Years of Grace

by Margaret Ayer Barnes

  Jane was a little surprised at just the way he said it. She looked over at him rather questioningly. Stephen was sitting, elbows on knees, his head bent to look at his clasped hands.

  'Oh, you won't be lonely,' said Jane lightiy. 'You know lots of people now. Chicago is fun in summer.'

  'Lots of people won't do,' said Stephen. He was still looking at his hands. Jane knew just how he felt. Very few people *did,' of course, when you came down to it. Stephen must miss his friends in Boston. Suddenly he looked up at her.

  'No one will do — but you —Jane,' he said hesitatingly. 'Surely, you know that.'

  The note in his voice was suddenly very alarming. Jane felt a little frightened. Stephen stood up. He walked quickly over to the bergire and stood looking down at her.

  'Jane,' he said, 'you know how I feel about you.'

  Jane was shrinking back into one comer of the great armchair, stanng up into his suddenly ardent face

  'No — no, I don't,' she said defensively.

  *I love you,' said Stephen. He said the three words very quickly, with a fimny Httlc gasp at the end. His face waj flushed.

  Jane's hands flew up as if she could tangibly put the three words away from her.

  'No, you don't, Stephen!' she cried quickly. *No, you don't!'

  •Oh, yes, I do,* said Stephen.

  Jane looked up at him very solemnly. Her hands dropped limply in her lap.

  *I love you — terribly,* said Stephen. Tve loved you from the night we first met, here in this house.'

  'Oh, no!' said Jane again, piteously. 'That — that isn't possible.'

  *I'vc never loved any one else,* said Stephen, like this.'

  'But you wilW cried Jane hopefully. *Oh, Stephen, you will!'

  Stephen continued to look down at her, very queerly.

  'Do you mean,' he said stiffly, at last — 'do you mean — there's no hope for me?'

  Jane felt terribly overcome with a sense of helpless guilt. She — she ought to have known this was coming. Clever giris did. Flora and Muriel always had.

  'Do you mean,' said Stephen, a little hoarsely, 'that you — that you can't care for me — at all?'

  Jane shook her head, very slowly. She felt dreadfrilly sc«Ty for him.

  'No — I can't,' she said simply. 'Not that way.*

  Stephen looked very much discouraged.

  'I thought,' he said sadly, *I thought — these last weeks '

  Jane rose suddenly to her feet. She stepped right up to Stephen and took his hands in hers.

  'Stephen/ she .said, 'you've been darling to Flora. And darling to me. I — I'm terribly fond of you. But I don't love you. I don't love you at all.'

  'How do you know?' asked Stephen, eagerly. He was holding her hands now, close against his breast. 'How do you know — if you're terribly fond of me?'

  *I know,' said Jane. She dropped her eyes as she felt them fill with tears. She could see the moonlit beach that minute. She could feel the shattering sense of Andre's nearness.

  'Jane ' pleaded Stephen. 'You can't be sure.'

  'I'm very sure,' said Jane. She withdrew her hands from his.

  'rn never give you up,' said Stephen. Jane shuddered, iaintly, at his ill-chosen words. She could feel Andre's lips on hers in the dim-lit side vestibule. 'You're mine,' he'd said; 'I'll never give you up.'

  'Don'i — don't talk like that,' said Jane sharply. She turned toward the door. 'I'm going home now. You must let me go, Stephen. I — I don't want to hear you.'

  He looked terribly sorry and just a little hurt, but Jane didn't care. She couldn't care for any one now, in the sudden surge of memories that had overwhelmed her. Andr^. Andre Duroy. She would never care like that for any one again. She wasn't even sure that she would care like that for Andre, now, if she could see him. But Jane knew. Jane knew aD too well.

  *I don't love you, Stephen,' she said, with dignity, on the threshold. He just stared dumbly, despairingly, at her from the empty hearthstone. Jane turned and left the room.

  n

  'He's crazy about you,* said Muriel lightly. 'It's ridiculous for you to say you haven't noticed it. Isn't he crazy about ha:, Isabel?'

  Muriel was sitting on Jane's window-seat, looking out into the lemon-coloured leaves of the October willow. Isabel was perched on Jane's bed. Little John Ward was standing in a baby pen in the centre of the room. Jane was sitting on the floor beside him. She had only been back three weeks fix)m the West and a walking John Ward was still a provocative novelty.

  'You never can tell with men,' said Isabel warily.

  *I can tell,' said Muriel, shaking her black curls very sagely. 'Last night at the Saddle and Cycle he never took his eyes off her.»

  'Eyes aren't everything,' said Isabel. 'How about it, Jane?*

  Jane looked up from the baby. She met their eager glances very coolly.

  'Muriel's a bride,' she said calmly. 'She's not responsible for her views on sentiment.'

  'Stephen's a lover!' retorted Muriel. 'He's not responsible for his. He looked at you across the table, Jane, as if he'd like to eat you.'

  'How cannibalistic of him!' smiled Jane, cheerfully. 'Somehow that picture doesn't lead me on.'

  'You're a perfect idiot* said Muriel, 'if you don't accept him.' Again she glanced at the bedstead for support. 'Isn't she, Isabel?'

  Isabel became suddenly practical.

  'What's wrong with him, Jane?' she asked earnestly. 'He's young' — her voice faltered a moment, with a glance at Muriel, over that qualification. She went hurriedly on, 'And good-looking and he has plenty of money and a very good

  family and he's your best friend's cousin. I'd say he was made to order, if you asked me.*

  *Why don't you fancy him, Jane? You know he's in love with you,' said Muriel accusingly. 'You ought to have seen her last night, Isabel. You wouldn't have known our Jane. She just wiped her feet on him.'

  'Who does Jane wipe her feet on?' questioned Mrs. Ward's voice. Jane's mother stood, smiling, on the threshold.

  'Stephen Carver,' said Muriel promptiy, ignoring Jane's warning eyebrow.

  Mrs. Ward looked very much pleased.

  *She's a very foolish girl if she does,' she said advancing into the room. She cast an apprehensive glance at the baby. *Isabel, are you sure that there isn't a draught on that floor?' Isabel moved a trifle restlessly on the bedstead. She didn't stoop to reply. 'Stephen Carver,' went on Mrs. Ward, 'is a very charming young fellow. If Jane is wiping her feet on him she may find out when it's too late that he's not the stuff of which doormats are made.'

  'Oh — I think he likes it,' said Muriel. 'He does Hke it, doesn't he, Jane?'

  Jane couldn't help smiling a trifle self-consciously. Stephen did like to have her notice him anyway at all. He had been terribly glad to sec her when she came back from the West. And she had been — not terribly, but really very glad to see him. He had given her a whirl at all the early autumn parties. Last night at the Saddle and Cycle Club — well — Jane knew very well that she shouldn't have acted just the way she did, since she didn't love Stephen at all and wanted, so terribly, to make it perfectly clear to him that she never could.

  'You'd like it, wouldn't you, Mrs. Ward?' asked Muriel impishly.

  Mrs. Ward looked a trifle disconcerted. She exchanged with Isabel a slightly embarrassed glance. Jane was more amused than anything, to see Muriel beating her mother and Isabel at their own game. Muriel would hke nothing better than to go out onto Pine Street that very afternoon and say with conviction, 'Mrs. Ward is setting her cap for Stephen Carver.'

  'Every mother,* said Mrs. Ward a trifle sententiously, 'would like her daughter's happiness.'

  Isabel rose from the bed.

  'I've got to go, Jane,' she said. 'Hand me Jacky.'

  Jane picked up her nephew over the railing of the pen. His little arms twined confidently around her neck. His fat little diapered figure felt very firm and solid in her arms. It would be fun to have a baby, all your own, thought Jane. It would
be fun to have a home of your own like Isabel and Muriel. However, there was more to marriage, Jane reflected very sagely, than a home and a baby. And she didn't love Stephen. She didn't love him at all.

  Isabel took Jacky.

  'I'll walk along with you, Isabel,' said Muriel. 'Good-bye, Jane. Don't come down.'

  Mrs. Ward turned to Jane as soon as the other two girls were out of hearing. She still looked pleased, and a httle excited.

  'What's this, Jane,' she said, 'about Stephen Carver?'

  'Just Muriel's nonsense,' said Jane.

  'Is he really in love with you?' said Mrs. Ward.

  'Oh, Mamma!' protested Jane very lightly. 'You know Muriel.'

  Mrs. Ward was looking at her very attentively.

  'Has he asked you to marry him?' she said.

  Jane hesitated for an almost imperceptible instant.

  'Not — not this fall,' she said.

  'Last winter?' said Mrs. Ward very quickly.

  Jane hesitated no longer.

  'Of course not, Mamma. I hardly knew him last winter.'

  ^Irs. Ward looked rather puzzled. Jane felt very triumphant and only a little untruthful. May was not winter.

  'He's a very dear boy,' said Mrs. Ward impressively. 'I like Stephen Carver.'

  Jane made no comment. She began to fold up the baby pen.

  'Your father admires him, too,' said Mrs. Ward.

  'How about Isabel?' asked Jane sweedy. 'And Robin? And the baby?'

  Mrs. Ward laughed in spite of herself.

  'They do all Hke him,' she said.

  Families were terrible, thought Jane. But her eyes were tvinkhng.

  'So if I did, too,' she said brightly, 'it would make it unanimous.'

  'Do you?' said Mrs. Ward.

  'Mamma,' said Jane, 'you are really shameless.'

  She walked out of the room \dth the baby pen. She was going to put it away in the back hall.

  m

  'Marion,' said Agnes confidently, 'is surely going to get the European fellowship.'

  'Why not you, Agnes?* asked Jane.

  They were sitting side by side on the brown velvet sofa in Mr. Ward's little Hbrary. Agnes was having tea with Jane. She was spending the Christmas holidays in Chicago.

  'I haven't a chance,' said Agnes. 'Marion's had wonderful marks these last two years.'

  Jane thought of the litdc dark-eyed Freshman she had met

  that first night in Pembroke Hall and of her father's sapient comment, *I bet she'll amount to something some day.* Marion amounted to a great deal already.

  *And I don't want it,' said Agnes. 'I don't want to study any more. I only want to write. I'm going to live in New York next winter. I'm going to look for a job on a newspaper.'

  Agnes seemed terribly capable and confident and self-sufficient. Jane couldn't imagine how she would set about finding that job, but she knew that she would get it. Jane tried to think of herself, turning up alone in New York, looking for a living wage and a good boarding-house. It wasnU thinkable.

  'What have you been doing, Jane?' said Agnes. *What arc you going to do?'

  Jane couldn't think of any adequate answer to those incisive questions. She wasn't going to do anything. She hadn't done anything, in the Bryn Mawr idiom, since she had left Bryn Mawr.

  'I don't know,* she said slowly. 'I — I've just been home.' Then she added honestly, 'I've liked it a lot.'

  Agnes's friendly, freckled face was just a little incredulous.

  'You can't like it, Jane,' she said. 'Not really.*

  *Oh, yes, I do,' said Jane. She felt terribly unworthy.

  'You're too good for a life like this,' said Agnes. 'And much too clever.'

  Jane didn't deny the soft impeachment.

  'You can be clever anywhere,' she said.

  Agnes looked a little uncomprehending.

  'You can think about people,' said Jane. *You can learn about Ufe.'

  'If you don't look out, Jane,* said Agnes very seriously,

  •you'll marry one of these days — marry a cotillion partner

  — and never do anything again as long as you Hve.' 'I'd like to marry,' said Jane honestly.

  *So would I,' said Agnes with equal candour. *I expect to, some day. But not a cotillion partner.'

  'There are all kinds of cotillion partners,' said Jane, defensively. The Bryn Mawr point of view seemed just a little restricted.

  Agnes drank her tea for a moment in silence. Then silently stirred the sugar in the cup.

  'Jane,' she said presently, her eyes on the teaspoon, 'Jane

  — have you ever heard from Andre?' Jane felt a sudden shock at the name.

  'No, Agnes,' she said very gently. 'I never have.'

  There was a little pause.

  'Agnes,' said Jane, a trifle tremulously, 'have — have you?*

  'No,' said Agnes.

  Silence fell on the room, once more.

  'You'll be twenty-one in May,' said Agnes. 'I bet he writes.*

  'He — he's probably forgotten all about me,' said Jane. 'You know, Agnes, we were just children.'

  'It was very clever of your mother,' said Agnes, 'not to allow any letters.'

  Jane felt a little stir of loyalty in her perplexed heart.

  'It was probably very wise of her,' she said.

  'Possibly,' said Agnes.

  'I — I'll never see him again, I suppose,' said Jane. 'He'll always live in Paris.'

  Agnes continued to stir her tea.

  'It would be dreadful,' said Jane, 'if I were still in love with him.'

  'I suppose it might be,' said Agnes at last. 'Four years is a long time.'

  *Hc must be very different,' said Jane. 'I'm very different myself.*

  *Of course,* said Agnes meditatively, 'you've both met a lot of people.'

  Jane heard the doorbell ring. She almost hoped that this conversation would be interrupted. It was too disturbing.

  'And done a lot of things,' she said cheerfully. 'Think what Andre's life must have been, Agnes. I can't even imagine it.*

  Minnie stood at the hbrary door. Before she could speak, however, Jane heard Stephen's cheerful tones in the hall.

  'Hi! Jane! Where are you?'

  'Here in the hbrary,' called Jane. 'Come in, Stephen.*

  Stephen stood in the doorway, overcoat thrown open, hat in hand.

  *I just stopped in,* he said, 'to see if you'd go skating this evening.' Then he saw Agnes.

  'Miss Johnson, Mr. Carver,' said Jane promptly. 'Sit down and have some tea, Stephen. Agnes Johnson was my Bryn Mawr roommate.'

  Stephen seated himself in a leather armchair. He looked very young and charming and debonair, with his blond hair just a little ruffled from his soft felt hat and his cheeks bright red from the December wind. Jane really felt quite proud of him. She looked over at Agnes with a mischievous smile. She was a little dismayed at the expression of Agnes's funny, freckled face. 'CotilHon partner!' was written all over it.

  'I've just been telling Jane,' said Agnes, a trifle severely, 'that she ought to be doing something with her life.'

  Stephen looked extremely astonished.

  'Why — isn't she?' he asked.

  'Nothing important,' said Agnes.

  'Must Jane do something important?' asked Stephcru Jane handed him his tea.

  *Shc could,' said Agnes firmly, *if she would.*

  'I never have liked,' said Stephen dreanuly, 'important women.'

  Jane began to feel a trifle amused. She didn't know that Stephen had it in him. Agnes didn't reply. Jane knew that Agnes always felt above a cheap retort. Stephen was left a little up in the air with his last remark. It began to sound ruder than it was, in the silence.

  'Agnes,' said Jane lightly, 'is a serious-minded woman.'

  *I can see that,' said Stephen. He tried to muster an admiring smile, but, under Agnes's dispassionate eye, it didn't quite come off.

  'Life is real and Ufe is earnest,' explained Jane sweetly, 'and the grave is not its goal.
'

  Stephen grinned at her very appreciatively. He was grateful for her levity. But Agnes was quite disgusted. She rose abruptly.

  *I must go,' she said.

  The front door opened and closed.

  'Don't go, Agnes,' said Jane. 'Here's Papa. He'll want to Bee you.'

  Mr. Ward appeared in the library door. His hands were full of newspapers and illustrated weeklies.

  'Why, Agnes!' he said. He shook hands warmly. He was very glad to see her. 'How's the busy little brain working?'

  'One hundred per cent,' grinned Agnes. 'But wc miss Jane.'

  'I missed her myself,' said Mr. Ward heartily, 'for two long years.' He walked across the room and put his papers down on the desk.

  'What does Bryn Mawr think about Spain, Agnes?' he asked. 'Arc we going to have war?' Mr. Ward was very much interested in Cuba. He was always talking of intervention.

  'War?* said Agnes vaguely. 'What war?'

  'Ever hear of "Cuba libre"?' questioned Mr. Ward with a smile.

  *Oh, yes,' said Agnes. 'But I can't say I've thought much about it.'

  'Did you read the President's message to Congress?' Mr. Ward had read it, himself, to Jane.

  Agnes shook her head.

  'What's the matter with Miss Thomas?' said Mr. Ward. 'I thought you women's rights girls would be getting up a battery!'

  Agnes laughed.

  'In the cloister,' she said, 'our wars are of the spirit. But I must go.' Mr. Ward walked with her to the door. He came back into the Ubrary, chuckling.

  'Agnes is a great kid,' he said. 'Bright girl, Stephen. You ought to know her. Keep you jumping to get ahead of her.'

  Stephen looked as if he wouldn't care very much for that form of exercise.

  'Will you come skating?' he said.

  'Yes,' said Jane, 'I'd love to.'

  'Eight o'clock?' said Stephen.

  'Yes,' said Jane.

  'Good-evening, sir,' said Stephen meticulously to Jane's father.

  'Good-night,' said Mr. Ward. He was looking at Stephen with that air of faint amusement, with which he always looked at him. Stephen went out into the hall.

  'That's a nice boy, Jane,' said Mr. Ward. Jane nodded. Her father walked around the desk and put his arms around her. He twisted her about, so that he could look into her face.