Years of Grace

by Margaret Ayer Barnes

  *shut up' to Isabel for more than twenty years. As the words left her lips, Mr. Ward entered the room. He came in just as he always did, and laid the evening paper on his desk and began to turn over the afternoon mail.

  'Hello, Kid!' he said tranquilly. 'Why must Isabel shut up?'

  'Because she's an ass!' said Jane, stiU rather snappishly. Mr. Ward raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  'So are we all of us,' he said pleasantly, 'sometimes.' Then, running his paper-cutter through an envelope, 'What's Isabel been doing now?'

  'Talking,' said Jane briefly. 'And listening. And repeating silly gossip.'

  Mr. Ward looked as if he thought Isabel had merely been running true to form.

  'That all?' he said, with a smile.

  'I've been teUing Jane,* said Isabel, 'that she's getting herself talked about.'

  'Oh!' said Mr. Ward. 'Lizzie, could you make me a cup of weak tea?' He dropped his mail and sat down in his leather chair, lowering himself into it rather carefully, his hands on the arms. 'It's like summer out,' he said pleasantly. 'Makes me think of the old days when I used to walk home from the office. The Furnesses' lilacs are almost in bud.'

  'They don't bud any more, Papa,' said Jane. 'The soot is killing them.'

  'One does,' said Mr. Ward. 'Thank you, Lizzie. The one by tlie old playhouse.'

  'It's terrible,' sighed Mrs. Ward, 'what's happening to the neighbourhood.'

  Jane knew just what her mother thought about what was happening to the neighbourhood. She walked over to the window and stood staring across Pine Street at the new flat

  building that had gone up in the opposite yard the previous autumn.

  'Boarding-houses,' said Mrs. Ward, 'and dressmakers and

  apartments ' Jane was no longer listening. She stood

  staring out of the window at the terra-cotta facade of the flat building, thinking furious thoughts about Isabel — and Muriel — and a world in which you could not phrase a fiinny

  httle toast to a man's concerto, without Presently she

  heard her father get up and go out of the room. Jane glanced at her watch.

  *I must go/ she said. *I'm motoring out to Lakewood.*

  *Are you picking up Stephen?' asked Mrs. Ward.

  *No,' said Jane. 'He prefers the train.' She kissed her mother's cheek. 'Good-bye, Isabel,' she added coldly.

  'Now, Jane — don't be a dumb-bell,' said Isabel cheerfully. 'You think over what I said.'

  Jane left the room without stooping to further discord. In the haU she met her father. He was standing there, outside the hbrary door, exactly as if he were waiting for some one. He slipped his arm through hers and walked to the front door. Jane opened it.

  'Good-bye, Papa,' she said. There was a note of finahty in her tone. He followed her out onto the front steps, however. He stood a moment on the top one, gently detaining her by his restraining arm.

  'Kid,' said Mr. Ward, 'I know you're a grown woman, but you seem just like a child to me.'

  Jane smiled, a httle nen^ously. She did not spezik.

  'But you're a wise child, Kid,' went on Mr. Ward, 'and I wouldn't presume to dictate on your conduct.' He too smiled just a httle nervously. Jane still stood silent. 'I'U only trespass on the parental prerogatives so far as to urge you,' said Mr. Ward, 'to avoid all appearance of evil. It's a wicked world.

  Tapa/ said Jane, *I haven't been doing anything I shouldn't.*

  *I'm sure you haven't,' said Mr. Ward quickly, *It's just Muriel's nonsense. You know Muriel.* *Ycs, I know Muriel,' said Mr. Ward. 'That's why I urge you to avoid all appearance of evil.' He stood looking steadily at Jane. The nervousness had left his smile. His eyes looked worried, however. His eyes looked tired, Jane thought. His eyes looked old. They seemed a darker brown since his hair had turned so white. Jane kissed him, tenderly.

  T will, Papa,'she said. 'Don't worry.' Then she ran down the steps and jumped into the Overland. She glanced back to wave at her father. He was still standing on the top step, looking after her with that faintly troubled expression. Jane forgot him as she set the gears in motion. Her thoughts returned, angrily, to Isabel. That luncheon was perfecdy harmless. Muriel, of course, was always maHcious, but Isabel ought to have more sense.

  m

  Jane could not, however, keep her angry thoughts on Isabel. The April afternoon was very warm and fair. The elm trees were budding down the stretch of Pine Street. The bushes in the park around the Water Works Tower were already green. Jane saw the bench where she and Andre had sat to look at the pictures of Sarah Bernhardt. She remembered Muriel's adolescent giggle. Muriel was an idiot, even then.

  The lake stretched, softly blue beyond the Oak Street breakers. A gaunt skyscraper or two loomed up on the filled-in land to the southeast. A v/hole section of the city had been created there since Jane's childhood. Created from garbage and tin cans and rags and old iron. Apartments were going up in the waste of empty land. Magnificent red-brick and

  grey-stone apartments, with liveried doormen and marble entrance halls and wrought-iron elevators, standing where once there had been only blue water. Blue water beyond the vacant lots where sweet clover and ragweed had bloomed. Jane felt like the first white child bom west of the Alleghenies when she looked at them. She had seen Chicago change from a provincial town into the sixth largest city in the world.

  She turned the car abruptly from the Drive at the Division Street comer. She was going to pick up Jimmy at his North State Street boarding-house and motor him out to Lakcwood for the week-end. They would have lovely weather. One more hot day like this, thought Jane, and perhaps the apple tree would burst into bloom.

  Jimmy was standing on the curbstone, his suitcase at his feet.

  *Am I late?' asked Jane anxiously, as she brought the car to a standstill.

  *No — I'm early,' said Jimmy. He opened the door of the motor and slipped into the seat beside her. 'I thought maybe you'd come sooner than you said.'

  T was having tea with Mamma,' said Jane, *and talking to Isabel.' She set the gears in motion.

  'What about?' asked Jimmy.

  *Oh, nothing,' said Jane. 'Notliing much.' Suddenly she decided to tell him. 'Muriel told Isabel about seeing us at De Jonche's yesterd ay,' she said, her eyes on the street before her.

  'What was there to tell?' asked Jimmy innoccndy.

  *Oh — Muriel can always make a good story,' said Jane. There was a Uttle pause. Jane knew Jimmy was looking at her profile.

  'Well — do you care?' asked Jimmy presently.

  *Oh, no,' said Jane falsely. 'No — not at all. Only *

  She stopped.

  'Only what?' asked Jimmy gently.

  'Only it seems too bad that people have to try to spoil lovely things. To — to smirch them, you know, with ugly gossip and false interpretations.' Again Jane stopped.

  'They can't spoil them really, Jane,' said Jimmy very seriously. 'No one could ever spoil what happens between you and me but just ourselves.'

  That was just Hke Jimmy, thought Jane, smihng sofdy at the North State Street traffic. It was just Uke Jimmy to understand. He had perfectly phrased the thought she had been groping for ever since her angry altercation with Isabel. As long as she and Jinmiy kept their heads and — well — did not allow anything — anything silly to happen, there was nothing in their friendship to be ashamed of.

  And it would so soon be over. Jimmy's job at the 'News' would be ended in a fortnight. His friend was on the water now, coming back from Munich. They had had a lovely winter — the loeIJest winter, Jane thought, that she had ever known. Jimmy had written his reviews and had finished his concerto, and she — she had never been so happy, really, with Stephen and the children, never so contented at Lake-wood, never so sure and satisfied, in her secret heart, that Life was worth living, that it would always, somehow, be fun to live.

  There had been, of course. Miss Parrot's cynical smile and Sarah's impassive silence and Muriel's maUcious twinkle and her father's troubled eyes. And now there
was Isabel's uncalled-for interference. It was, as her father had just said, a wicked world. But she and Jimmy had never exchanged a word that she could be sorry for. Never said anything, really, that Stephen might not have heard. Stephen, himself, had never been troubled, Stephen hked Jimmy. Stephen knew she was to be impUcitly trusted.

  And now Jimmy was going — going in two weeks — back to New York to the Greenwich Village flat and the big and little Agneses. And Jane —Jane would be left in Lakewood to — to watch the spring come and buy the children's thin clothes and clean the house and pack up for the Gull Rocks summer. Jane sighed a little as she thought of the months before her. Just Hke aJil other spring months, of course. But she would miss Jimmy dreadfully, and she would never see him again, of course, just as she had this last lovely winter. He would go back to New York and produce the concerto and become suddenly distinguished. Suddenly distinguished, really, a little bit because of her. Of course it was absurd of Jimmy to call it her concerto, but Jane knew that she had kept him working. Her encouragement and enthusiasm had spurred him on. Yes, both she and Jimmy would always be a little better for the winter's friendship, which no one but themselves could ever spoil. No one but themselves could ever understand it, really — a simple friendship that had meant so much to them, a joy of companionship

  *A penny for your thoughts, Jane?' said Jimmy.

  *I was just thinking of us,' said Jane, 'and of ail that's happened this winter.'

  'Have you really liked it?' asked Jimmy.

  'Oh, yes,' breathed Jane. Then, after a moment, 'It seems so funny, now, to think I didn't think I would, when Agnes first wrote me you were coming. I thought you'd be terrible, Jimmy *

  *I am terrible,' said Jimmy, with a smile.

  *Oh, no, you're not,' said Jane very wisely.

  *You don't know the half of it,' said Jimmy.

  'Yes, I do,' S2dd Jane. 'I know pretty nearly the whole of it. I understand you perfectly.'

  'Sure you do?' said Jimmy.

  *I know you can do great things if you're prodded by a little encouragement *

  'Say rather if I'm prodded by "the endearing elegance of female friendship,"' said Jimmy, still with the smile. 'It does more for a man than you know. There's a little lyric of A. E. Housman's, Jane — I wonder if you remember it? — it has always been a particular favourite of mine.' Still smiling into her appreciative eyes, he quoted lightiy:

  *Oh, when I was in love with you.

  Then I was clean and brave, And miles around the wonder grew How well did I behave.*

  'Well,' laughed Jane a little confusedly, 'even so, what of it? As long as you do behave, you know.'

  'There's a second verse,' said Jimmy wamingly.

  'And now the fancy passes by,

  And nothing wUl remain, And miles around they'll say that I Am quite myself again.'

  Jane felt unaccountably disappointed in the second verse. She summoned up a laugh, however.

  'I call that cynical,' she said. 'It won't be that way with /ou. As soon as you get to New York, Jimmy, you must show that concerto to Damrosch. I know he'll like it. And you must write something else. Something else immediately, while you're still in the mood for it.'

  'Perhaps I won't be in the mood for it,' said Jimutny. 'I don't feel as if I'd be much in the mood for anything when I get back to New York.'

  'You've been working awfully hard,' said Jane sympathetically. 'I liked what you wrote last week about Mischa Elman. You're right. No other lidng violinist has his combination of warmth and Ught — of feehng, yet detachment *

  They talked of Mischa Elman's concert all the way to Lakewood. Stephen was waiting for dinner and reading a King Arthur story aloud to the children when they entered the living-room. He was giad to see Jimmy and glad, too, of the soft spring weather.

  'We'll have eighteen holes of golf to-morrow morning, Jimmy,' he said cheerfully. 'Don't dress, Jane. I'm as hungry as a bear.'

  But Jane thought she would just slip into the red Poiret tea-gown. It would not take a minute.

  IV

  That evening Jimmy played parchesi with the children. Jane sat at Steve's elbow and advised him on his moves. Stephen lounged in his armchair and read the 'Evening Post.* Stephen was no parchesi fan. He was glad to be relieved of a duty that had devolved upon him every evening since Miss Parrot's departure the week before. Jane thought the game was really quite amusing. They laughed a great deal over Steve's success with the dice. He sent Jimmy's foremost man home eight times in succession. It was haJf-past nine before the game was over.

  When the children had gone upstairs, Stephen cast aside his paper with a yawn.

  'I'm tired to-night,' he said. 'This first hot weather takes it out of you. I'm going up to bed.'

  Jane caught a glint of elation in Jimmy's eye across Stephen's unconscious figure. Jane did not like that glint. Of course, Jimmy just wanted to sit and gossip by the fire as they had so often gossiped, but he should not ha^'e allowed himself to look elated. Curiously, at that moment, Jane thought of her father. 'Avoid all appearance of evil.* She thought also of Sarah, washing dishes in the pantry.

  'I'm tired, too, Stephen,* she said evenly. 'I'd like to turn in early myself.'

  The glint of elation in Jimmy's eyes turned quickly to a look of incredulity, then to one of mock consternation.

  'See here,' he protested, 7'm not tired. I'm not tired at all. I was looking forward to a big evening.'

  'Sorry,' smiled Jane. 'You're not going to get it.' She turned with Stephen toward the door.

  'See here,' sEiid Jimmy again, 'are you just going off to bed and leave me standing here on the hearthrug? I don't call it civil.'

  'That's just what we're going to do,' smiled Jane. 'Goodnight.'

  'It's a sell,' said Jimmy. 'It's not ten o'clock yet. What will I do with myself? I can't go to sleep for hours. I'll be reduced to writing a letter to Agnes!'

  The mention of Agnes's name instantly confirmed Jane's plan to go up with Stephen. He had already started for the stairs.

  'That's a fine idea, Jimmy,' said Jane pleasantly. Tliere's note-paper in the desk by the window. Give her my love and tell her I think the concerto is grand.'

  Jimmy crossed the hearthrug and stood at her side for a moment in hesitant silence. He laid a restraining finger on her arm.

  'Don't go up, Jane,' he said persuasively. 'I want to talk to you.'

  'Can't you talk to me to-morrow?' asked Jane, a trifle uncertainly.

  'Good-night, Jimmy,' called Stephen firom the staircase. 'Remember, eighteen holes to-morrow morning!'

  Jane turned to glance up at him. He was standing on the landing, looking down on them a little wearily. Jane sud-

  denly thought their figures had assumed a rather intiinate f>ose. She started away from Jimmy and walked out into the hall. She threw him a glance over her shoulder, however. He was gazing after her so wistfully that she could not help twinkhng back at him.

  *No, I'm going up,' she said pleasantly. *Good-night, Jimmy.' She followed Stephen up the darkened staircase and into the mellow lampHght of their Httle blue bedroom. Stephen, with a familiar gesture, was already hanging his grey sack coat over the back of a chair. He looked up at Jane as she entered.

  'You look very pretty to-night in that red thing,' he said.

  Jane glanced at herself in the cheval glass — she did look pretty. Her eyes were still twinkling at the thought of deserted Jimmy and her lips were curved in a httle involuntary smile. Stephen continued to look at her in silence.

  'You'll miss Jimmy,' said Stephen, 'when he goes back East.'

  Jane turned to stare at him. Stephen had never made any comment on Jimmy just like that, before. Could Stephen be really — troubled? He went on speaking very evenly.

  'But you'll have more time,' he said. There was a little pause. 'I've been thinking, Jane,' he continued — what had Stephen been thinking? Jane thought breathlessly — 'I've been wondering if this wouldn't be a good spring to see about getting Stev
e's teeth straightened. If he wore braces at Gull Rocks this summer '

  Jane tiimed firom him in an absurd surge of irritation. Oh, yes — she would have plenty of time, now, to straighten

  Steve's teeth and plan for Gull Rocks and Stephen was

  unbuttoning his waistcoat.

  'I think you'd better take him in to the dentist ' he

  b^an.

  *I*I1 take him in, Stephen,' said Jane snappishly. 'Of course

  I'll take him in. Why do you act as if you had to nag me '

  Her voice died down. Stephen had paused, in the act of untying his necktie, to look at her in amazement. Jane walked over to him and laid her hand on his arm. 'I'll take him in, dear,' she said. Her tone was a tacit apology. Stephen went on untying his necktie. Jane slipped out of the Poiret tea-gown. Jinmiy, she supposed, was writing a letter to Agnes at the living-room desk downstairs.

  V

  Next morning Stephen had his eighteen holes of golf with Jimmy. The April day had dawned very bright and fair. The men came home from the links just a little late for luncheon with Jane and the children. It was nearly three before the meal was finished. While they were drinking their after-luncheon coffee, Mr. and Mrs. Ward turned up, rather unexpectedly. The day was so pleasant, Mrs. Ward remarked, that they had motored out to spend Sunday siftemoon with the grandchildren. Mr. Ward had greeted Jimmy very affably, but Mrs. Ward looked distinctly affronted by his presence at Jane's fireside. When Stephen produced a cocktail for the men at tea-time, Jane saw her mother fasten a lynx eye on Jimmy, as he stood on the hearthrug, nonchalantly tO)dng with his glass of amber liquid. Jane could not suppress a smile. She knew that her mother was determined that Junmy should not kiss the rim of that glass unobserved. He made no attempt to do so, however. He had made no attempt, ail day, to resume the conversation of which Jane had deprived him on the previous evening. Mr. and Mrs. Ward did not leave their grandchildren until after six o'clock. It was time to dress for dinner when they had gone.