Jane pushed the mail into a pigeon-hole. She felt she could not bear to cope with it. She felt she could not bear to cope
%vith the winter that lay before her. Which was, of course, ridiculous. Jane knew that it would be just like all other winters — fun enough, when you came to live it. But always in October, reestabhshed in Lakewood after the break of the Eastern summer, Jane wondered why she and Stephen chose to live just the way they did. Lakewood was good for the children, of course. No longer country, not much more rural than the Pine Street of her childhood, but better than Isabel's town apartment, nicer, even, than Muriel's smart city residence overlooking the lake.
Still — suburban life was pretty awful. Narrow, confining, in spite of the physical asset of its wider horizons. Jane rose from her desk and walked to a western window. The sun was setting over the Skokie Valley. An October sunset, red and cold, behind her copper oak woods, beyond the tanned haystacks in the distant meadows. A western sunset, violent and vivid, glorifying the flat swamps with golden hght, setting the tranquil clouds in the wide, unbroken sky aflame with rosy fire. The Skokie always looked hke that, on autumn evenings. It was lovely, too, on winter nights, a snowy plane beneath the sparkling stars. In the spring, when the Skokie overflowed its banks and the swamps were wet and the moonlight paled the pink blossoms of the apple tree at the foot of the garden, it was perhaps most lovely of all. Jane was lucky to live there — lucky to have that picture to look out on, always, outside her window. Still
Jane watched the burnished sun sink slowly beneath the flat horizon, the low clouds lose their colour and turn darkly purple, the high clouds flame with pink and pure translucent gold. Then they, too, faded into wisps of grey. The western sky was lemon-coloured now. A crescent moon was tangled in the oak boughs.
Jane turned back to her desk and stood looking at the fl-
luminated quotation from Stevenson that hung over it in a silver frame — the work of Jenny's hand in the sixth grade of the Lakewood Progressive School, a gift of last Christmas.
'To make this earth, our hermitage, A cheerful and a changeful page, God's bright and intricate device Of days and seasons doth suflSce.*
*What a damn he!' thought Jane, and turned at the sound of a step in the doorway. Jimmy Trent, his hat in his hand, his fiddle-case under his arm, stood smiling at her on the threshold. The children had left the front door open, of course. He had come in quietly
•Hello!' said Jimmy. 'How's every Httle thing?'
Jimmy!'said Jane. 'Come in! Sit down. I'm awfully glad to see you!'
'That's quite as it should be,' said Jimmy. 'May I stay to dinner?'
'Of course,' said Jane. Then, before she could stop herself, 'Why didn't you telephone?'
'Why didn't you telephone me?' said Jimmy, tossing his hat Dn a table and placing the fiddle-case beside it. 'You could have, you know, at the "Daily News."'
Jane thought her reason for not telephoning Jimmy might sound a little foolish. If you said you thought a man should telephone you first, it really seemed as if you took the fact that he had not telephoned quite seriously.
'Oh, I don't know,' said Jane; 'I've been busy.'
'So have I,'said Jimmy. 'Awfully busy. It's the first time in six years that I've cut loose from a woman's apron strings in a big city. I Hke Chicago.'
*Do you like your job?* said Jane severely. Jimmy looked white, she thought, and just a little tired.
*My job?'said Jimmy. 'Oh, yes. I like my job. It isn't very ai'duous.'
*I hope you're working at it,' said Jane.
'Now, Jane,' said Jimmy sweetly, 'lay off salvation. I get enough of that at home.' He strolled over to the hearthrug and took his stand upon it, his back toward the smouldering fire. He was still smiling. 'I met Stephen at noon to-day. I met him, I regret to tell you, Jane, in the University Club bar. Every one was talking about this Lancaster's stroke. Stephen said he was going up to see Mrs. Lancaster this evening. So I thought I'd come out with my fiddle and offer you a httle entertainment. I want to play you Debussy's "La Fille aux Cheveux de Laine."'
'How nice of you,' said Jane a little uncertainly.
'Like Debussy?' asked Jimmy.
'Yes,' said Jane.
'Me, too,' said Jimmy.
There was a moment of silence. Jane suddenly realized how dark the room had grown. She turned on a lamp and gat down in her chair by the fireside.
'This is nice,'said Jimmy. 'This is very nice.* He was looking interestedly around the chintz-hung hving-room. The panelled walls, the books, the Steinway, the few good pieces of mahogany furniture all seemed to meet with his approval. *It's just like you, Jane. Modem, but not morbid.' He sank into Stephen's armchair across the hearthrug and picked up the October 'Question Mark' from the table at his elbow. The 'Question Mark' was the monthly magazine of the Lake-wood Progressive School. Jimmy idly scanned a photograph of the football squad for a moment in silence and dropped the 'Question Mark' back upon the table. His eye fell upon the copy of the King Arthur stories. 'Not at all morbid,' he repeated. His eyes were twinkling as they met Jane's.
*I must go up and dress for dinner,* said Jane, rising suddenly. 'Here's the newspaper if you'd like to read it until I come down.'
*Are you glad I came?' The question arrested her abruptly in the doorway. Curiously enough, Jane was not quite sure. But
'Very glad,' said Jane evenly. She mounted the staircase rather slowly. She wasn't quite sure about the gladness. Nevertheless, she was inexphcably determined to look her best that evening. She would put on that red Poiret tea-gown she had so foolishly bought at a bargain sale last June. She had often regretted that foUy. What use had Jane at Lakewood or Gull Rocks for a red Poiret tea-gown?
'Miss Parrot,' said Jane, pausing in the playroom doorway, *I want Steve to wear his blue suit this evening. And tell Cicily and Jenny, please, to put on their new yellow smocks.' On entering her bedroom she rang for the waitress.
'Sarah,' she said, 'Mr. Carver will not be home for dinner, but Mr. Trent will stay. We'll have cocktails. And some of the good sauterne at table. And creme de menthe, please, after the coffee. Be sure and see that the ice is cracked fine. You can pound it in a towel. It ought to be almost pulverized.'
Jane walked slowly to her closet and took out the red tea-gown. Jimmy was something different at Lakewood. Still, she wsisn't quite sure about the gladness. She wished that Agnes were downstairs with him. When Jane realized how much she wished that, she felt better about the gladness. She was even wiUing to admit to herself how very glad she was.
'Let's play parchesi,' said Httle Steve.
*I have to telephone Aunt Isabel,' said Cicily.
*I haven't done my practising,' said Jenny.
They were all sitting around the living-room fire. Jane was presiding over the Httle silver coffee service on the table at her knee. Sarah was passing the creme de menthe. The Uttle cut-glass goblets, filled with vivid green Hquid, looked very festive and finvolous, on the small silver tray. Jimmy grasped his with a sigh of satisfaction. Miss Parrot took hers with the deprecatory gesture of every trained nurse accepting an alcohoUc beverage. Jane sipped hers with the comforting realization that the ice was perfectly pulverized.
*Do you like parchesi?' said Httle Steve to Jimmy.
*I love it,' said Jirmny, 'but I hurt my finger yesterday and I'm afi-aid I couldn't throw the dice.'
'Anyway,' said Jenny, 'I have to practise.*
'Not to-night,' said Jimmy cheerfully. 'Day before yesterday I hurt my ear and sudden noises pain it dreadfully.'
Jenny and Gicily and Miss Parrot all laughed uproariously at his nonsense.
'Well,' said Cicily, *I do have to telephone Aunt Isabel.*
'That's a fine idea,* said Jimmy approvingly. 'And Miss Parrot looks to me like a perfect parchesi fan. I think it would be very nice, Cicily, if Steve got the board aU ready in another room so that, when you had finished telephoning your aunt, you and she and Jenny and Steve could all play parchesi togeth
er, while your mother sat here in the firehght and told me what to do for my finger and my ear.'
Miss Parrot, having finished her creme de menthe, rose with a smile. She was obviously quite captivated by Jimmy.
'Come up to the playroom, children,' she said. TU play parchesi with you.'
*And dorCt I have to practise?' asked Jenny jubilandy.
*Not if Mr. Trent's ear is hurting him,' smiled Jane.
Jenny threw Jimmy a gratefiil smile. Steve dragged Miss Parrot firom the room. Cicily followed with Jenny.
*I can't believe,* said Jimmy, as he lit a cigarette, 'that those great children are yours.*
'They are,' said Jane 'briefly.
'Cicily's a perfect heart-breaker,' said Jimmy.
'I'm afraid she will be,' said Jane.
'Why "afraid"?' asked Jimmy.
'I don't think breaking hearts is a very rewarding occupation,' said Jane.
'Oh — some one else can always mend them,' said Jimmy lighdy. He twinkled across at her, through a blue streak of cigarette smoke. 'You know that, don't you, Jane?'
'I've never broken any hearts,' said Jane, smiling. 'So really I don't.'
'Well — experience is the best teacher,' said Jimmy affably.
Sarah reentered the room to remove the coffee tray. She picked up the cups and the little cut-glass goblets with the silent efficiency of the perfect servant and retired noiselessly into the hall.
'It moves on greased wheels, doesn't it, Jane?' said Jimmy.
'What does?' asked Jane.
'Your Ufe,' said Jimmy.
'Yes,' said Jane. 'But I grease them.*
'I suppose you do,' said Jimmy. 'But you don't mind it, do you?'
'I get awfully sick of it,' said Jane honestly.
Jimmy watched her for a moment in silence behind the cigarette smoke.
'Sick of what?' he said presentiy.
'Sick,' said Jane earnestly, 'of greasing wheek. Sick of running the house and bossing the servants and dressing the children. Sick of seeing that everything looks pretty and everything goes right. Sick of seeing that the living-room is dusted before ten every morning and that dinner is served on
the stroke of seven every night. Sometimes I wonder what's the use of it all. Sometimes I wish that Stephen and I could just tear up our roots and buy a couple of knapsacks and put the children in a covered wagon and start out to see the world. Just wander, you know, for a year or two. Wander everywhere, before we're too old to do it. Not bother about anything. Not care. Not do anything we didn't really want to
I suppose you think I'm crazy!' She broke off abruptly.
'Crazy?' said Jimmy. *I think you're just right. There's a lot of the nomad in me, you know. I guess the tent got into my blood. If I'd been born a gypsy instead of a Methodist minister's son, I'd never have broken home ties. Golly!'—he waved his cigarette with enthusiasm — 'I'd Uke to go round the world. Round and round it in circles. Round it in every latitude. Let's do it, Jane! Let's surprise Stephen to-night! You leave a note on the pincushion and I'll send a wire to Agnes. "Gone — to points unknown!" We'll set out for the Golden Gate — I guess we can buy those knapsacks in the Northwestern Station — and sail for the South Sea Islands and drift over to Siam and Burma and India and on up to China — and by that time Stephen and Agnes will have divorced us and I'U make you an honest woman, Jane, in a littie Chinese shrine with the temple bells ringing overhead, and wc'U wander on, through Tibet and Afghanistan and Persia to Asia Minor, or maybe up to Russia, and then down through the civilized countries, which won't be so nice, but where the food will be much better, to Africa, Jane! To the Dark Continent. And maybe when we get there we'U stay — stay in the village of some cannibal king who never even heard of a musical critic or a suburban housewife, where concertos for the vioKn are unknown and hving-rooms are never dusted! How about it, Jane?' He paused out of breath and looked engagingly over at her.
'It sounds very alluring,' said Jane, 'but a little uncomfortable.*
'Comfort!* scoffed Jimmy. 'You don't really care about comfort!'
'Yes, I do!' cried Jane. 'When I haven't got it! And so do you. I don't know you so awfully well, Jimmy, but I know you well enough to know that. You care so much about comfort that you won't get up in the morning and make your own bed for Agnes! You won't ride on a milk train instead of the Twentieth Century! I don't think you'd be so good in a jungle. When I go to a jungle, I think I'll take Stephen. He'd be very capable there.'
'I'm sure,' said Jimmy cheerfully, 'he'd have sanitary plumbing installed in a fortnight. Nevertheless, something tells me that Stephen is no gypsy. If you ever see the Dark Continent with Stephen, you'll see it in the discreet light shed on it by Thomas Cook and Sons 1 But as for me, with or without Agnes, I'm going to see the world before I die.'
'Mumsy* — it was little Steve on the threshold — 'we want to kiss you good-night.'
'Come in,' said Jane. 'Come in, all of you.' The three children were lingering in the doorway.
'How'd tlie game come out, Steve?' asked Jimmy affably.
'Miss Parrot won,' said Steve gloomily. 'She always does.'
'I'm going to send you a set of loaded dice,' said Jimmy benevolendy. 'Come in, kids, and sit down.* He rose as he spoke. 'I want to sing to you.' He had picked up his fiddle-case and was removing the violin. Jane looked up in surprise. Jimmy was a strange mixture of contradictions. The children setded themselves delightedly on the floor near the fire. Jimmy tucked his violin under his chin and tuned it airily as he sauntered across the room.
'It's an old English ballad,' he said, 'and a particular fa-
voiiritc of mine. It appeals to your mother, too, who is really a gypsy at heart. Did you know that, children? There she sits by those polished brass andirons looking very pretty in a French tea-gown, but at heart she's dancing barefoot by a bonfire in a tattered red shawl — dancing in the dark of the moon to the tinkle of a tambourine. When she married your father, children, she jumped over a broomstick. But later he took up with the bond business. That's the way most of us get married. Did you know that, Cicily? But later we nearly all of us take up with something else and after that we only use broomsticks to sweep with.'
The children were staring at him in wide-eyed fascination. They were still staring when he began softly to sing:
*Therc were three gypsies a-come to my door, And downstairs ran my lady, O! One sang high and the other sang low, And the other sang bonny, bonny Biscay, Ol
'Then she pulled off her silk-finished gown And put on hose of leather, O! The ragged, ragged rags about our door — She's gone with the raggle-taggle gypsies, O!*
Jimmy paused to smile mockingly at Jane, drawing hk bow with a flourish across the strings of his viohn.
*It was late last night when my lord came home, Inquiring for his lady, O! The servants said, on every hand. She's gone with the raggle-taggle gypsies, O!
'Come saddle me my milk-white steed And go and fetch my pony, O! That I may ride and fetch my bride. Who is gone with the raggle-taggle gypsies, OI
'Tlicn he rode high, and he rode low, He rode through wood and copses too. Until he came to an open field And there he spied his lady, O!
*Vhat makes you leave yoiir house and land What makes you leave your money, O? What makes you leave your new-wedded lord. To go with the raggle-taggle gypsies, O?'
Again Jimmy paused to smile mockingly at Jane and again his bow swept over a string and a note of triumph quivered in the air.
'Oh, what care I for my house and land.
And what care I for my money, O?
What care I for my new-wedded lord,
I'm off with the raggle-taggle gypsies, O!'
His bow ran wildly, jubilantly over the high strings, then dropped to a sombre note of accusation.
'Last night you slept on a goose-feather bed. With the sheet turned down so bravely, O! But to-night you sleep in a cold open field, Along with the raggle-taggle gypsies, O!'
Again the bow flutte
red over the strings. The recreant lady's laughter seemed tinkhng in the room.
'Oh, what care I for a goose-feather bed. With the sheet turned dowTi so bravely, O! For to-night I shaU sleep in a cold open field. Along with the raggle-taggle gypsies, O!'
He dropped his bow abruptly. In the sudden silence Steve's voice rang out shrill with interest.
•And did she?'
'That lady did,' said Jimmy gravely. 'She had the courage erf*her convictions.'
*And she never went back?' pursued Steve eagerly.
*Oh — that I can't tell you,' said Jimmy gaily. 'The song doesn't say. I shouldn't be surprised if she did, though. Lots of ladies do.'
'Children — you must go to bed,' said Jane. 'It's very late.'
'I must go back to town,' said Jimmy. He was putting the viohn away in its case.
'Must you?' said Jane. 'It's very early.'
'I think I must,' said Jimmy.
'But we haven't had any Debussy,' said Jane.
'We'll have him next time,' smiled Jimmy.
Years of Grace Page 28