And there was a ghost who came in a fog and said, “You are a lantern, Jane—held high.”
And that ghost in the glow of the hearth-fire—“You are food and drink to me, Jane. Do you know it?”
Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts; holding out appealing hands to her. And always she had turned away. But now she did not turn. Over and over again she lent her ears to those whispering words, “Jane, you are wine.... Jane, you are a lantern.... You are food and drink, Jane....”
Well, she was having her punishment. She had not loved him when he needed her. And now that she needed him, she must not love him.
She hardly knew herself. All the years of her life she had seen things straight, and she had tried to live up to that vision. She saw them straight now. She did not love Frederick Towne. She had no right to marry him. Yet she must. There was no way out.
Towne was aware of a difference in her when he returned from New York. She was more remote. A little less responsive. Yet these things caused him no disquiet. Her crisp coolness had always constituted one of her great charms. “You are tired, dearest,” he told her. “I wish you would marry me right away, and let me make you happy.”
They were lunching at the Capitol in the Senate restaurant. Frederick was an imposing figure and Jane was aware of his importance. People glanced at him and glanced again, and then told others who he was. Some day she would be his wife, and everybody would be telling everybody else that she was the wife of the great Frederick Towne.
The attentive waiter at her elbow laid toast on her plate, and served Maryland crab from a silver chafing-dish. Frederick knew what she liked and had ordered without asking her. But the delicious food was tasteless. She had been afraid Frederick would say something about an immediate marriage, and now he was saying it.
“Oh,” she told him, earnestly, “you promised I might wait until Judy could come on. In June.”
“I know. But it will be very hot, and you’ll have a whole lifetime in which to see Judy.”