Years of Grace

by Margaret Ayer Barnes

  Sampson's flagship in flashing points of fire. All waiting for the stroke of the President's pen.

  They were waiting for it on Pine Street, too. Horribly waiting. Jane's father had been waiting for it for weeks, and Robin had been waiting, and Bert Lancaster and Freddy Waters, too, for all their scoffing. Stephen had been waiting. Jane knew that. Stephen had been waiting in a queer inarticulate suspense that held for Jane a note of tacit doom. Jane had never been able to phrase the question that would terminate it. It had trembled, countless times, on her lips, during the last two months. But it had never been asked. Jane didn't want to know, beyond the possibility of doubt, just what it would do to her to face the starthng realization that Stephen was going to go to war.

  Last week he had shown her a clipping, cut from the morning 'Tribune.' A copy of Alger's letter to the State Governors.

  The President desires to raise volunteers in your

  territory to form part of a regiment of mounted riflemen to be commanded by Leonard Wood, Colonel; Theodore Roosevelt, Lieutenant-Colonel. He desires that the men selected should be young, sound, good shots and good riders, and that you expedite, by all means in your power, the enrollment of these men.

  [Signed] R. A. Alger,

  Secretary of War

  Jane had made no comment. Tt would be fun,' said Stephen, *to go.' 'Fun!' thought Jane.

  'I'm pretty bored with the bank, you know,' said Stephen. *I've nothing else to do here, unless '

  The sentence was left unfinished. Jane had tried to look very non-committal. In the peqDlexities surrounding her Jane clung firmly to one assuaging certainty. She wasn't going to be railroaded into marrying Stephen to keep him from going to war.

  But — if he went, thought Jane in the gathering dusk of Pine Street? If the dreadful moment came, when, like a girl in a book, she had to dismiss him to follow the flag to death or glory

  The notes of the first hurdy-gurdy of the season tuned up on the corner. Jane could see the little street organ, dimly, in the light of the arc lamp. A tiny object that must be the monkey was crawling around the musician's feet. Jane loved hurdy-gurdies. They meant the coming of spring on Pine Street. They meant it much more than the first robin. Jane had loved to dance to them when she was little. To follow the monkey and sHp her allowance in pennies into its cold, damp little claw. She always laughed, still, at a monkey, snatching off its little red cap with a spasmodic gesture and blinking its thanks for a coin.

  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.

  'Good-bye, Dollie, I must leave you. Though it breaks my heart to go. Something tells mc 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 sUpped into the safer strains of 'Cavalleria Rusticana.'

  'Well — we must go,' said Muriel. Muriel was beginning

  CO 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 wdth you,' said Rosalie. Her little girl v/as 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.'

  'Gome, 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, in-candescently, 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 firom 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.

  'Gk)od-night,' he said.

  The question trembled once more on Jane's lips and once more remained unspoken.

  'Gk)od-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. Be-

  yond it he vanished instantiy 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 Hke 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.

  m

  'Miss Jane,' said Minnie, 'Mr. Carver has called.'

  *Mr. Carver?' questioned Jane. It was only four o'clock on a week-day 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 thoughtftilly 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 to-night.'

  '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 th^re 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 prompdy.

  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 bit.

  'Don't mock me, Jane,' he said seriously. Then a little hesitantly. 'I'm awfully glad you're soiry.'

  'Of course I'm sorry,' said Jane. 'But I don't know that you ought to be glad about it.'

  'Just the same, I am,' said Stephen a little tremulously.

  Silence fell on the room once more.

  'Jane ' said Stephen presently and paused. He was

  stUl standing on the hearth rug. He was looking down at Jane very steadily.

  'Yes,' said Jane nervously. Her eyes were on the fire.

  'Don't you think — don't you think,' said Stephen almost humorously, 'that k's just about time for me to ask you again?'

  aoo Years of Grace

  It was very disarming. Jane couldn't help twinkling up at nim.

  'There's no time Hke the present,' she said.

  'Jane!' In a moment he was beside her on the sofa. 'Jane — does that mean ' He had her hands in his.

  'It doesn't mean anything,' said Jane hastily.

  *I don't believe you,' said Stephen. He was very close to her. His eyes were gazing eagerly into hers. His hps were twisted in a funny Uttle excited smile.

  'I don't beheve you at all,' said Stephen. 'Jane ' And

  suddenly he kissed her. His moustache felt rough and bristly against her lips.

  'Oh!' said Jane, drawing back. Her heart was beating fast. That kiss was strangely exciting.

  'DarUng!' said Stephen. His arms were around her now. Jane's hands were pressed against the tweed lapels of his coat.

  'Kiss me again!' said Stephen.

  'I — I didn't kiss you!' cried Jane in protest. *I — I didn't at all!'

  'But you will,' said Stephen. His face was flushed and eager. His eyes were gazing ardently into her own. Jane stared into them, fascinated. She could see the little yellow specks that seemed to float on the blue iris. She had never noticed them before.

  'You will!' he declared again. And again his lips met hers. This — this was dreadful, thought Jane. She — she shouldn't allow it. He pressed his cheek to hers. It felt very hard and just a Uttle rough, against her own.

  'Stephen,' said Jane weakly. 'Really — you mustn't'

  'Why not?' said Stephen. 'I love you.'

  Jane felt iiei"self relaxing in his arms.

  'You know I love you,' said Stephen.

  'Well,' said Jane faintly, her head on his shoulder, 'don't — don't kiss me again — anyway.'

  Stephen laughed aloud at that. A happy, confident laugh.

  *You darling!' he said. Then very happily, *I — I'm so glad you told me, Jane, before I went.'

  Before he went, thought Jane desperately! Of course — he was going. She had forgotten that. But she hadrCt told him. It was all wrong, somehow. Jane looked despairingly up into his face.

  'Stephen,' she said pitifully, *I — I don't know, yet^ if I love you.'

  *Of course you do,' said Stephen promptly. Jane wondered, in silence.

  'Jane,* said Stephen presently, *it — it's going to be terribly hard to leave you.'

  Jane did not speak. She felt all torn up inside. His tremulous voice was very moving.

  'Jane,' said Stephen very quietly, 'you — you wouldn't marry me — before I went?'

  Jane gave a great start. She sHpped from his embrace.

  *Oh — noP cried Jane.

  'I — I was afraid you wouldn't,' said Stephen humbly.

  'Oh — I couldn't!' said Jane. 'I — I couldn't — marry — any one.'

  Stephen was smiling at her very tenderly.

  'I don't want you to marry any one but me,' he said cheerfully.

  The levity in his tone was very reassuring.

  'Stephen,' said Jane, 'you are a dear.'

  Stephen looked absurdly pleased. It was fiin to please Stephen so easily.

  *What sort of ring shall I get you?' he asked.

  That, again, seemed oddly terrifying.

  *Oh ' said Jane evasively. 'I — I don't care. Don't —

  don't get a ring just yet.'

  *Of course I will,' said Stephen. 'I'll get it to-morrow.'

  Jane heard the doorbell ring — three brief peremptory peals.

  That's Mamma!' said Jane. Then in a sudden panic. *Oh, Stephen, please — please go. I don't want to tell her.'

  'We needn't tell her,' said Stephen calmly.

  'She'd guess!'cried Jane. 'You don't know Mamma!' She heard Minnie's step in the hall. 'Oh, Stephen! Please go!'

  'All right,* said Stephen. He rose a bit uncertainly.

  'Come back!' said Jane wildly. 'Come back after dinner! But now — I — I can't talk to Mamma. I — I want to think.* She heard the front door open. She rose to her feet.

  'Kiss me,' said Stephen. He took her in his arms. Jane slipped quickly out of them. She fairly pushed him to the door. She heard him meet her mother in the hall.

  'Why Stephen!' Her mother's voice was pleased and, mercifully, unsuspecting. Stephen's answer was inaudible. Jane turned to poke the fire. Her mother entered the room.

  'What was Stephen doing here at this hour?' she asked pleasantly.

  'He came to talk about the war,' said Jane, turning over the bits of charred birch very carefully.

  'The war?' said Mrs. Wara.

  'He thinks he'll enlist,' said Jane.

  *Oh — I tliink that's a mistake,' said Mrs. Ward earnestly.

  •Well — maybe he won't,' said Jane casually, still busy with the fire.

  Mrs. Ward walked over to the desk. She laid some letters down before her husband's chair.

  'You're a funny girl, Jane,' she said. 'Don't you care at all if he does?'

  *Oh, yes,' said Jane, 'I care — of course. But it's for him to decide.' She turned to face her mother. 'Is that the mail?' she asked.

  'Yes,' said her mother. She was watching Jane very closely. Jane went over to the desk.

  'Anything for me?' she asked.

  *I didn't notice,' said Mrs. Ward. There was a faint suggestion of irritation in her tone. Jane picked up the letters. She felt her air of indifference was just a httle elaborate. Her mother left the room, however, without further parley.

  Jane stood quietly, leaning against her father's desk, absently holding the letters in her hand. What had she done, thought Jane? How had it happened? Was she glad or sorry? She could hardly believe it, now Stephen had left the room. A moment ago she had been in his arms, on that sofa. He had — kissed her. Three times. She had let him do it. She had sat with him, on that sofa that always, always, made her think of Andre, of that dreadful moment when Andre had

  left her — she had sat there and let him kiss her But

  Stephen was going to war. She would have time. She wouldn't tell a soul. Not a soul — except her father. She would think it all over. She would tell Stephen to-night,

  that, at best, it must be just an understanding Suddenly

  Jane's eye fell on the French stamp of the topmost letter in her hand. A — French — stamp! Jane gazed at it, in horror. Yes — 'Miss Jane Ward' — in handwriting that, though changed, was unmistakably Andre's. She would be twenty-one next week. He had written! Of course he had written. She had always known he would write! And she — faithless — within the
hour had let Stephen Carver kiss her. Had let

  Stephen think that Jane dropped the other letters on the

  desk. Holding Andr6's close above her heart she rushed frantically out of the room and up the stairs and gained the

  sanctuary of her own bedroom. Softly she locked the door. Then sank into the chair by the window overlooking the amber willow tree. Andre had written. He had not forgotten. Andr6 was going to come.

  Jane slowly drew the letter from the thin-papered envelope. It looked strangely foreign. The very writing, faintly blotted on that sheer French paper, had a subtly alien air. But it was undeniably Andre's own. Yes — at the end of the twelfth closely written sheet, there was his name, 'Your Andre.' Her Andr^! Jane turned to the first page and began to read.

  'Dear Jane, I hardly know what to say to you, or how to say it. But of course I want to write. I want to write, even though I have no idea, now, what sort of a person you may have grown up to be, how you may have changed from the child that I loved.'

  Loved, thought Jane with a faint chill of foreboding? And child?

  *We were both children, of course. We see that now. And in the four years that have passed you have grown up into a woman. I have a strange sense of embarrassment in writing to you. For I have grown up, too, Jane, and I am not at all sure that you will welcome my letter. Perhaps you do not even remember that I was to have written it.'

  Remember, thought Jane! What had she ever forgotten?