Jane went through the kitchen to the back door, throwing an appraising glance at the things in the warming oven, and stood waiting on the threshold, hugging herself in the keenness of the wind.
Presently her brother’s tall form was silhouetted against the silvery gray of the night.
“I thought you were never coming,” she said to him.
“I thought so, too.” He bent and kissed her; his cheek was cold as it touched hers.
“Aren’t you nearly frozen?”
“No. Sorry to be late, honey. Get dinner on the table and I’ll be ready——”
“I’m afraid things won’t be very appetizing,” she told him; “they’ve waited so long. But I’ll cook the steak——”
He had gone on, and was beyond the sound of her voice. She opened the fat parcel which he had deposited on the kitchen table. She wondered a bit at its size. But Baldy had a way of bringing home unexpected bargains—a dozen boxes of crackers—unwieldy pounds of coffee.
But this was neither crackers nor coffee. The box which was revealed bore the name of a fashionable florist. Within were violets—single ones—set off by one perfect rose and tied with a silver ribbon.
Jane gasped—then she went to the door and called:
“Baldy, where’s the steak?”
He came to the top of the stairs. “Great guns,” he said, “I forgot it!”
Then he saw the violets in her hands, laughed and came down a step or two. “I sold a loaf of bread and bought—white hyacinths——”
“They’re heavenly!” Her glance swept up to him. “Peace offering?”
There were gay sparks in his eyes. “We’ll call it that.”
She blew a kiss to him from the tips of her fingers. “They are perfectly sweet. And we can have an omelette. Only if we eat any more eggs, we’ll be flapping our wings.”
“I don’t care what we have. I am so hungry I could eat a house.” He went back up the stairs, laughing.
Jane, breaking eggs into a bowl, meditated on the nonchalance of men. She meditated, too, on the mystery of Baldy’s mood. The flowers were evidence of high exaltation. He did not often lend himself to such extravagance.
He came down presently and helped carry in the belated dinner. The potatoes lay like withered leaves in a silver dish, the cornbread was a wrinkled wreck, the pudding a travesty. Only Jane’s omelette and a lettuce salad had escaped the blight of delay.
Then, too, there was Philomel, singing. Jane drew a cup of coffee, hot and strong, and set it at her brother’s place. The violets were in the center of the table, the cats purring on the hearth.
Jane loved her little home with almost passionate intensity. She loved to have Baldy in a mood like this—things right once more with his world.
She knew it was so by the ring of his voice, the cock of his head—hence she was not in the least surprised when he leaned forward under the old-fashioned spreading dome which drenched him with light, and said, “I’ve such a lot to tell you, Jane; the most amazing thing has happened.”
CHAPTER II
A PRINCESS PASSES
When young Baldwin Barnes had ridden out of Sherwood that morning on his way to Washington, his car had swept by fields which were crisp and frozen; by clumps of trees whose pointed tops cut into the clear blue of the sky; over ice-bound streams, all shining silver in the early sunlight.
It was very cold, and his little car was open to the weather. But he felt no chill. He wore the mustard-colored top-coat which had been his lieutenant’s garb in the army. The collar was turned up to protect his ears. His face showed pink and wedge-shaped between his soft hat and his collar.
He had the eye of an artist, and he liked the ride. Even in winter the countryside was attractive—and as the road slipped away, there came a few big houses surrounded by wide grounds, with glimpses through their high hedges of white statues, of spired cedars, of sun-dials set in the midst of dead gardens.
Beyond these there was an arid stretch until the Lake was reached, then the links of one country club, the old buildings of another, and at last on the crest of a hill, a view of the city—sweeping on the right towards Arlington and on the left towards Soldiers’ Home.
Turning into Sixteenth Street, he crossed a bridge with its buttresses guarded by stone panthers—and it was on this bridge that his car stopped.
Climbing out, he blamed Fate furiously. Years afterward, however, he dared not think of the difference it might have made if his little flivver had not failed him.
He raised the hood and tapped and tinkered. Now and then he stopped to stamp his feet or beat his hands together. And he said things under his breath. He would be late at the office—life was just one—darned thing—after another!
Once when he stopped, a woman passed him. She was tall and slender and wrapped up to her ears in moleskin. Her small hat was blue, from her hand swung a gray suede bag, her feet were in gray shoes with cut-steel buckles.
Baldy’s quick eyes took in the details of her costume. He reflected as he went back to work that women were fools to court death in that fashion, with thin slippers and silk stockings, in this bitter weather.
He found the trouble, fixed it, jumped into his car and started his motor. And it was just as he was moving that his eye was caught by a spot of blue bobbing down the hill below the bridge. The woman who had passed him was making her way slowly along the slippery path. On each side of her the trees were brown and bare. At the foot of the hill was a thread of frozen water.
It was not usual at this time to see pedestrians in that place. Now and then a workman took a short cut—or on warm days there were picnic parties—but to follow the rough paths in winter was a bleak and arduous adventure.
He stayed for a moment to watch her, then suddenly left his car and ran. The girl in the blue hat had caught her high heels in a root, had stumbled and fallen.
When he reached her, she was struggling to her feet. He helped her, and picked up the bag which she had dropped.
“Thank you so much.” Her voice was low and pleasing. He saw that she was young, that her skin was very fair, and that the hair which swept over her ears was pale gold, but most of all, he saw that her eyes were burning blue. He had never seen eyes quite like them. The old poets would have called them sapphire, but sapphires do not flame.
“It was so silly of me to try to do it,” she was protesting, “but I thought it might be a short cut——”
He wondered what her destination might be that this remote path should lead to it. But all he said was, “High heels aren’t made for—mountain climbing——”
“They aren’t made for anything,” she said, looking down at the steel-buckled slippers, “useful.”
“Let me help you up the hill.”
“I don’t want to go up.”
He surveyed the steep incline. “I am perfectly sure you don’t want to go down.”
“I do,” she hesitated, “but I suppose I can’t.”
He had a sudden inspiration. “Can I take you anywhere? My little flivver is up there on the bridge. Would you mind that?”
“Would I mind if a life-line were thrown to me in mid-ocean?” She said it lightly, but he fancied there was a note of high hope.