'You'll Uke that book, Jane,* she said, 'when you're older.*
That was the way Andre's family always spoke of books. Just as if they were people Hving in the world with you, nice friendly people, whom you were bound to meet some day and get on famously with when you finally knew them.
Jane followed Andr6 into his Uttle bedroom. His paints were all set out on a table with some sheets of Bristol board.
*I saw Bernhardt do "Camille" in Paris, last summer,' said
Andre eagerly, 'And I remember all her sets. We can make ours just the same.'
Jane sat down beside Andr6 at the little table, feeling a little flushed and excited to think that this was really Andre's very own room. She had been in it several times before, of course, but it made her feel that funny way inside every time. Andre was very near her, just across the paint water. He went on talking about Sarah Bernhardt most enthusiastically, but there was something about his very enthusiasm that made Jane think that perhaps he was feeling funny too. Terribly happy and excited and just a little nervous, as she was herself. But then they fell to discussing colours and later to painting cind Andre grew lost in his work, as he always did, and Jane applauded him and was very much interested and greatly surprised when Andre's mother stood in the doorway and said it was half-past four and time for tea.
Jane had never known any one who had tea, regularly, every day, Hke breakfast, lunch, and dinner, except Andre's family. Jane's mother had it on Wednesdays, when lots of ladies came to call, and now that Isabel was home from school, she had it on Sundays, too, for hordes of young men in frock coats, who came early and Hngered late. The last of them usually stayed to supper and hymn-singing around the Stein-way upright in the parlor.
But those teas were parties, with candy and three kinds of cake and funny fishy little sandwiches that Minnie made meticulously in the pantry. The tea-table was always set with the silver tray and the silver tea-set and lots of httle Dresden plates and embroidered napkins and Jane's mother and Isabel were always aU dressed up in their best bib and tucker, sitting primly behind the tea-kettle, never dreaming of eating anything until the doorbell rang.
Andre's tea was very diifferent. His mother presided non-
chalantly from the depths of the Morris armchair over a gold and white china tea-set and there was nothing to eat except very thin shces of bread and butter and a plate of sponge cake, untidily torn to pieces. That sponge cake, Andrd's mother explained as Jane's eyes widened at the sight of it, was a specialite de la maison. It seemed you couldn't cut it without spoiling it. A funny kind of cake, Jane thought, to serve for tea. But very good.
Andre's father came in just before the bread and butter was finished. Mr. Duroy was a little grey-haired Frenchman, with wise brown eyes that glittered behind his pince-nez eyeglasses. The glasses balanced precariously on his aquiUne nose and he was continually taking them off and waving them about as he talked. They were fastened to his coat lapel with a narrow black ribbon, which made him look very unlike other men. A shred of scarlet silk was always run through his buttonhole. Jane never knew why.
He talked a great deal and so did Andre's mother. But not at all as Jane's family did. Never about people. People you knew, at least. This afternoon he was talking very excitedly about something called the Dual AlUance and a Frenchman named Alexandre Ribot who was President du Conseil, whatever that might be, and seemed to be doing something important about France and Russia. Mr. Duroy had a great deal to say about Mr. Ribot, though he didn't seem to know him. The only people that Jane could ever remember hearing her family talk about whom they did not know were Benjamin Harrison and Grover Cleveland. And these gentlemen never provoked her mother and Isabel to utterance. Her father occasionally made statements about them that always passed unchallenged, Andre's mother, now, had vdews of her own on Mr. Ribot. Jane and Andre didn't talk at all, but before she knew it
the clock struck six and Jane realized that she should have gone home long ago. She rose a little shyly. Jane never knew just how to leave a party.
'I must lend you "Camille," * said Andr^ and plucked the book, in a yellow paper cover, from off the bookshelves. 'La Dame aux Camellias' was printed on the outside. 'Mother is going to help me do a good translation. See if you don't like it.'
Jane privately hoped that she knew enough French to read it, with a dictionary.
*Andr^ will walk home with you,' said Andre's mother.
And indeed it was very dark. Jane didn't know what her mother would say, if she were home. Of course she might be out with Isabel. They were very busy these days with parties and dressmakers.
The street lamps were flickering on their tall standards as they stepped out on Chicago Avenue. The drugstore windows across the street in the JCinzie flats gUttered with yeUow light. Great green and red and blue urns of coloured water glowed behind the glass.
'Pure colour,' said Andre. 'Pure as Hght.*
He took her arm as they crossed the car tracks. Jane held her elbow very stiff and straight but she felt a little thrill run right up her arm from where his fingers rested on her coat sleeve. He was looking at her face and he was very near her, but Jane didn't turn her head. When they reached the further curbstone he dropped her arm, at once. Jane felt awfully happy.
Til try to find those pictures of Bernhardt for you,' said Andre. 'They're around somewhere in an old copy of "Lc Theatre." If you could copy them for the puppet *
'I'd love to,' said Jane. T can make her hair of ravelled yam.'
*Goldcn brown,' said Andre, 'and very fiizzy. She has beautiful hair.'
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Pine Street was very empty and very quiet. A hansom cab went by, the horse's feet clapping sharply on the cedar block pavement. A belated errand boy whizzed past on a bicycle. He trilled his bell shrilly for the Superior Street comer. Jane was thinking how dark and straight her pigtails were. Her hair was so fine that it didn't show for much, except just after a shampoo. She wished, terribly, that she had Flora's red-gold tresses. Or Muriel's seven black finger curls. Or this Bemhardt's golden-brown fiizz, that she had never seen and Andr^ so admired.
He took her arm again for the next crossing.
'I know you'll copy her beautifully,' he said. And Jane felt happy once more. Warm and glowing, deep down inside.
When they reached herhouse Andre hngered a moment on the pavement, under the big bare elm tree.
'I — I had a lovely time,' said Jane.
'You'll read the play?' said Andre. 'And come again tomorrow?'
Jane nodded. There was a Httle pause. Andre moved about a bit. The street was very dark. The street hghts were on the corners.
'^Vill you — wiU you dance the Hallowe'en cotilHon with me at dancing-school?' said Andr6.
Jane's heart leaped up in ecstasy.
'Oh,' she said softly, 'I — I'd love to.'
*A11 right,' said Andre. 'That's fine.' He Ungered a mo-tnent longer. 'Well — good-night,' he said, taking oflf the b^ret.
Jane ran up the firont steps and rang a peal of triumph on
the doorbell. She skipped up and down in the vestibule waiting for the door to open. Unconsciously she hummed a fragment of her father's morning song.
'Life is a joke that's just begun!' she carolled, as Minnie stood on the threshold. The words, at the moment, had for her no meaning. She was just singing.
n
Jane had no time to read *La Dame aux Camellias' that night. Her home work was very long. She looked it over, translating a hne here and there, hoping in vain for pictures, before she went to bed. She left it on her table next morning when she started out for school.
Andr6 had the copy of *Le Theatre' under his arm when she met him under the Water Works Tower. They sat down on a green bench in the Uttle pubhc park to inspect it. Flora and Muriel went on ahead. There were four pictures of Bernhardt. Three of her as Gamille and one in a play called 'Ph^dre.' In Thedre' she wore a Greek costume and a chiffon veil was over her frizzy hair. But in
'Gamille' Jane could see clearly just how lovely it was. There was one of her dying, on a kind of sofa, with her curls straying out all over the pillows. No wonder that Andre thought it was beautiful. Jane thought she could copy the costumes. Andr6 remembered all the colours.
She told Agnes about the play at recess and Agnes was very much thrilled. She took special pains with her French that morning and learned one extra irregular verb. She hoped it would appear in * Gamille,' in one of its most unusual tenses. She decided, quite firmly, to work hard on the grammar that winter and really learn to speak the language. Perhaps when she and Andre had done Gamille he might ask her to do Phedre, too. She talked about that possibility very seriously
with Agnes after school. So long and so seriously that she was just a little late in getting home for luncheon.
Her mother and Isabel were already seated at the dining-room table. The homely odour of fried ham greeted her nostrils as soon as she entered the room. She flung her books on a chair. She was pleasantly hungry.
'Gosh, I had fiin in school to-day,' she said.
Then she noticed that something was wrong. She would have noticed it sooner if she hadn't been thinking so intently of the joys in store for her.
'You're very late,' said Isabel.
Jane sat dovvn and unfolded her napkin. Minnie passed the ham. No one said anything more for a moment. The silence was very forbidding.
'Jane,' said her mother presently, 'where did you get the book that I found on your table this morning?'
Jane dropped her knife and fork. She was extremely surprised.
'Wha — what book?' she asked, instinctively playing for time.
'That French book,' said her mother, and her tone spoke volumes.
Jane stared at her in silence.
'Where on earth did you find it?' asked Isabel.
Jane's great brown eyes turned on her sister.
'Answer Mother, Jane.' The tone brooked no delay. Jane's eyes returned to the head of the table.
'From — from Andre,' she said. Her voice, in her own ears, sounded strangely husky.
'Andrir said her mother, staring at Isabel. * That explains it.'
'You don't mean to say,' said Isabel, 'that Andri gave you that book?'
*Yes,' said Jane with difficulty.
*What/or?' said her mother. The last word was really almost a shriek.
*To — to read,' said Jane.
Isabel and her mother exchanged a glance of horror.
'Well — honestly ' said Isabel.
*Have you read it?' asked her mother.
'No,' said Jane. Her ear caught their little gasps of relief. She didn't understand at all. She only knew that she and Andre and their perfect plan were in some dreadful danger. She must try to explain.
'He's going to give it in his theatre. Mamma,' she went on hurriedly. 'He wants me to help him. He wants me to make the costumes. We're going '
Her mother and Isabel exchanged another glance of horror.
'What's the matter?^ cried Jane, her nerves breaking under the strain. 'What's happened?^
Her mother smiled at her very kindly.
'Nothing has happened, Jane. I'm very glad you haven't read the book. It's not at all a nice book for a child to read. But we'll just return it to Andr6 to-day. You needn't think anything more about it.'
'But Mamma!' cried Jane. 'You — you can't do that! Why — why we've made all our plans — I was going over there tliis afternoon — we've almost finished the first set — he '
'It doesn't make any difference what you've done, Jane,* said her mother firmly, 'or what you've planned. It's not a nice book for a Httle girl to read and '
'Havej'OM read it?' asked Jane rudely. And she meant to be rude. She knew her mother couldn't read French. Isabel herself couldn't read it, half as well as Jane could.
'You don't have to read books, Jane,' said her mother with
dignity, *to know that they shouldn't be read. This book is very unpleasant.'
*Why, it's notorious!' said Isabel.
'Isabel!' said her mother.
Jane felt very confused.
*If you haven't read it, Mamma,' she said reasonably, 'don't you think that perhaps you've made a mistake? Andre's mother saw him give it to me. She's going to help us with the play.'
She saw at once that she hadn't helped her cause at all.
'Honestly!' said Isabel again. 'Those frogs!'
'French people,' said her mother, once more with dignity, 'don't feel about these things the way we do. They have very different ideas of right and wrong.'
'Andre's mother is English,' said Jane sullenly.
"She married a Frenchman,' said Isabel, as if that settled it.
*We won*t discuss it further,' said Jane's mother. 'Eat your lunch.'
'Mamma/* cried Jane in desperation. 'You don't understand. I — I can't go back on Andre! I can't '
'Jane,' said her mother. 'You will eat your lunch. And then you will call up Andre and tell him that you can't have anything to do with the play and that you can't go over there this afternoon. I'll send Minnie over with the book. I don't want you to go over to Andre's any more at all. You've been seeing far too much of him lately. Any Tboy that would give a little girl a book like that '
But Jane had sprung to her teet.
'I won't eat my lunch!' she cried. 'And I won't call up Andrei I think you're too mean! You don't understand! You don't understand anyihingV Her voice was breaking. She wouldn't cry before them! She rushed from the room.
'It's a long time,' she heard her mother say, as she reached the door, 'since Jane has had a tantrum.'
She stumbled up the stairs. She gained the refuge of her bedroom and banged the door. The book was gone. She couldn't go to Andre's. She couldn't help him with that play. She flung herself on her bed in stormy tears.
It wasn't very long before the door opened and Isabel entered, without a knock. Jane lay very still and tried to hush her sobs.
'Don't be silly, Kid,' said Isabel. She sat down on the bed.
'Don't talk to me,' said Jane.
'Stop crying,' said Isabel reasonably, 'and be sensible.'
There was a httle pause.
'That's a dreadful play, Jane,' said Isabel.
Jane didn't reply.
'Sarah Bernhardt does it,' said Isabel. 'She's an awful woman.'
Jane lay very still.
'When she was here,* said Isabel, 'none of us girls were allowed to see her. She's not nice.'
Jane sat up. Andre's reverent accents still rang in her ears.
'She has beautiful hair,' thought Jane. 'Golden brown — and frizzy.'
'What do you mean by "not nice"?' she inquired indignantly.
Isabel's face looked a httle queer. She was watching her younger sister rather curiously.
'Immoral,' said Isabel finally.
*I don't believe it,' said Jane, after a moment.
'Oh, yes, she is,' said Isabel easily. 'Every one knows that.*
Jane stared, unconvinced. Isabel was still looking at her in that funny way.
'Don't you know what I mean ?' said Isabel.
There was an awful pause. Jane wasn*t sure that she did. But it sounded dreadful.
*I — don't — believe — it,' said Jane slowly. *Andr<5 said '
Trench people are different,' said Isabel. 'They don't mind things like that.'
'They're not different!' said Jane. But of course she knew that they were. Not different like that, though. Whatever it was, if it were true, Andre couldn't know it.
'Now, don't be silly, Jane,' said Isabel once more. 'Minnie's keeping your lunch. Go down and eat it and then telephone Andre and tell him.'
*I can't tell him!' wailed Jane.
'Well — you can tell him something,' said Isabel plausibly. 'You can tell him that Mamma doesn't want you to stay indoors on such a bright afternoon.'
'Do you want me to lie to him?' said Jane.
'Well, Jane!' Isabel was actually laughing. '
You wouldn't tell him the truth, would you?'
'I won't he to Andre,' said Jane. 'Besides, Mamma '
'Oh, Mamma'll get over it. She won't care what you say as long as you don't go.'
The door opened again. Jane's mother stood on the threshold.
'Don't be silly, Jane,' she said.
Jane wiped her eyes.
'Go down and eat your lunch!' She patted Jane very nicely on the shoulder. They all turned toward the door.
'Isabel,' said her mother, halfway down the hall, 'I can't find that book anjywhere. I left it on my desk.'
'Oh!' said Isabel, and her voice sounded a bit confused. 'It's in my room. I started to bring it downstairs for you.'
Jane looked through Isabel's door. There was the little
yellow volume on the sofa, with Jane's own French dictionary beside it. Jane despised Isabel, for a moment. Her mother picked up the volume gingerly as if it burned her fingers.
'I never expected to see,' she said, *a paper-covered French book in this house.'
^All French books have paper covers,' Jane began. Andre had told her that. But of course it was no use. She didn't go on with it. Instead she went downstairs and tried to eat her lunch at the pantry table beneath the telephone, thinking of what she had better say to Andre.
The telephone was very new. It had only been put in that autumn and Jane usually thought it was lots of fun to use it. But she didn't think so now. When she had eaten her ham and one preserved peach she stood before it quite a Uttle time in silence before she gave Andre's number.
He answered the call himself. She knew his voice inmiedi-ately. His funny telephone voice, trickUng so miraculously into her ear, when he was four long city blocks away.
'HeUo, Jane,' he said.
She didn't waste any time on preliminaries.
'I can't come over,' she said miserably.
'Why not ?' said Andre.
Jane gulped a Uttle before she could reply.
Years of Grace Page 2