CHAPTER VKennethwas roused by a light tap upon the door. Opening it, Mamie stood on the threshold. Inquiring whether Kenneth had finished his work, and on being told he had, she entered. “Kenneth, why do you spend all your time here in the office? Don’t you think mamma and I want to talk with you occasionally?”Mamie seated herself on the arm of Kenneth’s chair.“Seems like you’re becoming a regular hermit since you’ve been back. Come on in the parlour—Jane Phillips is in there and she wants to see you. Remember her?”Kenneth smiled. “Remember Jane Phillips? Of course I do. Scrawny little thing—running all to legs and arms. She was a homely little brat, wasn’t she?”It was now Mamie’s turn to smile.“I’m going to tell her what you said,” she threatened. “She’s lots different from the girl you remember.”They went into the parlour.Jane Phillips stood by the piano. She turned as Kenneth and Mamie entered the room, and came towards them, a smile on her face. Kenneth, as headvanced towards her, was frankly amazed at the transformation in the girl whom he had not seen for nine years. Jane laughed.“Don’t you know me, Kenneth? Or must I call you Dr. Harper now?”“No, my name is still Kenneth⸺” he answered.“Tell Jane what you called her a few minutes ago, or I will,” interrupted Mamie. Kenneth looked embarrassed. Jane insisted on being told, whereupon Mamie repeated Kenneth’s description of Jane as a child.Caught between the upper and nether millstones of the raillery of the two girls, Kenneth tried to explain away his embarrassment, but they gave him no peace.“Let me explain,” he begged. “When I went away you were a scrawny little thing, a regular tomboy and as mischievous as they make them. And now you’re a—you’re—you’re” Jane laughed at his attempt, somewhat lacking in fullness, to say what she had become with the passage of the years.“Whatever it is you are trying to say, I hope it’s something all right you are calling me—though from your tone I’m not at all sure,” she ended, letting a note of mock concern creep in her voice.By this time Kenneth had somewhat recovered his composure. He entered into the spirit of play himself by telling her his surprise had been due to his finding her unchanged from the little girl he had once known, but Jane laughed at his ineffectual efforts to answer Mamie’s and her teasing. To changethe conversation, he demanded that she tell him all that she had been doing since he saw her last.“There isn’t much to tell,” she declared. “I went away soon after you did, going to Fisk University, graduated last June, got a position teaching in North Carolina, and am home for the holidays. Next year I want to have enough money to go to Oberlin and finish my music. That’s all there is to my little story. You are the one who has been having all sorts of experiences. I want to hear your story.”“Mine isn’t much longer,” answered Kenneth. “Four years of medical school. A year’s interneship in New York at Bellevue. Three months in training camps. A year and a half in France. Six months at the Sorbonne. Then New York. Then exams at Atlanta for my licence. Home. And here I am.”“Don’t you believe him, Jane,” said Mamie.“That’s just his way of telling it. Ken has had all sorts of exciting experiences, yet he has come home and we can’t get him to talk about a thing except building a practice and a hospital.”“What do you want me to talk about?” asked Kenneth.“Paris—school—army life what did you see?—how do you like New York?—is New York as good a place to live in as Paris?”Kenneth threw up his hands in mock defence at the barrage of questions Jane and Mamie fired at him.“Just a minute—just a minute,” he begged them. “I could talk all night on any one of the questions you’ve asked and then not finish with it or tell you more than half. If you two will only be quiet, I’ll tell you as much as I can.”Mrs. Harper, hearing the voices, came into the room. The three women sat in silence as Kenneth told of his years at school, of his stay in New York, his experiences in the army, of the beauties of Paris even in war time, of study at a French university. He gave to the narrative a vividness and air of reality that made his auditors see through his eyes the scenes and experiences he was describing. Though none of them had been in France, he made them feel as though they too were walking through the Place de la Concorde viewing the statues to the eight great cities of France or shopping in the Rue de la Paix or attempting to order dinner in a restaurant with an all-too-inadequate French vocabulary. He finished.“Now you’ve got to sing for me, Jane, as a reward for all the talking I’ve been doing.”With the usual feminine protests that she had no music with her, Jane went to the open piano. She inquired what he would like to have her sing.“Anything except the ‘Memphis Blues,’ which is all I’ve heard since I came back to Central City,” he answered.Jane ran over the keys experimentally, improvising. A floor lamp stood near the piano casting a soft light over her. Her long, delicately pointed fingers lingered lovingly on the ivory keys, and then sheplayed the opening bars of Saint-Saën’s “My Heart at Thy Sweet Voice.” Her voice, a rounded, rich contralto, showing considerable training, gave to the song a tender pathos, a yearning, a promise of deep and understanding love. She sang with a grace and clear phrasing that bespoke the simple charm of the singer. Kenneth gazed at her in wonder at the amazing metamorphosis of the shy, gawky child Jane whom he had only rarely noticed, and then with the condescending air of twenty looking at twelve. In her stead had come a woman, rounded, attractive even beautiful, intelligent, and altogether desirable. The chrysalis had changed to the gorgeously coloured butterfly. Her skin was a soft brown—almost bronze. He thought of velvety pansies richly coloured—of the warmth of rubies of great price of the lustrous beauty of the sky on a spring evening. Her eyes shone with a sparkling and provocative clearness, looking straight at one from their brown depths. Little tendrils of her black hair at the back of her neck were disturbed every now and then by the breeze from the open windows, while above were piled masses of coiled blackness that shone in the dim light with a glossy lustre. To Kenneth came visions of a soft-eyedseñoritain an old Spanish town leaning from her balcony while below, to the accompaniment of a muted guitar, her lover sang to her of his ardent love. Kenneth blushed when he realized that in every picture he had cast himself for the rôle of gallant troubadour.His mother had quietly slipped from the room toretire for the evening. Mamie had gone to prepare something cool for them to drink. Kenneth had not heard them go. In fact, lost in the momentary forgetfulness created by Jane and the song, he had completely forgotten them. He did not, however, fail to realize that the dreams he was having were in large measure due to the soft light, to surprise at the great changes in Jane, to the lulling seductiveness of the music. He was sure that his feeling was due in largest measure to a reaction from his unpleasant conversation with Roy Ewing. He vaguely realized that when on the morrow he saw Jane by daylight, she would not seem half so charming and attractive. Yet he was of such a temperament that he could give himself up to the spell of the moment and extract from it all the pleasure in it. It was in that manner he put aside the things which were unpleasant, enabling him to shake off memories like mists of the morning ascending from the depths of a valley.The song was ended. Herself caught in its spell, Jane swung into that most beautiful of the Negro spirituals, “Deep River.” Into it she poured her soul. She filled the room with the pathos of that song born in the dark days of slavery of a people torn from their home and thrust into the thraldom of human bondage.And then Jane sang “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” The song ended, her fingers yet clung to the keys but her hands hung listless. Kenneth knew not how or when he had risen from his chair and gone to the piano where he stood behind Jane.Something deep within them had been touched by the music—a strange thrill filled them, making them oblivious to everything except the presence of each other. Kenneth lightly placed his hands on her shoulders. Without speaking or turning, she placed her hands for a moment on his. He bent over her while she raised her face to his, her eyes misty with tears born of the emotion aroused by the song. Though often laughed at in real life and often distorted in fiction, love almost at first sight had been born within them. Kenneth slowly brought her face nearer his while Jane, with parted lips, let the back of her head rest against his breast. Love, with its strange retroactive effects, brought to both of them in that moment the sudden realization, though neither of them had known it, that they had always loved each other. Not a word had been spoken—each was busy constructing his love in silence. A great emptiness in their lives had been suddenly, miraculously filled.Their lips were almost touching when a noise brought them to themselves with a shock. It was Mamie. She entered the room bearing a tray on which were sandwiches, cakes, and tall glasses in which cracked ice clinked coolingly. Kenneth hid his annoyance and, with as nonchalant an air as possible, went back to his chair.When they had eaten, Jane rose to go. Kenneth walked home with her. Neither spoke until they had reached her gate. Jane entered as Kenneth held it open for her. He would have followed her in but she turned, extended her hand to him as a sign ofdismissal, and asked him to leave her there. Kenneth said nothing, but his face showed his disappointment at being hastened away by the same girl who less than half an hour before had almost been in his arms.“Please don’t say anything, Ken,” she pleaded. “It was my fault—I shouldn’t have done what I did. I used to worship you when I was little, but I thought I had gotten over that—until to-night.”Her voice sank almost to a whisper. In it was a note of trouble and perplexity. She went on:“I—oh, Kenneth—what happened to-night must not be repeated.”Puzzled and a bit hurt, he asked her what she meant.“Don’t get the wrong idea, Ken. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you for the world.”“But what is it, Jane?” begged Kenneth. “I love you, Jane, have always loved you. I was blind—until to-night⸺”Kenneth poured forth the words in a torrent of emotion. Whirling thoughts tore through his brain. He sought to seize Jane’s hand and draw her to him, but she eluded him.“No—no—Kenneth, you mustn’t. I can’t let you make love to me. Let’s be friends, Ken, and enjoy these few days and forget all we’ve said to-night, won’t you, please?” she ended pleadingly.Kenneth said nothing. He turned abruptly and strode away without even saying good night. Hands thrust deep into his pockets, his head hanging in disappointment and wounded pride, he hurried home without once turning to look back. …Her ten days of vacation passed all too soon for Jane. She and Kenneth saw each other frequently, but never alone until the night before she returned to North Carolina. It was at a dance given in her honour. All evening he had been seeking a dance with her, but met with no success until the party was almost over. They danced in silence. Jane seemed suddenly sad. All evening she had been happy, gay, even flirtatious, but now that she was with Kenneth, her gaiety had been dropped like a mask. Half-way through the dance they came near a door that opened on a balcony overlooking a flower garden. Saying nothing to Jane, Kenneth danced her through the door and on to the balcony, where they sat on a bench that stood in the semi-darkness. Though it was December, the air was warm. No sound disturbed the silence of the night save the music and voices which floated through the open door.“Haven’t you anything to say?” Kenneth anxiously inquired, taking one of Jane’s hands in his.“Nothing except this—I don’t know whether I care for you or not,” said Jane as she freed her hand and drew herself away. Her voice was firm and determined. Kenneth, ignorant of the ways of a maid with a man, said nothing, but his shoulders drooped dejectedly.“What happened the other night was madness—I was very foolish for allowing it.” She paused, andthen went on. “Kenneth, I don’t know, I want my music, I want to see something of life I want to live! I just can’t tie myself down by marrying—I don’t know whether I’ll ever want to. You’ll have to wait—if you care to⸺”It was half command, half question. He said nothing.He did not know how she longed for him to argue with her, override her objections, convince her against her will. She waited a full minute. Still he sat there silent. She rose and re-entered the house, leaving him there alone.
Kennethwas roused by a light tap upon the door. Opening it, Mamie stood on the threshold. Inquiring whether Kenneth had finished his work, and on being told he had, she entered. “Kenneth, why do you spend all your time here in the office? Don’t you think mamma and I want to talk with you occasionally?”
Mamie seated herself on the arm of Kenneth’s chair.
“Seems like you’re becoming a regular hermit since you’ve been back. Come on in the parlour—Jane Phillips is in there and she wants to see you. Remember her?”
Kenneth smiled. “Remember Jane Phillips? Of course I do. Scrawny little thing—running all to legs and arms. She was a homely little brat, wasn’t she?”
It was now Mamie’s turn to smile.
“I’m going to tell her what you said,” she threatened. “She’s lots different from the girl you remember.”
They went into the parlour.
Jane Phillips stood by the piano. She turned as Kenneth and Mamie entered the room, and came towards them, a smile on her face. Kenneth, as headvanced towards her, was frankly amazed at the transformation in the girl whom he had not seen for nine years. Jane laughed.
“Don’t you know me, Kenneth? Or must I call you Dr. Harper now?”
“No, my name is still Kenneth⸺” he answered.
“Tell Jane what you called her a few minutes ago, or I will,” interrupted Mamie. Kenneth looked embarrassed. Jane insisted on being told, whereupon Mamie repeated Kenneth’s description of Jane as a child.
Caught between the upper and nether millstones of the raillery of the two girls, Kenneth tried to explain away his embarrassment, but they gave him no peace.
“Let me explain,” he begged. “When I went away you were a scrawny little thing, a regular tomboy and as mischievous as they make them. And now you’re a—you’re—you’re” Jane laughed at his attempt, somewhat lacking in fullness, to say what she had become with the passage of the years.
“Whatever it is you are trying to say, I hope it’s something all right you are calling me—though from your tone I’m not at all sure,” she ended, letting a note of mock concern creep in her voice.
By this time Kenneth had somewhat recovered his composure. He entered into the spirit of play himself by telling her his surprise had been due to his finding her unchanged from the little girl he had once known, but Jane laughed at his ineffectual efforts to answer Mamie’s and her teasing. To changethe conversation, he demanded that she tell him all that she had been doing since he saw her last.
“There isn’t much to tell,” she declared. “I went away soon after you did, going to Fisk University, graduated last June, got a position teaching in North Carolina, and am home for the holidays. Next year I want to have enough money to go to Oberlin and finish my music. That’s all there is to my little story. You are the one who has been having all sorts of experiences. I want to hear your story.”
“Mine isn’t much longer,” answered Kenneth. “Four years of medical school. A year’s interneship in New York at Bellevue. Three months in training camps. A year and a half in France. Six months at the Sorbonne. Then New York. Then exams at Atlanta for my licence. Home. And here I am.”
“Don’t you believe him, Jane,” said Mamie.
“That’s just his way of telling it. Ken has had all sorts of exciting experiences, yet he has come home and we can’t get him to talk about a thing except building a practice and a hospital.”
“What do you want me to talk about?” asked Kenneth.
“Paris—school—army life what did you see?—how do you like New York?—is New York as good a place to live in as Paris?”
Kenneth threw up his hands in mock defence at the barrage of questions Jane and Mamie fired at him.
“Just a minute—just a minute,” he begged them. “I could talk all night on any one of the questions you’ve asked and then not finish with it or tell you more than half. If you two will only be quiet, I’ll tell you as much as I can.”
Mrs. Harper, hearing the voices, came into the room. The three women sat in silence as Kenneth told of his years at school, of his stay in New York, his experiences in the army, of the beauties of Paris even in war time, of study at a French university. He gave to the narrative a vividness and air of reality that made his auditors see through his eyes the scenes and experiences he was describing. Though none of them had been in France, he made them feel as though they too were walking through the Place de la Concorde viewing the statues to the eight great cities of France or shopping in the Rue de la Paix or attempting to order dinner in a restaurant with an all-too-inadequate French vocabulary. He finished.
“Now you’ve got to sing for me, Jane, as a reward for all the talking I’ve been doing.”
With the usual feminine protests that she had no music with her, Jane went to the open piano. She inquired what he would like to have her sing.
“Anything except the ‘Memphis Blues,’ which is all I’ve heard since I came back to Central City,” he answered.
Jane ran over the keys experimentally, improvising. A floor lamp stood near the piano casting a soft light over her. Her long, delicately pointed fingers lingered lovingly on the ivory keys, and then sheplayed the opening bars of Saint-Saën’s “My Heart at Thy Sweet Voice.” Her voice, a rounded, rich contralto, showing considerable training, gave to the song a tender pathos, a yearning, a promise of deep and understanding love. She sang with a grace and clear phrasing that bespoke the simple charm of the singer. Kenneth gazed at her in wonder at the amazing metamorphosis of the shy, gawky child Jane whom he had only rarely noticed, and then with the condescending air of twenty looking at twelve. In her stead had come a woman, rounded, attractive even beautiful, intelligent, and altogether desirable. The chrysalis had changed to the gorgeously coloured butterfly. Her skin was a soft brown—almost bronze. He thought of velvety pansies richly coloured—of the warmth of rubies of great price of the lustrous beauty of the sky on a spring evening. Her eyes shone with a sparkling and provocative clearness, looking straight at one from their brown depths. Little tendrils of her black hair at the back of her neck were disturbed every now and then by the breeze from the open windows, while above were piled masses of coiled blackness that shone in the dim light with a glossy lustre. To Kenneth came visions of a soft-eyedseñoritain an old Spanish town leaning from her balcony while below, to the accompaniment of a muted guitar, her lover sang to her of his ardent love. Kenneth blushed when he realized that in every picture he had cast himself for the rôle of gallant troubadour.
His mother had quietly slipped from the room toretire for the evening. Mamie had gone to prepare something cool for them to drink. Kenneth had not heard them go. In fact, lost in the momentary forgetfulness created by Jane and the song, he had completely forgotten them. He did not, however, fail to realize that the dreams he was having were in large measure due to the soft light, to surprise at the great changes in Jane, to the lulling seductiveness of the music. He was sure that his feeling was due in largest measure to a reaction from his unpleasant conversation with Roy Ewing. He vaguely realized that when on the morrow he saw Jane by daylight, she would not seem half so charming and attractive. Yet he was of such a temperament that he could give himself up to the spell of the moment and extract from it all the pleasure in it. It was in that manner he put aside the things which were unpleasant, enabling him to shake off memories like mists of the morning ascending from the depths of a valley.
The song was ended. Herself caught in its spell, Jane swung into that most beautiful of the Negro spirituals, “Deep River.” Into it she poured her soul. She filled the room with the pathos of that song born in the dark days of slavery of a people torn from their home and thrust into the thraldom of human bondage.
And then Jane sang “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” The song ended, her fingers yet clung to the keys but her hands hung listless. Kenneth knew not how or when he had risen from his chair and gone to the piano where he stood behind Jane.Something deep within them had been touched by the music—a strange thrill filled them, making them oblivious to everything except the presence of each other. Kenneth lightly placed his hands on her shoulders. Without speaking or turning, she placed her hands for a moment on his. He bent over her while she raised her face to his, her eyes misty with tears born of the emotion aroused by the song. Though often laughed at in real life and often distorted in fiction, love almost at first sight had been born within them. Kenneth slowly brought her face nearer his while Jane, with parted lips, let the back of her head rest against his breast. Love, with its strange retroactive effects, brought to both of them in that moment the sudden realization, though neither of them had known it, that they had always loved each other. Not a word had been spoken—each was busy constructing his love in silence. A great emptiness in their lives had been suddenly, miraculously filled.
Their lips were almost touching when a noise brought them to themselves with a shock. It was Mamie. She entered the room bearing a tray on which were sandwiches, cakes, and tall glasses in which cracked ice clinked coolingly. Kenneth hid his annoyance and, with as nonchalant an air as possible, went back to his chair.
When they had eaten, Jane rose to go. Kenneth walked home with her. Neither spoke until they had reached her gate. Jane entered as Kenneth held it open for her. He would have followed her in but she turned, extended her hand to him as a sign ofdismissal, and asked him to leave her there. Kenneth said nothing, but his face showed his disappointment at being hastened away by the same girl who less than half an hour before had almost been in his arms.
“Please don’t say anything, Ken,” she pleaded. “It was my fault—I shouldn’t have done what I did. I used to worship you when I was little, but I thought I had gotten over that—until to-night.”
Her voice sank almost to a whisper. In it was a note of trouble and perplexity. She went on:
“I—oh, Kenneth—what happened to-night must not be repeated.”
Puzzled and a bit hurt, he asked her what she meant.
“Don’t get the wrong idea, Ken. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you for the world.”
“But what is it, Jane?” begged Kenneth. “I love you, Jane, have always loved you. I was blind—until to-night⸺”
Kenneth poured forth the words in a torrent of emotion. Whirling thoughts tore through his brain. He sought to seize Jane’s hand and draw her to him, but she eluded him.
“No—no—Kenneth, you mustn’t. I can’t let you make love to me. Let’s be friends, Ken, and enjoy these few days and forget all we’ve said to-night, won’t you, please?” she ended pleadingly.
Kenneth said nothing. He turned abruptly and strode away without even saying good night. Hands thrust deep into his pockets, his head hanging in disappointment and wounded pride, he hurried home without once turning to look back. …
Her ten days of vacation passed all too soon for Jane. She and Kenneth saw each other frequently, but never alone until the night before she returned to North Carolina. It was at a dance given in her honour. All evening he had been seeking a dance with her, but met with no success until the party was almost over. They danced in silence. Jane seemed suddenly sad. All evening she had been happy, gay, even flirtatious, but now that she was with Kenneth, her gaiety had been dropped like a mask. Half-way through the dance they came near a door that opened on a balcony overlooking a flower garden. Saying nothing to Jane, Kenneth danced her through the door and on to the balcony, where they sat on a bench that stood in the semi-darkness. Though it was December, the air was warm. No sound disturbed the silence of the night save the music and voices which floated through the open door.
“Haven’t you anything to say?” Kenneth anxiously inquired, taking one of Jane’s hands in his.
“Nothing except this—I don’t know whether I care for you or not,” said Jane as she freed her hand and drew herself away. Her voice was firm and determined. Kenneth, ignorant of the ways of a maid with a man, said nothing, but his shoulders drooped dejectedly.
“What happened the other night was madness—I was very foolish for allowing it.” She paused, andthen went on. “Kenneth, I don’t know, I want my music, I want to see something of life I want to live! I just can’t tie myself down by marrying—I don’t know whether I’ll ever want to. You’ll have to wait—if you care to⸺”
It was half command, half question. He said nothing.
He did not know how she longed for him to argue with her, override her objections, convince her against her will. She waited a full minute. Still he sat there silent. She rose and re-entered the house, leaving him there alone.