Years of Grace

by Margaret Ayer Barnes

  *In that case,* said Stephen dryly, 'you'll probably get it. Carvers usually do. Male Carvers, that is '

  Jane knew he was thinking of wasted Silly.

  'I'm sorry for your wife, Steve,' she commented tartly.

  *Oh — she'll like it,' said Steve easily. 'I'll pick one that will.'

  It was all arranged with Alden in the next half-hour.

  'Darling,' said Jane, as she left the room with Stephen, 'perhaps he'll tire of it. Perhaps he'll come home.' She tried to make her weary voice ring clear with conviction. But she knew he wouldn't. Stephen knew it, too. He had nothing to add to the arguments he had been vainly propounding for the last half-hour.

  'Jane — you're a trump!' was all he said.

  m

  It was on the Twentieth Century, three days later, that Jenny issued her ultimatum. The female Carvers in the rising generation yielded nothing in determination to the male. Jane and Stephen were sitting in their compartment, looking out at the bleak midwinter landscape of the Berkshire Hills, when she thrust her blonde head around their door.

  'They've had a lot of snow,' Stephen was just saying absently. He had been saying things like that, very absently and at long intervals, ever since the train had pulled out of the Back Bay Station. Jane was terribly sorry for him.

  'What are you two doing?' cried Jenny very gaily. 'Holding hands, as I live and breathe! You look Uke a coloured lithograph of "The Golden Wedding"! Something that comes out with the Sunday Supplement!' She perched Ughtly on the arm of the Pullman seat and dropped a casual kiss on Jane's hair. 'Now, Hsten, darlings,' she continued brightly. 'I've got something to tell you. I don't know if you'll like it, but it has to be told.'

  Jane looked up in alarm at Jenny's cheerful countenance.

  Jenny,' she said quickly, *if it's anything unpleasant *

  'It's not really unpleasant, Mumsy,'said Jenny reassuringly. Then with a shrug of resignation, 'But I rather think you'll hate it. Last night in Boston I wrote Barbara Belmont.'

  'About what?' said Jane sharply.

  'About my legacy,' returned Jenny calmly. *I told her to look around for those kennels in Westchester County. I told her that, if she could square her family, I'd take a httle apartment with her this spring in New York. Then we could buy the dogs and fix over the house — I hope we can find an old one — and move out the end of June. I thought we could spend the summer in Westchester and get to know our business and move back into the New York apartment in November What's the matter, Mumsy?' She stopped to stare

  in astonishment down into Jane's agitated face.

  ^What's the matter?' roared Stephen. His tone was really a roar, 'Don't talk nonsense, Jenny! You two girls can't go ofif on your own and live by yourselves in a shack in the country and a flat in New York! Bill Belmont will never listen to you! It's perfectly preposterous! It isn't safe! Kids like )'ou '

  'I'm twenty-six years old, Dad,' said Jenny evenly. 'And I've just come into eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars '

  'Jenny!' said Jane wamingly.

  'But I have, Mumsy,' said Jenny reasonably. 'And it makes all the difference. You're just like Grandma Carver! You think it's xTilgar to talk of money. Well — I'm not talking of money. I'm talking of freedom. Sometimes I think they are one and the same thing. Look at Aunt Silly! Just look at Aunt Silly! What tied her hands, I want to know, but the purse-strings?' Jenny paused to glare triumphantly at her

  parents. Then went on truculently: *If you think I'm going to grow old into that kind of a spinster, you're very much mistaken! Not with eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars! If you think I'm vulgar '

  'Jenny,' said Jane gently, 'I don't think you're vulgar.* She paused for a moment, trying helplessly to define just what she thought Jenny was. It was very difficult, however. That reference to Silly had taken the wind out of Jane's sails. Jenny immediately took advantage of her pause.

  'Barbara and I have wanted to do this thing together ever since we left Bryn Mawr! We've waited five years. Five years ought to convince you and the Belmonts that we know what we're talking about. We're not marrying women — at least we never have been — we're not interested in husbands — we're interested in ourselves '

  'Jenny,' said Jane very seriously, 'that sort of mutually inclusive and exclusive friendship with another girl is not

  very wise. It doesn't lead to anything. It ' She paused

  again, as Stephen pressed her fingers. He was right, of course. Better not say too much. But

  'Oh, for Heaven's sake!'Jenny was exclaiming disgustedly. *You make me tired! There's nothing mutually inclusive and exclusive about Barbara and me! Do you think we're going to dig a little Well of Loneliness? We're not! We're going to raise dogs! We're going to get out from under our famihes! We don't want to marry until we meet a man we fancy! In the mean time we want to be independent. If we were sons^ you'd think it was all right for us to run dog kennels.'

  '/ shouldn't,' put in Stephen abruptly. 'If a son of mine wanted to run dog kennels, I'd think he was a damn fool!'

  'Well, that's a matter of opinion,' said Jenny very sweetly. 'I hke dogs. I like them, on the whole, rather better than people. I'm never going to go to another dance. I'm never

  going to go to another Lakewood dinner-party. I'm going tc mess around in dirty tweeds in that heavenly country for eight months of the year and live very smartly in New York for the other four. I'm going to enjoy myself, as I haven't since I left the Bryn Mawr campus. I '

  'Jenny,' said Jane, 'I think we've had about enough of this Emancipation Proclamation. Your father and I are very tired. We've had a bad week.'

  'Of course you have!' Jenny's young face was suddenly alight with sympathy. 'You know, Mumsy, it's a^vfully hard to reaUze that your grandfather is your father's father. It's hard to realize, I mean, that Dad is just as cut up as I should be if he — if he had dropped dead at his office desk. That

  would kill me, Dad, it really would ' Jenny paused to

  look across Jane very fondly at Stephen. Jane, in her turn, promptly took advantage of the pause.

  'Yet you want to live in Westchester?'

  'Dad wanted to live in Chicago,' said Jenny.

  'That was different,' said Jane.

  *WTiy was it different?' flashed Jenny. She rose to her feet as she spoke.

  Jane had not thought of the answer to her question before Jenny stood at the door of the compartment.

  'Why was it different, Stephen?' she asked, when they were once more alone.

  'Because she is a girl,' said Stephen promptly.

  That v/as not the answer, thought Jane dumbly, her heart vaguely stirred, perhaps, by the old doctrines of President M. Carey Thomas. That was not the answer. Was the answer that now Stephen was a parent and that then he had been a child? Was that where all the difference lay? But no — this generation was something else again — it was rude — it was ruthless — it was completely self-confident. But self-con-

  fidencc was a virtue. Not entirely an attractive irtue, however. More than the purse-strings had tied poor Silly's hands. Intangible scruples. The bonds of affection. Some inner grace. Jane sat a long time in silence, her fingers once more slipped comfortingly into Stephen's hand. A silence that was eventually broken by her husband.

  'The Hudson's frozen over,' said Stephen absently.

  His voice recalled Jane from the Httle hell of worry in which she had been blindly revolving. Stephen did not yet know about Cicily. She would have to tell him. But not now. Stephen had had enough.

  *Why, so it is!' said Jane.

  rv

  Jane sat in the window of the Lakewood living-room, cross-stitching little brown and scarlet robins on a bib that she was making for Robin Redbreast's fourth Christmas. The Skokie Valley was a plain of spotless white. The sun was high and the sky was blue and the bare boughs of the oak trees were outlined with a crust of silvery snow that was melting, a little, in the heat of the December noon. Jenny was stretched on the sofa, intent on th
e pages of 'The American Kennels Gazette.' She was investigating the state of the market on Russian wolf hounds.

  It was Saturday and Stephen would soon be home for luncheon. Young Steve was staying late at the bank. He was winding up his affairs there very conscientiously, preparatory to his departure for Boston on the New Year,

  *Mumsy,' said Jenny presently.

  *Ycs,' said Jane.

  *Has it occurred to you that Dad's looking rather ofif hia feed? Since we came home from Boston, I mean?*

  *Ycs,' said Jane soberly, 'it has.'

  *Why don't you go off together somewhere — take a trip to Egypt or a Mediterranean cruise?'

  *Dad couldn't leave the bank,' said Jane shortly. 'And I wouldn't want to leaxe you children.'

  'It seems to me,' said Jenny cheerfully, 'that we children arc leaving you.'

  'Cicily isn't,' said Jane with equal cheerfulness. 'And we have tlie grandchildren.'

  'Mumsy,' said Jenny earnestly, *do you know I think parents make a mistake to count so much on their cliildren? I think you and Dad ought to have more fun on your own. When you were young, Mumsy, weren't you ever bored with Lakewood? Didn't you want to see the world?'

  'Yes, I was,' said Jane honestly. 'I wanted to see the world.'

  'Well, then, why don't you?' said Jenny eagerly. 'Why don't you, now you can?'

  'But I can't,' said Jane.

  'Why not?' said Jenny.

  'Because I'm needed here,' said Jane a trifle tartly.

  'That's just nonsense,' said Jenny very reasonably. 'What do you do here that couldn't be left undone?'

  On that outrageous question Jane heard Stephen's latchkey. He opened the front door and walked across the hall to hang up his hat and coat. His step, Jane thought, was just a little heavy. He smiled a trifle absently at his wife and daughter, from the living-room door.

  'Am I late?' he asked.

  'No. Just in time,' said Jane. She rose to touch the bell as she spoke.

  Stephen did look off his feed. He looked as if something were worrying him. Sometliing more than Jenny and Steve. He had looked just that way for the last ten days — ever since

  their return from his father's funeral. He had had almost nothing to say on the further chimerical development of Jenny's and Steve's plans for emancipation. Jane, sensing his preoccupation, had said nothing about Cicily. And Cicily, amazingly, had said nothing about herself. She had accepted the news of her legacy in Boston with incredulous joy. But she had made no comment on her domestic situation. She had returned to the little French farmhouse in silence. She had brought her children three times to see Jane. In their presence, of course, discussion of her predicament — if wilful wrongdoing could be called a predicament — was impossible. Jane had almost begun to hope, against hope, that Cicily had recognized the error of her ways. That financial freedom had brought emotional enlightenment. That as soon as the door was opened, Cicily had realized that she did not want to leave home. Perhaps she would never have to tell Stephen. Or tell him, at least, only of an evil tliat had been avoided, a peril that had been escaped, a sin that had been atoned.

  'Luncheon is served, madam,' said the waitress.

  Jenny chatted pleasantly of the charms of Russian wolf hounds while they sat at table. Stephen toyed with his chop, picked at his salad, and ignored his souffle.

  *I want to talk to your mother,' he said abruptly, when they had reentered the h'ing-room.

  'About me?' smiled Jenny. 'What have I done?'

  But Stephen did not smile.

  'Run along, dear,' said Jane.

  Jenny picked up 'The American Kennels Gazette' and left the room. Jane turned inquiringly toward Stephen. He had seated himself in his armchair near the fire. He sat for some time in silence, gazing abstractedly at the blazing logs.

  'Well, dear?' ventured Jane presently.

  'I don't know how to begin,' said Stephen soberly. He had not raised his eyes from the fire.

  'Stephen!' cried Jane in alarm. She sat down on the arm of his chair. 'Stephen, what is it?'

  'It's going to be a shock to you,' said Stephen. 'It was a great shock to me. I've known it for ten days and I haven't known how to tell you. Cicily is going to divorce Jack.'

  'Stephen!' cried Jane, aghast. Then, 'WTio told you?'

  'Cicily,' said Stephen. 'She came down to my office in the bank the day after we came home from Boston. I hope I

  handled her right, Jane ' Stephen's face was terribly

  troubled.

  'What did you do?' asked Jane.

  'I lost my temper,' said Stephen simply. *I hit the ceiling. She said she wanted to marry Albert Lancaster and I said wc would never allow it — that she was disgracefril — that *

  'And what did sfu do?' asked Jane.

  'She went away,' said Stephen. 'She kissed me and went away. This morning she came back again.'

  'Yes?' said Jane breathlessly.

  'She came back,' said Stephen slowly, 'to say that everything was settled. Belle and Jack have consented. Albert talked to Robin this morning. Belle's going to Reno in January '

  'Oh, Stephen!' cried Jane.

  'And Cicily's sailing for Paris next week.*

  'Next week!' cried Jane.

  'Next week,' said Stephen. 'She says she wants to spend Christmas Day on the boat — because of the children, you

  know. She does — she does think of the children, Jane *

  Stephen's voice was faltering.

  'Stephen,' said Jane very solemnly, 'this just can*t be We've got to stop her.'

  *You try,* said Stephen grimly.

  Just then Jane heard the doorbell.

  'I don't want to see any one, Irma!' she called to the waitress.

  But when the front door opened, Jane heard Isabel's voice. Her sister's quick step crossed the hall.

  Jane!' she called sharply. Jane! Stephen!'

  Jane exchanged one long look with Stephen.

  'This is going to be perfectly terrible,' she said. Then, 'Here we are, Isabel!'

  Isabel appeared in the living-room door. Her eyes were red and her worn, round face was swollen. She must have been crying all the way out from town in her car. She still held a damp little handkerchief, twisted into a tight, round ball in her hand.

  'What did I tell you, Jane?' was the first thing she said.

  'Isabel, darling,' said Jane, 'come in and sit down and help us. We're trying to decide what we must do.'

  'What you must do!' cried Isabel. 'You must stop Cicily!*

  'How?' said Jane.

  'I don't care,' said Isabel, 'as long as you stop her!' She sank dovvTi on a sofa near the fire. She looked accusingly up at Jane. 'You know I saw what was coming, Jane. I warned you. But of course I never really knew — I never even imagined anything like this could happen until Belle came in this morning and told me all about it. It was dreadful, Jane, for Mamma was there. Belle never thought of her — of how, I mean, we'd have to break it to her. Belle's like me — she speaks right out. And Mamma was awful, Jane. It was a terrible shock to her and she went all to pieces.'

  'What do you mean?' asked Jane anxiously. 'WTiat did she do?'

  'Talked,' said Isabel briefly. 'She rather sought refuge in

  the old-time religion. She thinks Cicily's damned — utterly damned. And she told Belle she was worse than Cicily for condoning sin, in cold blood. For letting Albert off, I mean. For going to Reno. And that knocked Belle up. She'd been very calm and controlled before. And she began to cry — she jiist cried her heart out, Jane! I had to send for Minnie to take Mamma away, so I could talk to Belle. And then Robin came home. He was utterly shattered. He'd just had the most awful, heartless interview with Albert in his office. About settlements, I mean, and horrible, final things like that. I'd just got Belle quiet, but that set her off again. She's simply distracted, Jane — and we tried to get hold of Jack, but he wasn't at the bank and he wasn't out here in Lakewood. And I didn't want any lunch, so I just left Belle with Robin and came straig
ht to talk to you and Stephen. You must stop Cicily!' Isabel paused for breath.

  'Poor — httle — Belle,' said Stephen, slowly. Toor young kid!'

  'Isabel ' said Jane impulsively, then paused. After a

  moment she went on, however. 'I think that's very fine of Belle — to let Albert go, I mean. Do you know — does she — does she really love him?'

  'Does she love him?' cried Isabel indignantly. *Of course she loves him! She married him, didn't she?'

  'Yes,' said Jane slowly. 'She married him. But '

  'And she's got three lovely children. Of course she loves him. And Jack loves Cicily. He really does, Jane, though I don't see how he can. He loves her and he adores his babies aad '

  'I know,' said Jane. 'I know. I'd always count on Jack.'

  'I just can't realize it,' said Isabel. *A double scandal like this in our family! In our family, Jane. I feel as if it weren't

  possible — as if I must be dreaming. When will you sec Cicily?'

  *Now,* said Jane. She rose decisively to her feet as she spoke. 'Will you come, Stephen?'

  Stephen shook his head very soberly.

  'You'd get on better without me, Jane. I said my say to Cicily this morning. I don't know that she'll ever want to sec me again. Not this afternoon, at any rate.'

  Bending over the back of his armchair, Jane kissed his grey hair very tenderly.

  *Then you stay here with Isabel,' she said.

  'But Cicily,' said Jane, half an hour later, *havc you never heard of conduct?^ She was sitting hand in hand with her daughter on the sofa in the little French drawing-room.

  'I have,* said Cicily firmly, 'and I think I'm conducting myself very well!' The child's young voice rang true with conviction.

  'How can you think that, Cicily?' said Jane sadly. 'I'm not asking you to consider your father or me, or your grandmother, or your Aunt Isabel, or your Uncle Robin. But leaving us all out of it, you're v/recking ten lives.'