Years of Grace

by Margaret Ayer Barnes

  Her grandson noticed her immediately. He waved and grinned and lost his step in welcome. His sister was an excellent dancer. She had inherited Jane's straight hair, however. But straight hair was not the curse of woman that it had been forty years ago. Belle's little daughters' wiry black curls bobbed up and down like shavings, just as Muriel's had done in the late eighties. Mr. Boumique's castanets clapped sharply in his gloved hands. The music stopped abruptly in the middle of a bar.

  'Take partners!' he said.

  The little girls sat down promptly on the benches that lined the room. The little boys walked deliberately over to them. They scanned the Httle girls' indifferent faces indifferently. They bowed profoundly before their chosen partners. The little girls rose and curtsied. Mr. Bournique's castanets clapped sharply in his gloved hands. The music started abruptly. The children began waltzing falteringly, their heads bent, their eyes on their own feet. All but the fat little girl, who, clasped in the firm gloved hands of Mr. Boumique, was moing about the room with the grace of a fairy.

  This was much more fun, thought Jane, than watching a first Assembly ball. And it was reassuring to see so much Deportment — deportment with a capital D! It might be the late eighties all over again! Just then Jane heard Cicily's low laugh ring out happily in the hall without.

  *Oh, yes, you do!' she was saying. 'They're utterly darling!'

  Jane's startled eyes were on the doorway when Cicily and Albert entered the room. Her first impression was that never, never, had she seen the child looking so pretty. Her dark fox fur, her little black hat, were silvered with melting snowflakes. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were bright and her Hps were parted in a Httle possessive smile of provocative mockery. She v/as glancing over her shoulder at Albert

  — Albert, who was obviously entering the ballroom under protest, who would much rather have prolonged his walk with Cicily in the privacy of the first December snowstorm without. She sank into a chair near the entrance, laughed up at him, and then, with a little gesture of confiding intimacy, reached up to touch his sleeve and motion him down into the seat at her side. He covered her hand with his own and sat down, saying something straight into her sparkling eyes. Cicily did not reply. She withdrew her hand and turned away and sat looking at the waltzing children, her eyes bright with happiness, her Hps still parted in a little involuntary smile. Albert sat motionless, his eyes upon her profile.

  Jane turned away her glance. She felt suddenly guilty. This — this was just like eavesdropping, listening at doors, peeking through keyholes. She would not look at Cicily again.

  Jane never knew how long she had remained, her unseeing eyes fixed rigidly on the httle faltering dancers, wondering, helplessly, what ought to be done. When next she noticed him, Mr. Bournique, arm in arm with a decorous httle lady who had to stand on tiptoe to reach his elbow, was leading the final grand march around the room. He paused at the door, to bow meticulously to each tiny couple as they made their ultimate exit. Over his grey head Jane could see that Cicily's chair was empty. So they had seen her and, thinking themselves unseen, had slipped away together into the December snowstorm. Where were they now? What were they saying? Into what perilous indiscretion was Cicily falhng? Little John Ward was pulling at her elbow.

  'Did you see Mother, Grandma, here with Uncle Albert?'

  Jane stared a moment in silence down into his wide brown eyes.

  'Was she here, darUng?'

  *Ves. But she didn't wait. How'll wc get home? Jane's putting on her overshoes.'

  In the tangle of perplexities confronting her, Jane recognized with relief that her first practical obligation was clear. She would walk home in the dark with the twins.

  V

  Jane sat in a corner of Cicily's French drawing-room, waiting for Cicily to come home. Walking with the twins through the snowy streets of Lakewood, withdrawn from their artless prattle in the sanctuary of thought, Jane had finally arrived at a decision. Something must be done — and done quickly. She would speak to Cicily. She would not procrastinate. She would not falter. She would go in with the twins and talk with Cicily that very afternoon. Perhaps she would find Albert in the little French drawing-room. If so, she would wait, stonily, tactlessly, until he had withdrawn.

  She had not found Albert. The maid at the door had informed her that Mrs. Bridges had not yet come in. The girl had thrown a concerned glance at Jane's snow-powdered coat and saturated shoes. She had turned on one drawing-room lamp and lit the fire under the Marie Laurencin and had brought Jane a little pot of tea on a painted tray.

  Jane had consumed the reviving liquid very gratefully. The twins were upstairs in the pla>Toom, doing their home work. Robin Redbreast was eating his supper in the dining-room across the hall. When she had fii-st come in, Jane had not felt equal to sustaining a conversation with even Robin Redbreast. She had finished her tea and was gazing, somewhat Hke a rabbit fascinated by a snake, at the blank chocolate-coloured eyes and thin, cruel hps of the Marie Laurencin, thinking that the opal-tinted lady had rather the air of passing an ironical comment on her own agitated state of mind.

  The mood of the Marie Laurencin was the modem one of detached cynicism. 'Well, what of it?' she seemed to be saying. 'Why carry on like this about it? Surely you're not surprised!'

  Jane tried to think that she was not surprised, feeling an absurd obligation to justify her Victorian point of view to the opal-tinted lady. At least she admitted that she should not be surprised. This was only the sort of thing that happened, unhappily, now and then in every age. However, when it concerned your own daughter But Albert Lancaster was

  merely running true to form. He was his father's son. He had dragged Cicily into this mess. He would soon tire of her. And then — what a hell of readjustment awaited the poor child.

  Jane was roused from revery by the sound of the front door opening and closing. Cicily's light step was heard in the hall. She was alone. Albert had not come in with her. Her voice, very practical and pleasant, was addressing the waitress at the door.

  'Send the car to the Woman's Club for the twins at once, Ella. I forgot to stop in at their dancing school. They must be waiting.'

  Jane heard the waitress start to speak, but Cicily did not pause for a reply. She appeared, abruptly, in the door of the little French drawing-room. The shoulders of her coat, her dark fox fur, her little black hat were all thickly frosted with soft wet snow. She must have been walking in the storm ever since she had left the Woman's Club. She did not see Jane. She walked quickly over to the antique mirror that hung between the windows. Standing direcdy in front of it she stared, wide-eyed, at her own reflection in the glass. Jane stared, too, a startied, involuntar)' stare, at the face in the mirror. The cheeks were rose-red, the eyes were starry

  bright, the lips were parted in a reminiscent smile. Suddenly Cicily gave a little gasp.

  *Oh!' she said softly, and pressing her dark-gloved handi to her rose-red cheeks, continued to stare, wide-eyed at the face in the mirror.

  'Cicily,' Scud Jane gently.

  The child started, terrifically. Then faced about, her lips no longer smiling, her eyes no longer starry. Slowly, like a curtain, a veil of controlled indifference dropped over her features.

  'Mumsy!' she said. *I didn't know you were there. You fiightened me.'

  Jane rose slowly from her chair in the comer.

  'CiciJy,' she said, 'I've come to talk to you.'

  Behind the veil of indifference, Cicily's young face hardened defensively.

  'What about?' she said.

  Jane drew a long breath.

  'About yourself— and Albert.'

  There was a brief pause. Cicily moved to the fireplace and, stripping off her gloves, stood with her back to the room, holding her hands out to the warmth of the crackling flames.

  'I wouldn't, Mumsy,' she said finally.

  *I have to,' said Jane. She was conscious that her knees were wobbling disconcertingly. She sat down rather suddenly in the armchair near the
fire. There was another pause. Cicily continued to gaze down at the burning logs. She moved her thin, white hands a trifle nervously. The firelight sparkled on the diamond in her engagement ring. Jane looked steadily at those thin white hands.

  'Well,' said Cicily, finally, 'all right. Shoot. I suppose you have to get it off your chest.' She turned abruptly as she spoke and flung herself moodily down on the hearthrug. She

  tossed off her little black hat and dark fox fiir. The snow on them was melting rapidly in the heat from the fire. There was quite a little puddle on the light grey rug before Jane spoke again.

  'Cicily,' she began slowly, T don't — I don't know quite what's happening, but I know it's dangerous. I know you're not behaving—just the way you ought to behave. Don't

  think I don't sympathize with you, because I do ' She

  stopped, checked by the sight of the little scornful smile that was flickering on Cicily's lips, then continued lamely, T do sympathize with you, Cicily, but '

  'But you belie'e in the Ten Commandments,' said Cicily brightly. 'Especially the seventh. Well — so do I, Mumsy. and I haven't broken it. There. Will that satisfy you?'

  'Cicily,' said Jane reproachfully, T'm not joking.'

  'Neither am I,' said Cicily promptly. 'I don't think idultery's a joke. And I shouldn't dream of committing it. Some do, of course, but I've always thought they were fools. I'm keeping my head, Mumsy, I'm keeping it like anything. But I haven't made up my mind. Until I do, I don't see what's the use of discussion.'

  'You don't see — what's the use of discussion?' faltered Jane.

  'No, I don't,' said Cicily bluntly. Tt's my affair. Mine and Albert's. And, in a secondary capacity, of course, Jack's and Belle's. It's a very difficult situation, and it all depends on me. I don't want to make any mistake!*

  'But Cicily!' —Jane's protest was almost shrill — 'you are making a mistake! You're making one this minute! It's a terrible mistake for you to sit there and talk as if there were anything but one thing to do!'

  'And what's that?' said Cicily ironically.

  Tut Albert Lancaster out of your Hfe immediately,' said

  Jane firmly. 'And forget him as soon as you can.' She regretted her sharp words as soon as they were spoken. They seemed absurdly melodramatic, punctured by Cicily's light monosyllable.

  •Why?'

  'Why?' echoed Jane. 'Why, because you're a married woman with three dear children and Albert's a married man with three children of his own. Because Belle was your best

  friend and Jack's always been a good and loyal husband *

  Jane stopped for breath.

  'Yes,' said Cicily slowly. 'Jack's always been a good and loyal husband and I've always been a good and loyal wife. We've been married nearly ten years zind I'm horribly bored with him. He's really bored witli me, though, of course, he won't admit it. It would be perfectly impossible for either of us to recapture the emotion that brought us together. It's gone forever. The same thing is perfectly true of Belle and Albert. I've fallen in love with Albert. He's fallen in love with me. I can't see why that situation has anything to do with a dead past. I'm not robbing Jack if I give my love to Albert. Jack hasn't had my love for years. I'm not robbing Belle if Albert gives his love to me. Belle had her innings ten years ago. I don't grudge them to her. But it's my turn now.'

  'Cicily!' cried Jane in horror. 'You mustn't talk like that! You mustn't think like that!'

  *Why not?' said Cicily. 'What are your brains given you for, except to think with? I believe in being practical. That's why I haven't made up my mind. There are a great many practical difliculties to consider. If I should divorce Jack '

  ^Divorce Jack?' cried Jane.

  'And Belle should divorce Albert,' continued Cicily im-perturbably, 'there would still be a lot of adjustments to be made. There arc the children for one thing '

  •I'm glad you give them a passing thought,' said Jane ironically.

  'Don't be sarcastic, Mumsy,' smiled Cicily cheerfully. 'It's not your line. You know I adore my children. And Albert's are sweet. The children do present compUcations. But perhaps we could solve them. They're all awfully young. They'd soon get used to it. I like the lovely picture of a sweet, united home, just as much as you do, Mumsy. But our homes aren't sweet and united. There's no use kidding yourself that they are. But' — Cicily's young face clouded thoughtfully as she spoke — *you see there's the money.'

  *The what?^ cried Jane. This conversation was really taking on the horror of a nightmare.

  'The money,' said Cicily. 'You see we haven't got any. Not any to speak of Aunt Muriel made ducks and drakes of all she had during Uncle Bert's illness. She gave a lot to Albert during those years abroad. Albert reaUy can't afford to run two households. Six children and two wives are no joke! He'd want to give Belle a whacking big alimony. I'd want her to have one. On the other hand, I really couldn't take money from Jack — now, could I? — not even for the support of his children, if I were living with Albert. Perhaps that seems Quixotic to you, Mumsy, but '

  'Quixotic!' cried Jane. This must be a nightmare.

  'But that's the way I feel,' ended Cicily tranquilly. Then added abruptly, 'Has it ever occurred to you, Mumsy, that Dad only gives me three thousand a year?'

  In the midst of the horror a ridiculous impulse to vindicate Stephen rose hotly in Jane's heart.

  •He gave you this house and lot. He gave Jack his job In the bank!'

  •They wouldn't do me much good,' said Cicily calmly, *in

  the present crisis. I'd ruin Albert. I really would. He wants to get back into the diplomatic service. He's trying to save a fortune. Of course, there's Ed Brown — but Albert says he really couldn't bring himself to come down on him to pay a brand-new stepson's wife a princely alimony! And I don't blame him. Ed Brown does seem a trifle remote. Of course, if Dad would settle about three hundred thousand on me *

  Jane rose from her chair.

  *Cicily,' she said solemnly, *I wouldn't have believed — I really — would — not — have — beheved — that you could really shock me '

  *You think he wouldn't?' said Cicily anxiously.

  Jane did not stoop to reply. She walked in silence to the door. She could hear Cicily scrambling to her feet behind her.

  *It would fix up everything,' said Cicily, 'if he would. I know lots of girls would just take that alimony and think nothing of it, but I couldn't do it. And Albert feels just that way. We wouldn't want Belle to give up anything. I couldn't bear it if she had to go back with the children and live with

  Aunt Isabel ' Strolling down the hall, she slipped her

  hand confidingly through Jane's elbow.

  'Cicily,' said Jane with dignity, 'I'm not going to discuss it. If you don't see that this talk is shocking '

  'All right, Mumsy,' said Cicily cheerfully. 'I told you you hadn't better. But you would and you did and I've been perfectly frank with you.' Jane opened the front door. 'See nere, darling, you can't walk home in this weather. I'll order the car.'

  *I don't want the car,' said Jane pettishly. *I prefer to walk.' Her pettishness was that of an irritated old lady. It reminded her of her own mother. The storm had turned into a blizzard. Small, icy flakes were driving horizontally across the darkness in the shaft of light that shone from the

  front door. She could not walk, of course. Cicily had already rung for Ella. She gave her order tranquilly. Then turned to smile mischievously at Jane's sombre face.

  *It's a compliment, Mumsy,' she said, 'when your children are perfectly frank with you. But you won't face facts. Your generation believes in fairies!' The hall was growing cold. Cicily closed the door. 'I'm going to talk to Dad, myself, I think,' she said slowly.

  Jane did not reply. She still had the sense of nightmare. This — this would devastate Stephen. She would have to tell him. TeU Stephen — who adored Cicily. Mother and daughter stood in silence until the headlights of the motor, wheeling in the darkness, were visible through the glass panel of the door.r />
  'Good-night,* said Cicily. Jane, still, did not reply. *Mumsy, don't be an assP cried Cicily brightly. She kissed Jane very warmly. Jane clung to her for a moment in silence. 'Button up your coat, dear! Don't slip on the steps!'

  Jane did not look back. She did not dare to, on the icy path. The wind was very strong. But Cicily's voice floated out to her in the darkness.

  'Don't worry, Mumsy!'

  The friendly chauffeur met her halfway to the car. He took her arm to steady her. Jane was suddenly reminded again of her mother. She was an old lady. Or about to become one. Useless to try to understand the younger generation. But she would have to tell Stephen. She would have to tell Stephen that night.

  VI

  Jane did not tell Stephen that night, however. When she rang her front doorbell, Stephen, himself, opened the door. His face looked strangely shocked and very, very serious.

  'I've been waiting for you,' he said simply. 'Stephen!' cried Jane. 'Stephen, what's happened?' 'I've had a wire from Alden.' he answered. 'Father died

  of heart failure at his desk m the Dank, at half-past three this

  afternoon.*

  CliAPTER V

  I Jane sat, relaxed and weary', in the arms of a wing chair in the front parlour of the Carvers' house on Beacon Street, thinking soberly of the perfect end of her father-in-law's life. Sudden death, at eighty-eight, in his office chair. No pain, no partings, no illness nor foreboding. It was hard on the family, however. It had been a great shock to Stephen. It had been a shock to the children, curiously enough, for they had never seemed to care much for their grandfather. In latter years he had been a very irascible old gentleman.