'How nice!' said Flora, in her best Dresden shepherdess manner. Then to Jimmy with a smile, 'You'll dine with us, of course?'
'I'd love to,' said Jimmy.
They all walked together into the observation car. Flora looked distinctiy cheered at the thought of a little male companionship other than Mr. Fumess's. Jane was thinking of Jimmy's story. How fairy-hke and fantastic it was compared to her own! By what different roads they had travelled to reach that intimate moment of companionship on the back
platform of the Twentieth Century Limited. Having met at last, it seemed very strange to Jane that they could speak the same language. But yet they did. Jimmy, holding open a heavy train door to let her pass in front of him, smiled down into her eyes. She thanked him with an answering smile, Jane felt as if she had known Jimmy for years.
vn
The Twentieth Century was pulling slowly into the La Salle Street Station. Jane stood in the vestibule, knee-deep in luggage, looking eagerly for Stephen beyond the Utde crowd of porters that Uned the greasy platform. Jimmy was at her elbow, but Flora and Mr. Furness were still sitting in the compartment. Mr. Furness found crowds very tiring.
The train came slowly to a standstill. Jane tumbled down the steps, stumbhng over suitcases. She looked quickly down the long vista of the trainshed. The platform was crowded, now, with red caps galvanized into action and with travellers trying to sort out their bags from the heaps of luggage piled at each car entrance. No Stephen was to be seen. Jimmy was watching her with his ironical smile.
'He's forgotten you,' he said presendy. 'He isn't here.*
*He always meets me,' said Jane. 'In fifteen years of matrimony he's met me every time I've come home.'
'What an idyll!' smiled Jimmy. It didn't seem impertinent because of the smile.
Suddenly Jane saw Stephen. She saw his grey Fedora hat towering over the heads of the crowd.
'Oh — Stephen!' she called, her voice lost in the uproar of the trainshed. He saw her waving arm, however. In a moment he was at her side. Jane cast herself into his arms. She knew Jimmy was watching them. She pressed her cheek against the rough tweed of Stephen's coat lapel, then turned
her face to his. She felt a trifle histrionic, under Jimmy's ironical eye. Stephen kissed her cheek, very tranquilly.
'Hello, Jane!' he said cheerfully. 'Your train's an hour late. You can get a doUar back from the railroad.'
Jane wished his greeting had been a bit more idyllic. Jimmy was grinning now, quite frankly.
'Stephen,' said Jane, 'this is Jimmy —Jimmy Trent. He's been giing me a whirl all the way from New York.'
Stephen looked over at Jimmy. He seemed a Uttle surprised, Jane thought, at what he saw. Or perhaps it was at what she had said. She remembered her last words on Jimmy in the Boston South Station, eight days before, 'I know I'll hate him.' Jimmy had stepped forward and extended his hand.
'How do you do, sir,* he said simply.
His ultimate monosyllable struck Jane's ear. She glanced from Jimmy to Stephen. Jimmy looked very casual and debonair. Stephen looked — well, Stephen looked just Uke what he was, the forty-four-year-old first vice-president of the Midland Loan and Trust Company. Jane felt again that curious little pang of pity. Stephen had once looked quite as casual and as debonair as Jimmy. He was only ten years older than Jimmy that minute. Yet Jimmy had called him 'sir.' And the worst of it was that it had sounded quite suitable.
Flora and Mr. Furness had descended from the train. They were greeting Stephen, now, very warmly. They all trooped down the platform together and into the station, and over to the ticket window to collect their dollars. Jimmy pocketed his and turned to Jane with a smile.
'Could you have lunch wdth me?' he said. 'Meet me somewhere at one and show me the town.'
'Oh, I couldn't,' said Jane. 'I have to go out to the country and have lunch with the children.'
'Have dinner with the children/ smiled Jimmy persuasively. 'I'm a dollar in pocket and I'd Uke to give you a time.'
'I couldn't,' said Jane firmly. 'But I'd Hke you to have lunch with Stephen. Stephen!' she called. He turned from the ticket window. 'Don't you want to lunch with Jimmy at the University Club? I'd like him to meet people.'
Once more, Stephen looked just a httle surprised.
'I'd be glad to,' he said, 'if he can come early. I've a date to meet Bill Belmont there at noon. He's on from New York to put through that Morgan deal. If Jimmy doesn't mind talking of bond issues '
'I'm not awfully helpful on bond issues,' said Jimmy self-deprecatingly. 'And I'm afraid I couldn't get off at noon. I'll be busy with the boys at the "News." Thanks ever so much, though.*
They all turned away from the ticket window to the tzixi entrance. Jane was solemnly reflecting that Jimmy was outrageous. She felt very thankful that Stephen had not heard him invite her to lunch. Suddenly she heard his voice at her ear.
*And when am I going to see you?' said Jimmy.
Jane hadn't forgiven him.
'You must come out to Lakewood sometime,* she said vaguely. 'For a night or a week-end.'
'Oh, I'll come out to Lakewood,' said Jimmy.
'When you're settled,' pursued Jane politely, 'let me know where I can reach you. Give me a ring when you find a good boarding-house.'
'Oh, I'll give you a ring,' said Jimmy.
By this time Stephen had hailed a taxi.
*I won't go with you to the other station,' he said. 'I've got to run into the Federal Building.* Jane stepped into the cab. 'Your mail's on your desk, dear. Don't pay the painter's bill 'til I talk to you about it.*
Jane nodded very brightly. She was once again conscious of Jimmy's ironical eye. This time she wouldn't stoop to be histrionic. She waved her hand casually as the taxi started. Jimmy and Stephen, standing bareheaded on the curbstone, both smiled and waved cheerfully in reply. Their waves and their smiles were very diiferent, however, reflected Jane, as the taxi turned into the traffic at the station entrance.
CHAPTER III
I *They say it wasn't a stroke,' said Isabel, 'but of course it was.'
'Mrs. Lester told me it was acute indigestion,' said Mrs. Ward.
'And Rosalie told me it was brain fatigue,' said Isabel.
'I don't know what Bert Lancaster's ever done to fatigue his brain,' said Mrs. Ward.
Jane laughed, in spite of her concern for Muriel. They were aU sitting around the first October fire in Jane's little Lake-wood living-room. Her mother and Isabel had motored out from town to take tea with her and they were all discussing, of course, Bert Lancaster's sudden seizure at the Commercial Club banquet the night before.
'It must have been awful,' said Isabel, 'falling over like that, right into his own champagne glass, in the middle of a speech.'
They say he was forbidden champagne,' said Mrs. Ward. 'Dr. Bancroft's wife told me that the doctor had warned him last winter that he must give up alcohol.'
'Have some more tea, Isabel,' said Jane.
*I oughtn't to, but I will,' said Isabel. At forty-one Isabel was valiantly struggling against increasing pounds. 'No sugar, Jane.' She opened her purse and taking out a small bottle dropped three tablets of saccharine into her cup.
'Of course he's pretty young for a stroke,' said Mrs. Ward.
'He's fifty-five,* said Isabel. 'He was fifty-five the third of August.'
*It*s frightful for Muriel,' said Jane.
*Oh, I don't know,' said Mrs. Ward. 'Perhaps it's providential. Of course if he's disabled '
'If he lives, he will be,' said Isabel. 'Sooner or later. H you have one stroke you always have another.*
'Well, he may not live,' said Mrs. Ward. 'He can't have any constitution to rely on after the Hfe he's led,'
'What do you think Muriel would do, Jane?' asked Isabel. *Do you think she'd really marry Cyril Fortune?'
'I don't know,' said Jane.
'She was off at the "Scandals" with liim when it happened,' said Mrs. Ward. 'They paged her at the theatre.'
&n
bsp; 'You mark my words,' said Isabel, taking a piece of toast and scraping the buttered ciimamon ofi^ it, 'whenever Bert Lancaster dies, Muriel wiU marry the man of the moment the day after the funeral. Not that I think she's really in love with C)Til. I never thought she was in love with Sam or Binky or Roger or any of them.'
'Not even with Sam?' said Mrs. Ward.
'Not really,' said Isabel with conviction. 'RosaHe always said she wasn't. I think Muriel is really just in love with herself. It keeps up her self-confidence to have a young man sighing gustily around the home. But just the same, if Bert Lancaster dies to-night, I bet she marries Cyril Fortune before Christmas.'
'Nonsense!' said Mrs. Ward. 'Muriel would do everything decently. She'd stay in mourning for at least a year. She'd have to show the proper respect for her son's sake.'
'They've sent for young Albert,' said Isabel, 'to come home from Saint Paul's.'
'Well, I hope Muriel behaves herself while he's here,' said Mrs. Ward severely. 'He's fifteen and he's old enough to notice.'
'That's just exactly,' said Isabel dreamily, 'what you used to say of Flora.*
'Well, she was old enough to notice,' said Mrs. Ward, 'but I doubt if she ever did. Lily Furness had a curious magnetism. Somehow she always made you believe the best of her.'
'Flora simply adored her,' said Jane suddenly. 'I adored her, myself.'
'Just the same,' said Mrs. Ward, 'she had no principle.'
'You don't know,' said Jane. 'Perhaps she went through hell. You can't help it if you're not in love with your husband.'
'Every wife with principle,' said Mrs. Ward firmly, 'w in love with her husband.'
'Mamma!' cried Isabel. 'Don't be ridiculous! How many wives are? But what I say is, even if you're not, you don't have to ake a lover *
'No,' said Jane, 'of course you don't. But I can see how you might.'
'Don't talk like that!' said Mrs. Ward sharply. 'I don't know where you girls get your ideas! When I was your age I wouldn't even have said those words — "take a lover"! And you two sit there talking as if it were actually doner
'But it is done, Mamma,' said Isabel. 'Not very often, of course, but sometimes. Lily Furness did it, even in your day. And you know, in your black heart, that you're wondering whether Muriel hasn't gone and done it in ours.'
*I am notr said Mrs. Ward indignantly. 'I shouldn't think of making such an accusation against Muriel. All I say is, she isn't very discreet. She gets herself talked about. There's been a lot of gossip about Muriel. And every one knows that where there's so much smoke, there's bound to be some fire.*
'Well, what do you think you're saying now?' said Isabel. *What are, or aren't you, accusing Muriel of this minute?'
Mrs. Ward looked slightly bewildered.
*I don't like the way young people speak out nowadays/ she said. 'And I don't like your attitude toward wrongdoing. You and Jane arc both perfectly willing to condone whatever Muriel has done. At least, in my day, we all made Lily Fumess feel she was a guilty woman. We took the marriage vows seriously.'
'I take the marriage vows seriously. Mamma,' said Jane gently. 'But I can understand the people who break them. At least,' she added doubtfully, 'I diink I can. I think I can understand just how it might happen.'
'Any one could understand how it might happen in Muriel's case,' said Isabel. 'Bert's a perfect old rip. There's a certain poetic justice in the thought of him, standing in Mr. Fur-ness's shoes '
Mrs. Ward rose with dignity from her chair.
'Come, Isabel,' she said, 'I'm going home. I'm not going to Msten to you girls any longer. I only hope you don't talk like this before Robin and Stephen. It's a woman's duty to keep up her husband's standards.'
Jane and Isabel burst into laughter.
'Robin and Stephen!' exclaimed Isabel. 'Imagine either of them on the loose!'
'They keep up our standards,' said Jane, as she kissed her mother. Mrs. Ward still looked a trifle bewildered.
'Put on your heay coat,' said Jane, as they all turned toward the door. 'Don't let her catch cold, Isabel.'
*I won't,' said Isabel. 'Mind that rug, Mamma. The floor is slippery.'
'You girls think I'm just an old lady,' said Mrs. Ward, as Jane opened the front door. 'I wish you'd both remember that I took care of myself for about forty-five years before you thought you were old enough to give me advice.' She climbed, a litde clumsily, into the waiting motor.
'Give my love to Papa,' said Jane. 'And Isabel — when you telephone RosaHe, ask if there's anything I can do for Muriel.'
'I will,' said Isabel. 'There probably will be. Muriel never
does anything for herself.'
The car crunched slowly around the gravel driveway. Jane watched it to the entrance. Curious, she thought, the gap between the points of view of different generations. The facts of life were always the same, but people thought about them so differently. New thoughts, reflected Jane, about the same old actions. Was it progress or merely change? Sex was a loaded pistol, thought Jane, thrust into the hand of humanity. Her mother's generation had carried it carefully, fearful of a sudden explosion. Her generation, and Isabel's, waved it nonchalantly about, but, after all, with all their carelessness, they didn't fire it off any oftener than their parents had. What if the next generation should take to shooting? Shooting straight regardless of their target. As Jane entered the front hall, the telephone was ringing.
She stood still, suddenly, on the doormat. That might be Jimmy, she thought instantiy, and despised herself for the thought. Jane hated to think that she had been back in the Lakewood house for three weeks and that, in all that time, the telephone had never rung without awakening in her unwilling brain the thought that it might be Jimmy. For Jimmy had never telephoned. He had vanished completely out of her life that morning in the La Salle Street Station. At first she had been only relieved to find that the voice, whos-ever it was, trickling over the wire, was not his. Jane had been firmly determined to discipline Jimmy for that outrageous refusal to lunch with Stephen on the day of his arrival. But, as the days passed and she did not hear from him, her relief had been subtly tempered first with curiosity then with concern,
and, at last, with indignation. Jimmy ought to have telephoned. It was rude of him not to. She had really felt, after those intimate hours on the back platform of the Twentieth Century, that she meant something to Jimmy, that he really liked her, that he was depending on her for support and diversion during his visit to Chicago. And then — he had not telephoned. By not telephoning he had made Jane feel rather a fool. For Jimmy had meant something to her, she had really liked him. Of course he was irritating and she had known he was not to be counted on, but still — she had thought that she had read an honest admiration in his ironic eyes, she had felt that he was a very amusing person, she had even wondered just what she had better do in case Jimmy's honest admiration became a trifle embarrassing. She had solemnly assured herself, on her arrival at Lakewood, that if she were firm and pleasantly disciplinary she could, of course, handle Jimmy, who was a dear and Agnes's husband, but not very wise, perhaps, and ob'iously in the iframe of mind in which he could easily be led astray by the flutter of a petticoat. And then — he had not telephoned.
'Mrs. Carver,' Miss Parrot's pleasant voice called down the stairs, 'Mr. Carver wants you on the wire.'
Jane walked to the telephone in the pantry.
'Yes, dear?' she said.
'I can't get out for dinner this evening,' said Stephen. 'Muriel wants me to come up and talk business with her. It seems Bert was just advising her about some investments when he was stricken. She's got some bonds he wanted her to sell immediately.'
'Of course go, dear,' said Jane quickly. Stephen would be very helpful to Muriel. Every one turned to Stephen when in trouble. And Muriel had no one to advise her except Freddy Waters, her volatile brother-in-law. Unless you counted
Cyril Fortune, who was a young landscape gardener recently rumoured to have lost twenty thousand dollars in
a flyer in oil. He wouldn't be much to lean on in a financial crisis.
'I'll be out on the ten-ten,' said Stephen. 'Don't be lonely.'
'I won't,'said Jane. 'I've got letters to write. Give my love to Muriel.'
As Jane turned from the telephone she heard the whirr of a motor. That would be the children coming home from school. The car called for them at the playground every afternoon at five. Jane was always afiraid to let them walk home alone through the traffic. The country lane on which her house had been built, fourteen years before, had long since become a suburban highroad. As she entered the hall again, they burst in at the front door. The cocker-spaniel puppy tumbled down the stairs to meet them.
'Mumsy!' called Jenny. 'Oh, there you arel I've made the basket-ball team and I need some gym shoes!'
'I'm going to take my rabbits to school for the Animal Fair!' cried Httle Steve.
'Can I ask Jack and Belle to come out on Saturday?' said Cicily. Jack and Belle were Isabel's seventeen- and thirteen-year-old son and daughter. No week-end was complete without them.
'When can we get the gym. shoes?' said Jenny.
'I need a cage for the rabbits,' said little Steve.
'I've got to have the gym shoes by Monday, Mumsy,' said Jenny.
'Do you think I could make a cage out of a peach crate?* said little Steve.
'Hush!' said Jane. 'Pick up your coat, Jenny, and hang it in the closet. Steve — your books don't belong on the floor.
Yes, Cicily, you can telephone Aunt Isabel to-night and ask them.'
'Mumsy, where can I find a peach crate?*
'Be quiet!' said Jane. 'Now go upstairs, all of you, and >vash! If you get your home work done before supper, I'll read King Arthur stories to you to-night. Daddy's not coming home.'
The children clattered up the staircase. Jane walked into the living-room with a sigh. They were terribly noisy. They never seemed to behave like other people's children. She sat down at her desk and began to look over the afternoon mail. An invitation to dine in town with Muriel before an evening musical — that would be off, now, of course. A bill from the plumber for repairing the faucets in the maid's bathroom. A note from the chairman of the Miscellaneous Committee of the Chicago Chatter Club asking her to write a funny paper on *The Hand that Rocks the Cradle' for the December meeting. A note fi"om the chairman of the Literary Committee of the Lakewood Woman's Club, asking her to write a serious paper on 'Oriental Art' for the Spring Festival. A bill from the Russian Peasant Industries for smocking Cicily's and Jenny's new venter firocks. A notice from the Lakewood Village Council, announcing that Clean-Up Week began on Monday next. A note from Steve's teacher, suggesting that she see that he spend more time on his arithmetic. An advertisement of a Rummage Sale for the benefit of Saint George's Chiuch. A bill from the Lakewood Gas and Coke Company for the new laundry stove. A notice that her report would be due as chairman of the Playground Committee at the annual meeting of the Village Improvement Society^ next Wednesday night.
Years of Grace Page 27
