Years of Grace

by Margaret Ayer Barnes

  *I'll make the bed,' said Jane.

  'Oh — do you want to?' asked Agnes. Jane nodded. 'Well, it'would save time.' She vanished into the bathroom with her daughter.

  Jane walked very soberly over to the bed and pulled off the sheets and turned the mattress. She heard once more the sound of running water. This bedroom was not fit to live in, thought Jane. A black hole of Calcutta. How could Agnes put up with it? How could Agnes put up with a husband who didn't get out of bed in the morning until after she had gone down to her office to earn his living? Jane tucked the bottom sheet firmly under the mattress. She'd like to take Jimmy by the ear, she thought, and make him make his own bed, while Agnes sat in a rocking-chair and watched him do it. Jane was thoroughly shocked by Agnes's revelation. Lots ol wives, of course, lay serenely in bed ev^ery morning until long after the bread-winner had departed for his day's work. But that seemed different, somehow. Why did it? If Jimmy had

  nothing in life to get up for, there was, of course, no real reason

  for his getting up. Still Jane smoothed the blankets and

  turned to pick up the counterpane from the window-sill. Wasn't Jimmy acting just the way she had always wished that Stephen sometimes would? Stephen thought the world would come to an end if he did not catch the eight o'clock train every morning at the Lakewood Station. Jane had been mocking that delusion of Stephen's for the last fifteen years.

  Agnes reentered the room with a clean blue-rompered daughter at her side. Jane smoothed the counterpane over the piUow. Agnes walked over to the bureau and, still without glancing in the mirror, ran a comb casually through her low pompadour. Agnes did her hair just the way she always had since the day that she first put it up — a big figure eight twisted halfway up her head in the back. She had always run a comb through it just Ukc that, without a thought for a looking-glass.

  'Come on,' said Agnes.

  Jimmy rose from the sofa as they entered the living-room.

  'Where are we going?' he asked. 'Tony's?'

  *I thought so,' said Agnes. Then, turning to Jane, 'Or do you hate Italian food?'

  The night was so hot that Jane thought that she would hate food of any nationality.

  'I love it,' she said falsely.

  They all walked down the corridor and the uncarpetcd stairs into the odour of cooking cabbage and out into the comparative freshness of the sultry street.

  *Tony's is just around the comer,' said Agnes. She shpped one arm through Jane's and the other through Jimmy's. Little Agnes skipped on ahead of them. She seemed to know the way to Tony's quite as well as her parents did. Jane threw a glance past Agnes's clever, contented face to Jimmy's

  faun-like countenance. It was clever, too, but it wasn't very contented, Jane thought. In the grey September twilight Jimmy looked older than he had in the softer light of the chintz-hung living-room. Suddenly he met her eyes and smiled.

  'This is swell!' he said cheerfully. *But an embarrassment of riches! Taking two beautiful women out to dinner at Tony's the same night!' And sudderJy he began softly, ridiculously, to sing.

  *How happy could I be with cither. Were t'other dear charmer away!'

  A wrinkled old woman, pulling a little wagon full of kindling, turned to smile toothlessly up at him at the sound of his artless tenor. He grinned at her pleasantly and resumed hi* song. Jimmy might be irritating, thought Jane, and of course he was a worthless husband, but he had charm.

  m The waiter's hand, which touched Jane's accidentally as he placed her demi-tasse before her, felt damp and warmly clammy. His collar was wilted and great drops of perspiration beaded his swarthy brow. Throughout the meal Jane had seen him surreptitiously mopping it with the wrinkled napkin that hung over his arm. 'Tony's' was hot and very crowded. Vaguely conscious of having eaten too much garUc in the salad and too much cheese in the spaghetti and of having drunk rather more Chianti than was perhaps quite wise on such a warm evening, Jane was half-listening to Jimmy, who was conversing most intelligendy on modem American music, and half-reflecting that httle Agnes, who had eaten quite as much garhc and cheese as she had herself, should have been in bed hours ago and would certainly be sick when once she was. The child was half-asleep in her chair.

  Agnes was arguing with Jimmy, also most intelligently, on modem American music and every one else within hearing at the little candlelit tables seemed to be arguing ako. Across the room four dark-eyed, oily-headed, hairy-wristed young men were certainly arguing very vociferously in Italian on some unknown subject, and, just beyond them, a middle-aged woman with short grey hair and a green smock was arguing in tense undertones with her adolescent escort as to whether or no he should order another apricot brandy, and at the round table in the middle of the room an uproarious group of young men and women were shouting their arguments on the relative merits of Matisse and Picasso, two painters, apparendy, of whom, until that moment, Jane had never even heard.

  In spite of the heat and the garlic and the cheese and the arguments, and, possibly, Jane thought, partly because of the Chianti, she had enjoyed the evening very much indeed. It was fun to be with Agnes again and fun, after two months at Gull Rocks, to be chattering carelessly with contemporaries whose intellectual slant on hfe was the same as her own. Moreover, Jane, in the course of the evening, had become comfortingly reassured about Jimmy. Why, she almost understood, already, why Agnes had married him. He was certainly amusing and seemed also to be intelligent, and he was very much sweeter with Agres and his little daughter thar Jane had expected him to be after his cavalier references tc them in his initial advances toward her. He did not seem at all Hke Agnes's husband, of course. He did not seem like any one's husband. More like some young relative — a brother or a cousin or even a nephew — whose attitude toward his family was marked by humorous detachment, affectionate and appreciative, but distinctly irresponsible.

  His attitude toward Jane had been marked by a mocking,

  but flattering, attention and a rapidly increasing sense of intimacy. There was something in his manner, not at all unpleasant, that seemed subtly to suggest that he was always remembering that Jane was a woman and never allowing her to forget that he was a man. Jane could not think of any other American husband who was just hke him. Bert Lancaster, of course, was always woman-conscious, but in a slimy, satyrish sort of way that bore no resemblance to Jimmy's cool recognition of a world in which you felt he thanked God that there were two sexes. There was a friendly matter-of-factness about Jimmy's frank admiration that made Jane feel very sure that they would get on well together. She was glad that he was coming to Chicago.

  He was coming, almost immediately, to take up a friend*8 job as musical critic on the 'Daily News,' while that friend spent the winter in Munich. He was bringing his fiddle and the unfinished concerto and he expected to get a great deal of work done in some boarding-house bedroom, with no woman around to distract him. Agnes hoped that he would. She hoped to do some writing herself, in the evenings after little Agnes was in bed. Not the novel, of course — she would never finish that now; but she had plots for a couple of short stories that she thought she could sell and—Jane would laugh at her, she knew — an idea for a play about newspaper life that had never been done before.

  Jane did not laugh at her. She had no high hopes for Jimmy's concerto, but she longed to see Agnes take up writing again. She thought that Jimmy would Hke Chicago. She would introduce him to all Agnes's old friends and Stephen would put him up at the clubs

  *He hadn't better do that,' Jimmy had interrupted lightiy. *At the only club I ever belonged to I was kicked out for nonpayment of dues. I shouldn't advise a conservative banker to back me at another '

  Jane had laughed at his nonsense, wondering, however, just how much Stephen would have laughed had he been present that evening. Jimmy did not seem just Stephen's kind. Something told her that Jimmy would not take the importance of bank mergers very seriously, and that to Stephen a man without visible means of support, who had spent ten years of his life wri
ting a concerto for the violin, would seem rather one of the broader jokes — unless he seemed just an object of charity, in which case Stephen would be very kind and considerate and helpful, of course, but possibly not entirely understanding.

  'Agnes,' said Jane suddenly, in the midst of the argument on modern American music, *you ought to put that child to bed.'

  *I know I ought,* said Agnes, rising regretfully from her chair, 'but it's such fun to be with you again, Jane, and Jimmy's always so pyrotechnic in the presence of a tliird person! When I get arguing with him, I never want to stop!'

  'Not only,' said Jimmy mockingly, 'in the presence of a third person. Night after night, Jane, while Agnes is argumg with me, the child falls asleep on the hearth rug.' He, too, was rising regretfully to his feet. He picked up his drowsy daughter.

  'Can I get a taxi down here?' asked Jane.

  'Jimmy'11 cruise out and find one,' said Agnes.

  He left the restaurant with the child on his shoulder. Agnes sank back into her chair. Suddenly she leaned forward across the candleUght.

  *If I could write a play, Jane,' she said earnestly, 'a good bad play, such as managers have confidence in, it might run for a season. If it did, I'd make fifty thousand dollars.'

  *Oh, Agnes!' said Jane reproachfully. 'Don't talk like that! You never used to. Why do you want to write a bad play —

  just for a manager? Write a good one if it never gets on. I bet you could. You have lots of ideas — you always had *

  'Exacdy,' said Agnes, briefly. 'I've always had more ideas than cash.' Her face clouded a litde under Jane's incredulous stare, then lightened suddenly with conviction. 'If you think there's an idea in my head that I wouldn't sacrifice for a dollar, you're very much mistaken. Jane — you have to have money to be happy. If I could make fifty thousand dollars, I'd put every cent of it in trust for little Agnes. It would clothe her and educate her and take care of her as long as she lived. I'd never have to worry about the fiiture again. I wouldn't feel anxious and driven any longer and I'd stop nagging Jimmy the way I have nagged him ever since Agnes was bom, and if I stopped nagging him, we'd have time to talk together the way we used to — to be together the way we

  used to Jimmy's adorable when he isn't nagged — I

  adore him when I'm nagging him. But I just can't help it. I'm growing cross and nervous and old before my time and '

  'Taxi waiting!' said Jimmy, at Jane's elbow. He looked a little curiously, Jane thought, at Agnes's excited face. But he asked no questions.

  Agnes rose firom the table without speaking. Her hands were trembfing a little as she picked up her daughter's hat firom the back of her chair. Jane followed her out onto the sidewalk in silence. She was almost trembhng herself firom the contagion of Agnes's excitement. Or was it from the disconcerting glimpse she had had of Agnes's private hfe through the rent that Agnes had torn in the curtain that hides the private lives of all married couples firom the eyes of the world. She was acutely conscious of the intimacy of the moment that had just passed between them. And terribly sorry for Agnes. And for Jimmy. And terribly thankfiil. in the dark of the

  uptown bound taxi, for a husband like Stephen, who was a banker and caught the eight o'clock train every morning and didn't write concertos and lie in bed and goad her into nagging him until

  Jane was so preoccupied with thoughts of husbands and marriage, and what life did to girls who were once young and full of promise and sat on Bryn Mawr window-seats confidently assuming that the world was their oyster, that she almost forgot to feel queer as she passed through the lobby of the Belmont Hotel alone at midnight. But not quite.

  IV

  'I thought you'd be more enthusiastic,' said Flora.

  *I am enthusiastic,' protested Jane. 'It's just that I'm not used to the idea yet '

  They were sitting on the edge of Flora's bed at the Belmont. The room was crowded with gaping trunks and strewn with the silk and satin confusion of Flora's new winter wardrobe, fresh from the fingers of the Paris dressmakers. Flora, t.ry chic and fair in a new sheath dress of black chiffon, was fastening on her slender wrist the first diamond wrist watch that Jane had ever seen. She was wearing the first slit skirt that Jane had ever seen, also. Jane could not keep her eyes off the unseemly exposure of Flora's slender black legs. Flora had said they were wearing dresses like that in the streets ol Paris.

  'Be that as it may,' thought Jane, *in the streets of Chicago that skirt will look very queer.*

  But Flora was only superficially preoccupied with slit skirts and wrist watches. She had been unfolding to Jane her plans for the winter. Jane wondered what her mother and Isabel would think of them. For those plans were very surprising. Flora, incredibly, was going to open a shop. A hat

  shop. And, of all places, in the old brown-stone stable in the back yard on Rush Street.

  'Lots of women are doing it in London,' said Flora. 'I've got the duckiest French models and a very clever French vendeuse to help me. We're going to make hats on the head, you know, just the way they do in Paris. I'm going to turn the coach-house into a show-room and make fitting-rooms out of the stalls. The workshop will be in the hayloft. Papa sold the Daimler last spring, and he thinks it would really be more convenient to use cabs this winter than buy a new one. I'm going to have a black-and-gold sign made to put over the door — "Chez Flora," in a facsimile of my own handwriting. And copy it for the tags inside the hats. That hd of yours is a fright, Jane. It looks almost like Silly's, I bet you bought it in Boston. You must be my first customer.'

  The hat did not look like Silly's, thought Jane indignantly. Then, as she recovered from the passing insult, 'Do you expect to make much money?' Jane had been thinking rather wistfully of money and of the difficulty of making it, since her dinner last night with Agnes.

  'Oh, I don't know,' said Flora easily. 'I guess so. My expenses will be quite heavy. If I do I'll give it away, of course.'

  *To whom?' asked Jane. She was wondering already whether if she and Flora could get up a httle trust fund for Agnes's daughter, Agnes would consent to accept it.

  'Oh — to somfe charity. I haven't thought which. My goodness, Jane, I don't have to worry about that! The poor we have always with us. Mrs. Lester would be glad to grab it for her crippled children.'

  *I see,' said Jane doubtfully. She was not at all sure that she did. She could not help feeling that Flora must have some very special reason for wanting to do anything so unusual and

  so unusually unpleasant as running a hat shop. Of course, if it were for charity

  'I do think,' said Flora with conviction, *that a really chic hat shop is needed in Chicago. But the main thing is — it will give me something to do.'

  Across the brass hotel bedstead Jane looked at Flora. Her red-gold hair was just as shiny as ever, her figure was as slender and her eyes as brightly blue. She had never lost that look of the Dresden-china shepherdess. Was it just because Flora had never reaUy done anything that she still seemed as deUcate and fragile and fair as a precious piece of porcelain? Things had always been done to Flora. From the hour of her mother's dreadful dishonoured death, her Ufe had been swallowed up by her ageing father. He had carried her around an empty world, trying to fill its emptiness with her Dresden-china prettiness. She had summered in England and France and Germany and Switzerland. She had wintered in Italy and Egypt and India and Spain. She had opened and closed the brown-stone house on Rush Street for innumerable brief Chicago seasons. But she had never settled down — never really belonged anywhere, since the winter of Muriel's marriage. There had been, of course, that incident in Cairo, eleven years ago, with that young Englishman with the unbelievably British name. Inigo FellowesT— that was it! Jane had had a letter from Flora — such a happy letter — confiding the secret of her engagement. And three weeks later a second letter, saying that Mr. Fumess had been ill in Shep-heard's Hotel and that Flora had been very much worried about him, and that the engagement was broken and that Flora was going to take her father to
the South of France for the spring. Jenny had been bom two days afl:er the arrival of the second letter. Jane had been too preoccupied to think much about it. She did not see Flora again for two years, and

  Flora had never mentioned Inigo's name. And now Mr. Fur-ness wa5 seventy-nine years old and really too feeble to travel any longer. And Flora was thirty-seven and was going to open a hat shop in the brown-stone stable in the back yard.

  Jane thought she would much rather be as grey and as tired as Agnes and work in Macy's advertising department and sleep in a black hole of Calcutta and nag a worthless husband and worry about a baby's future than open a hat shop to give herself employment.

  But she only answered: *Ycs, of course it will, Flora. And I'd love to buy a hat. So will Isabel, I know. And Muriel and RosaHc.' She thought her encouragement sounded a trifle hollow, however, and changed the subject brightiy. 'Did you have fun this summer?'

  *Yes,' said Flora absendy. 'We motored in Ireland. How was Gull Rocks? Pretty dull?' Then, without waiting for an answer, 'Oh, Jane! Whom do you think I saw in London, just before I sailed?*

  Jane couldn't imagine.

  'Andre Duroy!' cried Flora. 'After all these years! In a picture gallery in New Bond Street. He recognized me. I should never have known him. He asked after you, Jane. I told him all about your children.'

  Jane sat a moment in silence.

  'What — what was he like?' she ventured.