paint here, so let's settle it."
"I should be happy here; this house speaks to me," she said.
So it was decided that it was to be theirs from June to October. They chatted happily over it all the way back to town. These summer excursions had brought them closer together than ever before, but with the summer plans settled, and Jane apparently the same as ever, Jerry fell back into his habit of playing about with Mrs. Brendon and Althea.
Jane went almost daily to her workshop. She did not always write; sometimes she sat and made baby clothes, thinking long, long thoughts. The room soothed her like a cool hand. In the afternoon she rested, and often she and Bobs went for a walk together. She told no one of her hopes.
Martin Christiansen had gone away on one of his frequent journeys and she missed him. He was the most stimulating influence in her mental life, and she begrudged his absences. He wrote her sometimes, wonderful letters, strong and full of flavour like his own personality.
Bobs turned off the avenue one day, just as Jerry stepped out of Althea's motor. She deliberately waited for him to overtake her.
"Hello, Jerry."
"Hello, Bobs."
"Why doesn't she bring you to your own door? It's an outrage that she makes you walk two blocks."
"Oh, I still walk a little, just out of regard for my figure," he said, nettled at her tone.
"What on earth do you see in her, Jerry?"
"She's a very attractive woman, my dear. Also her motors and her opera box are very comfortable. Also she makes a fuss over me every minute. I don't get that at home, you know. Even you get your claws ready when I appear!"
"Jerry, you're an awful cad!"
"Thanks."
"What do you give her to pay for these comforts?"
"Oh, I keep her vanity fed, that's my part."
"What kind of lap dog are you, Jerry, a spitz?"
"You can't talk to me like that!" he said angrily.
"I'd hate to tell you what I really think of you, and what all your old friends down here think of you, if calling you a lap dog offends you."
"The virago is not a becoming rôle, Bobs," he said, and left her.
He was so angry that he breathed hard. He didn't care what she thought of him, or what any of them thought but he was furious that she had spoiled his mood of exhilaration. He had just gotten a portrait commission from one of Althea's friends, at a luncheon, and he felt that the world was a ball for his tossing.
"What's the matter with Bobs?" he asked Jane that night.
"Issomething the matter with her?"
"She's as bitter as an old scold," he complained.
"I think she has been deeply hurt through some late experience," Jane replied. He glanced at her quickly, but her eyes were on her work, so he detected no sign that she knew what that experience was.
In late May Jane's preparations for their hegira were completed. The first day of June they moved to the country. It happened that the spring was late so that the early flowers and the June roses all came along together. They found the gardens a riot, with crimson ramblers running over the hedges and a Dorothy Perkins trellis in full flower.
"It really is enchanting," Jerry exclaimed as they drove up to the door.
They found everything in readiness. Windows were open, beds made, flowers in the vases, logs laid on the hearth. Mrs. Biggs and Billy were installed in charge of the kitchen department.
"Oh, Miss Judd, ain't it grand in the country?" cried Billy.
She nodded and patted his shoulder. When his mother called him away she said:
"I hope you won't mind Billy."
"Mind him—why should I? You get such strange ideas of me."
Days of perfect weather followed, when the garden and the sea called every moment.
"It is only by sheer force of will that I am getting our belongings unpacked," said Jane, as they lingered after lunch on the veranda.
"Hang our belongings! Get your hat and come for a ramble. This day is a gift, it will never come again."
She picked up her hat and staff.
"Lead off," she smiled.
"Ten minutes for my cigarette," he begged.
She stretched out on achaise-longuein sheer physical delight.
"I feel like a turtle, a slow, lethargic turtle," sighed Jerry. "Why do mortals waste time in work, when Nature offers this nirvana?"
"It wouldn't seem nirvana without work."
"Jane, you have a practical turn of mind. You do not relax into the proper state of nature, naked and unashamed."
"If I were any more relaxed mentally or physically than I am at this minute, I would fall to pieces," she answered lazily.
"Jane, I am really getting to like you very much," he said, his eyes upon her fine repose.
"Is that luck, or a calamity, I wonder?"
"Jane Judd, you ungrateful feline, come along to the sea. I may push you in for that remark."
So it happened that because of their absolute isolation and dependence upon each other, they began to be acquainted. Only a few of the summer people had arrived, so they met no one on their walks. To Jane it was a time of great peace. She was doing her work now, when she merely kept herself in health. For the rest, life hung suspended, until October. Jerry was happy, a charming companion. As she wrote Christiansen: "Life is wonderfulto me now. I am like the bee, garnering the very heart of summer days, flowers, and sunshine, to put into my work."
Jerry began to paint her in the garden where she spent many hours at her sewing. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they were speechless. When she sat for a long time silent, and he spoke to her, she lifted eyes to him with an expression which he could not fathom. He knew, though, that it was something elemental, primal; that if he could catch it on his canvas, every man and woman who looked at the picture would get that thrill which it gave him—would know that they had glimpsed woman, the creator.
"Jane," he said one day, "you're so comfortable."
"Am I?"
"I think that's why I married you."
"So many men marry for that reason."
"Jane, Jane, how you do prick my bubbles of conceit. They snap around me all the time."
"It's quite unintentional," she smilingly protested.
"So much the worse. Just how conceited do you think me, Jane?"
"I've known one manmoreconceited."
"Jane, did I say you were comfortable?"
"I don't want to betoocomfortable. That's dull, don't you think?"
"Don't worry about being dull."
She sewed for a while, and he painted.
"You're getting very handsome," he remarked casually.
"Why not? I'm well, and so content."
"Are you contented, Jane?"
"Like a cat in the sun. I have a saucer of cream three times a day, and a coloured ball to play with."
"And only a puppy, named Jerry, to bother you?"
"I don't mind him. I just stretch and yawn when he barks at me," she laughed.
"I'll paint you with long slits in your eyes, if you don't look out," he threatened.
One day Jane spoke of Bobs and her hope that she would come and stay with them.
"Ask her by all means, but I doubt if she will come. She has it in for me."
"She needs rest and normal living. She's all nerves on edge. She's done a big piece of work, enough to wear any one out."
"She has lots of talent."
"She has genius, Jerry."
"I wouldn't go that far."
"I would. Martin Christiansen says this 'Woman' group is a masterpiece. He ranked her with Manship and the best of the young sculptors."
"What do you know about young sculptors?"
"Not much. I've been studying sculpture this winter, especially the moderns, with Bobs."
"What do you think of them?" he asked curiously.
"They interest me extremely. I supposed that I did not respond to sculpture, but these modern men are expressing thought, not merely form. I have spent hours with the Rodin figures at the Metropolitan—hours of refreshment."
"Is Christiansen going to make a critic of you?"
"No. He couldn't. I have no critical sense at all. I only respond to the things I understand, or the things I vision spiritually, without understanding."
"Have you interested yourself in painting, too?"
"Yes. Bobs and Mr. Christiansen both say that I react to the right things for the most part. But I'm hopeless when it comes to some of the old masters. Rubens, for instance. How I do hate his obese people! I don't care how well he can paint, because I hate what he paints."
"There's hope for you, Jane, if you admit at the start that you are a heretic."
"I have to tell the truth. I am not clever enough to bluff."
"So you think that Bobs is a genius."
"Yes. I feel that she has the divine fire."
"Has she sold anything this winter?"
"I think not."
"How does she get along?"
"Borrows the rent, eats around with anybody who has food. When she sells something she will repay it two-fold."
"Poor old Bobs! Ask her down by all means."
"She's splendid, I think."
"But you wouldn't like to live as she does."
"I would not care, if my spirit were growing as hers is."
"You'd miss your cream, Kitty, and your sunny garden."
"Yes, but the whole world would gain by my loss."
"I wonder if that is a comfort?" Jerry mused. "Somebody ought to marry Bobs."
"She has the usual woman's excuse for marrying."
"What is that?"
"A lonely soul. I suppose men have it, too—a sort of isolation within the race, a pining to be set free from the torment of solitude. Bobs has an exceptional nature, so she is more than usually at the mercy of suffering; her needs are intensified."
"She has all sorts of ideas, you know, about freedom in love, the right to motherhood, and all the rest of it. That's what's the matter with her; she's got a lot of crank notions that won't work out."
Jane laughed.
"What's the matter?"
"I was wondering if you had considered Bobs's ideas seriously enough to damn them so finally."
"No, I haven't. I have no patience with them."
"'Where ignorance is bliss,' says Jerry!" Jane teased.
He was putting away his painting things, from which he looked up and flushed.
"Look here, Jane, don't treat me like the little boy who upset the jam!"
"Don't talk like him, then, little boy Jerry," was her smiling answer.
In July the Paxtons were asked to spend a week with the Abercrombie Brendons, at their country place. One of the guests was to be a woman who wanted her portrait painted, because she admired Jerry's portrait of Mrs. Brendon so extravagantly. Jerry read the note, which Jane passed to him, at the breakfast table one morning.
"How do you feel about it?"
"Would you mind if I stayed here? Bobs could come and keep me company."
"You look all right, if that's it."
"I'll go, if you think I should, Jerry."
"I don't see why you should, if it would bore you. I don't want to go myself, I like it here. Suppose you write her that you don't feel up to it, or have some guests, but that I will come. I'd like you to go with me," he added.
"Thanks. I'm better off here."
It was settled that way, and in due time Jerry departed, and Bobs arrived.
"My-o-me, but this is Paradise, Jane Judd, after the hot streets of New York," sighed Bobs, as they walked in the garden the night of her arrival.
"I could hardly bear to think of you in that studio these days. It must be an oven, with all that skylight."
"I've been too busy to notice."
"Too busy to eat, too, I judge by this thin hand," said Jane, patting the hand on her arm. "I'm going to give you such a dose of rest and fresh air that you will protest."
"Have rest and air done it to you, Jane? You have a sort of radiance about you."
"It's the moonlight," Jane smiled.
"How do you manage it, Jane?"
"Manage what, dear?"
"To keep your balance all the time? Not to be bowled over by your own emotions?"
"I know a man who said to me, 'I find it necessary to cover my troubles with a protective coating, a something of my mind that prevents them from poisoning the whole internal atmosphere.' There is some quality of mind and heart that does this, just as the healthy blood does it for the germs. It does not kill them, but it cuts them off from poisonous contact."
"I don't know how to get this spiritual antiseptic. Would your friend give me the formula, do you think?"
"I think we all have to work out our own, Bobs."
They paced the little garden paths in silence for a time.
"You've helped me, more than any one, to get through the most difficult period of my life, Jane."
"I'm glad, dear."
"You're a good soldier; you stand up to things. I'm ashamed to whimper to you about a bullet in my heart."
"It helps some people to whimper, Bobs. It helps me not to. It's nothing to my credit, and I shall think no lessof you, if you let go, give way to it, submit to a surgeon. Then we can build new tissue."
"I'm all right, Jane, I'm building now."
"Isn't the garden fragrant to-night?"
"It's like distilled peace. Have you and Jerry been happy here?"
"We've enjoyed it very much. Jerry seems contented. He works and swims and loafs. We take long tramps in the woods, and up the beach; it is pleasant."
"Why didn't you go to the Brendons', Jane?"
"I preferred you to the Brendons; there's a compliment."
"Is Miss Morton to be there?"
"I suppose so."
"Don't you care, Jane?"
"My caring would only complicate it."
"Is Jerry glad about the baby?"
This was the first mention of the subject.
"We don't speak of it."
"When is it to be, dear?"
"October."
"You're happy about it?"
"Utterly."
Bobs squeezed her hand.
"You don't mind my speaking of it?"
"No. I hoped you would. Somehow it is hard for me to talk of it."
The week was gone, as if by magic. Jerry wired he would stay on a few days, which grew into a second week. Jerry's second wire announced that Mrs. Brendon andMiss Morton were motoring him home. Would Jane put them up for over Sunday?
"Don't you do it, Jane," urged Bobs.
"Of course, I must do it," she replied, and wired her invitation. "You must stay, Bobs; it will support me."
"I'll stay, then. Is there room?"
"They can have the big guest chamber, it has two beds."
"R-r-r!" barked Bobs.
The motor party arrived on Friday, in time for dinner. Jerry was not at all delighted at the sight of Bobs, and she took him up on it instantly.
"Didn't expect to see me here, did you, Jerry?"
"Delighted, I'm sure."
Bobs laughed and joined Mrs. Brendon and Althea, who were complimenting Jane on the house and garden.
"Like a toy place, isn't it?" said Althea.
When they had gone to their rooms to dress, Jerry said to Jane:
"Couldn't you get rid of Bobs?"
"I urged her to stay."
"But those women are not used to one room," he objected.
"It can't hurt them for two nights, Jerry."
"I hope you didn't mind my turning up with them, like this."
"Not at all, if they can put up with our simplicities. Did you have a good time?"
"Fair. Landed the portrait order."
"That's good."
"How did you and Bobs get along?"
"Famously. Doesn't she look well? She has slept out of doors, had breakfast in bed, a swim and a tramp as appetizers. She looks like a brown boy."
"And you?"
"Fine."
"I hope Mrs. Biggs won't clatter the dishes at dinner," he said.
"Don't worry, Jerry."
"God speed the day when we can have a butler!"
"Don't listen to him, God," said Jane promptly.
He laughed and went to dress.
They dined on the veranda, with a wonderful sunset in process. Mrs. Biggs was so terrified at the thought of serving Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon, that Jane had engaged Dahlia, the coloured utility woman of the settlement, for the days of the house party. Even Jerry had to admit that the dinner was good and well served. Jane was very stately in the long, straight robes he had designed for her. Bobs displayed her ready wit for their amusement. Mrs. Brendon was genuinely entertained, but Althea was on the watch every minute. Not a glance exchanged between any of the three escaped her. Mrs. Paxton's condition had given her a shock. She had come to the house with the deliberate intention of finding out what her power was over Jerry. She could not believe that he loved Jane, and yet a year of untiring effort on her part to intrigue him had accomplished nothing.
After dinner they wandered about, watching the moonrise. Jerry and Miss Morton strolled to the gate, then beyond. The three women sat on the veranda. Mrs.Brendon made herself most agreeable. She spoke of Jerry's career with enthusiasm.
"Artists need advertising just like anything else," she said. "Once you get people to talking about so-and-so's delightful portraits, his fame is made."
"I wonder who press-agented Sargent," murmured Bobs. "Weall think it is a crime for Jerry to give his time to these portraits," she added.
"You don't like his portraits, Miss Roberts?"
"I think a portrait by Jerry Paxton, savin' yer prisince, is a brilliant, shallowtour de force. He's got the clever knack of making people look patrician. It is the most flattering thing a portrait painter can do to you."
"Bobs, behave yourself," said Jane. "This is one of her hobbies, Mrs. Brendon; don't listen to her."
"I'm sure you think your husband's portraits are wonderful," her guest reassured her.
"I'm no critic," Jane evaded.
"Hypocritttt!" Bob hissed in Jane's ear.
Eleven o'clock came but no sign of the other two. Bobs yawned openly; Mrs. Brendon stifled hers.
"Where do you suppose they have gone?" she said finally.
"Maybe they're gone off in the motor boat."
"I'm for bed," said Bobs.
"Let us all go," Jane suggested.
"It's outrageous of Althea!" exclaimed Mrs. Brendon.
"Isn't she always outrageous? That type so often is," remarked Bobs ingenuously.
They went to their rooms. At midnight Bobs went to Jane's door.
"I could kill him!" she said.
"Wouldn't do any good. Go back to bed and go to sleep," Jane ordered.
About half-past one Jerry appeared. He explained that they went off in the motor boat, and it broke down. When they finally landed, Althea slipped and turned her ankle.
"I had the devil's own time getting her home," he said crossly. "I'm sorry to waken you, Jane."
"No matter."
The next morning Miss Morton was unable to leave her room. She refused to see a doctor, she needed only to keep off the foot. Jerry explained the situation elaborately and Bobs laughed. Mrs. Brendon, having had no sleep, was brief and to the point in her comment. Jane was calm as a May morn.
The invalid was carried down to the veranda for luncheon. She was a bewildering vision in lace and pink bows, stretched on thechaise-longue, with Jerry in close attendance. Mrs. Brendon napped all afternoon. Jane and Bobs went for a walk.
Sunday followed with apparently no improvement in the wounded member. It was evident that Miss Morton's visit would be prolonged.
"Jane, she has no more a sprained ankle than I have!" said Bobs.
Jane smiled.
"Your patience makes me mad! She's only doing it to annoy you and annex Jerry."
"She can't annoy me," said Jane.
Mrs. Brendon left Monday morning. Miss Mortondecided she was not so well, and kept to her bed. Jerry read aloud to her.
It was Wednesday that he came upon Jane alone.
"Jane, for God's sake, go talk to her. I'm nearly dead."
"All right. Go off for a walk, and get some exercise."
She went to the veranda, and drew a chair near her guest.
"Where's Jerry?" demanded the lady.
"He's gone for a tramp."
"With that Roberts girl?"
"Probably," lied Jane.
"I can't endure her."
"She is my best friend," Jane said shortly.
"Do you like it out here?"
"Very much."
"Must be awfully dull for Jerry."
"Oh, he manages to amuse himself."
"It always seems so dreadful for a great artist to be handicapped by poverty, a family, and all those things."
"Most great artists have been so handicapped, I believe."
"But Jerry always seems like a prince...."
"Oh, were you speaking of Jerry?"
"He should come into a fortune."
"I believe he had the opportunity," said Jane, and regretted it the minute it was out of her mouth.
"You don't like me, do you, Mrs. Paxton?"
"I trust you have not found me lacking in hospitality?"
"Oh, you've been hospitable enough. I suppose it is natural that you should not care for me much."
"Why natural?"
"Jerry and I have been together so much. I'm afraid I've kept him away from you."
"That would not have anything at all to do with my liking or disliking you," said Jane, looking directly at her.
"Why do you, then?"
"I don't really dislike you. I'm sorry for you. It is always pitiful to be the last of a type, like a lone Indian among civilized whites."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"There is a new kind of feeling among women of brains in the world to-day, a sodality. You may not have heard of it. No woman with self-respect sets herself to hurt another woman, not even to win a man they both care for. I belong to this new group, Miss Morton. That is why you are able to take advantage of my hospitality."
"You fool! Don't you know Jerry cares for me?" cried Althea, sitting up, white with rage.
"That doesn't interest me," replied Jane.
Whereupon a miracle occurred. Miss Althea Morton threw aside the silken coverlet, swung her feet to the floor, and walked quickly into the house.
Althea's departure was attended with some disturbance. She demanded a cab instantly, and cab stands do not grow on country roads. Jerry was taking full advantage of his freedom, and stayed away two full hours. Jane sat on, calmly sewing, where Althea had left her.
"I think I must have offended Miss Morton," she said, when Jerry came in.
"How?"
"I found her arrogant and a trifle insulting, so I told her what I thought of her type of woman."
"Ah.... Where is she?"
"In her room."
"But how did she get up there?"
"Walked rapidly." She smiled.
"Jane, you don't think the foot was a fake!" he protested.
"What's the difference? It's well now."
"What is she going to do?"
"She demands a cab. Billy ordered one from the village."
"I'd better go up to her, hadn't I?"
"As you like."
"After all, she is our guest."
"She was the one who forgot that, Jerry."
At that moment Miss Morton appeared, dressed for the train. She walked on to the veranda, entirely forgetful of the injured foot. Her face was very red indeed, her expression neither lily-like nor ecclesiastic.
"I suppose she has told you her version of the story," she said angrily.
"Mrs. Paxton tells me that you are angry, but I could have seen that for myself."
"I want to speak to you alone."
"I prefer that we should talk here."
"I certainly shall not talk before a woman who has insulted me. She called me a savage!"
"Did I?" said Jane, lifting her head in surprise.
"Do I understand that you are going to town?" Jerry asked.
"Yes. You will have to go with me. I can't manage alone, with this foot."
"You seem to be doing very well. I'll put you on the train and wire for them to meet you. I'm sorry, but it is impossible for me to go to town this afternoon."
Bobs sauntered up.
"Hello. Why, what's happened to the invalid?"
"I'm going to town," snapped Althea.
"Are you? What a pity! We shall miss you! You have added such a feminine touch to Jerry's harem."
"I can imagine how much you will miss me, Miss Roberts."
"Oh, I was referring to Jerry. I used the editorial 'we.' Your foot seems to be all right. Such wonderful air, here. Going to town, too, Jerry?"
"No."
"Ah, that is good news. Life is dull without the men, is it not?"
No one answered this. Jerry was driven to asking about her bags.
"The Biggs child carried them down."
"What a treasure is our Billy," said Bobs. "Considering his adenoids, he almost thinks. Fancy his carrying down bags; so sweetly thoughtful."
"Here is the cab," said Jerry, desperately, as it rattled up.
"Do I have to ride two miles in that?" gasped Althea.
"Why not walk? The roads are not very muddy," Bobs said.
"Good-bye, Miss Morton," Jane remarked casually.
Althea nodded, in silence, but Bobs seized her hand and wrung it feverishly.
"Good-bye. You've given us allsucha good time," she cried wickedly.
Jerry fairly pushed Althea into the surrey to cut short this painful interview. They rattled off down the road. Bobs did a war dance with whoops, which were plainly heard by the departing ones. Jane laughed.
"Bobs, you were wicked."
"How did this luck befall us, Jane?"
"I stood all I thought necessary from the lady, and then I rose and smote. I disliked doing it in my own house, but it had to be done. She got up in a rage and walked upstairs."
"After being carried down this morning by gentle Jerry! Thank the Lord you've got a temper, Jane."
"Poor Jerry; it made it difficult for him."
"Poor Jerry nothing! He's as glad to see her go as we are. He's had enough of her, Jane."
"That was my plan."
"You mean you stood for her, just so that he would get too much."
"It was only to-day that I found out he had had enough."
"Jane Judd Paxton, you female Machiavelli!"
"It would end in 'a' in the feminine, wouldn't it?" Jane laughed.
"You're a wise woman. I dote on your sagacity."
"Be nice to Jerry to-night, Bobs. Don't tease him."
"Oh, I won't hurt your little boy."
But Bobs was not to be restrained. After dinner she heaved a deep sigh.
"How dull it is without our Althy. She did add so much to the general conversation."
"We probably did not interest her enough to make her talk," Jane said, quick to the rescue.
"What would she be interestedwith, Jane?"
"Bobs, what will you take to let this subject drop?" said Jerry.
"What do you offer?"
"How about the study I am working on now?"
"Must see it first."
"You shall, in the morning."
"I'm free to-night, then?"
"As you are strong, be merciful."
"You don't deserve it!"
But she did drop the subject. She asked Jane about Christiansen, and if he was coming to see them.
"I haven't asked him yet."
"Wish you would have him while I'm here. I'm crazy about him."
"Ask him, Jane," said the chastened Jerry.
"I will," she said.
It was characteristic of both of them, that she sent a wire to him next day, asking him to come, and he arrived on an evening train.
"Have you ever had so prompt a guest?" he laughed, as he and Jerry came out of the woods, toward the house. He took both her hands, with cordial friendliness.
"It was such luck that my wire found you," she beamed on him.
"I tried to put him in the hack, Jane, but he would walk," said Jerry.
"Of course I would walk. What a charming place," he added.
"We love it," said Jane. "Ah, here's Bobs."
Bobs strode up the road, bare-headed, swinging a stick, like a boy.
"Well met, Atalanta," he called, going to meet her.
"Hurrah for you! Did you meet the invitation on the way out?"
"I started before I read it through," he laughed. "It's good to see you looking so well."
"It's air, and Jane; mostly Jane. Long ago Jerry made an epigram about her. He said: 'Jane can mend anything from a leak in a pipe to a broken heart.'"
They all laughed and Jane turned to Jerry saying curiously:
"Did you say that?"
"I think, with you, that it is too good for me, Jane. But I am more convinced of its truth every day."
"Why not? There must be healing presences, since there are disturbing ones," Christiansen suggested.
Martin was in fine fettle, and from the moment of his arrival, he surcharged the group with his vitality. Even Jerry was aroused by it, and as for Jane, he looked at her and listened to her as if to a stranger. Evidently she and Christiansen were on terms of easy friendship and understanding. It gave him a queer sensation to think of Jane taking a man of Christiansen's distinction as a matter of course. More startling was the fact that Christiansen waited for Jane's opinion as if it were the crux of the discussion.
Until late into the night they talked about ideals in art. Neither Bobs nor Martin showed any surprise at Jane's able expression of her thoughts on the subject, but to Jerry it was a revelation. She had a directness of attack upon an idea which he knew to be characteristic of her, but it suddenly piqued his interest.
"After all, the art ideal is the personal ideal done large," said Christiansen. "The artist can express only such truth as is the content of his own heart and mind."
"That's like your modern ethical religion; it puts it all up to you. God doesn't have to do a thing," protested Jerry.
"God has to be, just as truth has to be. That is the most important thing, isn't it?" Jane asked him.
"That's it, Jane. Art is only the expression of God and truth. It is only the big soul that lets them seep through and take form, without being eaten by the acid of personal failings. If you are bitter, or abnormal, or degenerate yourself, God and truth come through, marked second class."
"It puts a tremendous responsibility upon the artist, as Paxton says, but why should he shirk it? He is the priest of his gift, he must do some penance," Christiansen said.