Years of Grace

by Margaret Ayer Barnes

  'I found your name in my envelope in the dressing-room, Jane,' he said, 'and you can bet your life I was glad to see it there.' He offered his arm with a smile. His eyes, however, looked very serious. Freddy Waters had gone off in quest of Isabel. The dinner-party was passing into the dining-room, two by two.

  Jane rested her finger-tips on Jimmy's black broadcloth sleeve. She felt there was nothing whatever to say to him. Jimmy looked anxiously down at her as they joined the little procession. Jane saw her father watching them as he offered his arm to Edith. Mr. Furness had gone in wdth Mrs. Lester.

  'Can't you forgive me, Jane?' asked Jimmy earnestly, as they entered the dining-room.

  'I don't know,' said Jane. 'I still don't understand at aU how you could have done such a thing.'

  'Don't you, Jane?' said Jimmy wistfully. 'Don't you, really?'

  'I don't understand how you could have done it to me,' said Jane.

  'I didn't know,' said Jimmy, pulling out her chair for her as they reached the table — 'I didn't know that you would take it quite so seriously.'

  Jane seated herself in silence.

  'I've taken it seriously myself,' said Jimmy, 'since I did it.'

  He sat down at her side.

  *I'm very glad to hear it,* said Jane severely.

  *And you'll forgive me?* said Jimmy.

  *I don't know,' said Jane again. She turned to look into his contrite eyes. There was something irresistibly funny about a penitent faun. Jane could not help smiling. Jimmy drew a long breath at the sight of her smile.

  *You have forgiven me!' he said triumphantly.

  Jane saw her father looking at him from across the table. She wished that Jimmy had not spoken quite so loudly. Then despised herself for the wish.

  'Don't let's talk about it any longer,' she said evenly. Tt happened, and I wish it hadn't. But it doesn't do any good to go on harping on it.'

  'I don't want to harp on it!' cried Jimmy jubilantly. *I don't want to harp on anything you don't want to hear.' He was looking at her now, with just the same old look of fiiendly admiration. 'Let's talk about the weather.'

  They did, with mock solemnity. Then they talked of other things. Of Jimmy's reviews, which were making quite a sensation in the 'Daily News'; of Agnes's play, which-was already half-written; of Gicily, shaking her dandehon head at Jack at the foot of the children's table; of Mrs. Lester, nodding her white one at Mr. Furness at the head of theirs; of the charms of fourteen and of the charms of seventy-five. Jane was quite sorry when Mrs. Lester turned the conversation at the beginning of the salad course and she had to begin to talk to Edith's husband of the charms of Uving in Cleveland — if there were any, which Jane very much doubted.

  Later, when the men joined the women in the Hving-room, Jane was rather surprised to find herself talking to her father. He sat down beside her on the green brocade sofa with a sigh of satisfaction.

  *I don't see enough of you, Kid,* he said cheerfully. 'Nor enough of Stephen. What with all the grandchildren, I

  hardly spoke to either of you on Christmas Day. I'm going to put in the evening catching up on what you've been doing.'

  'I haven't been doing much,' said Jane. 'Just Christmas shopping.'

  'Many town parties?' asked Mr. Ward.

  'None in the holidays,' said Jane. 'I'm too busy with the children.'

  'Much company in the country?'

  'No one but the children's friends.'

  'Jimmy been out often?'

  Jane looked straight into her father's eyes.

  *He hasn't been out since that luncheon on Thanksgiving Day,' she said.

  Mr. Ward settled back against the sofa cushions.

  'What do you hear from Agnes, Kid?' he asked.

  Motoring out to Lakewood when the party was over, tucked in beside Stephen in the front seat of their Uttle Overland, with the children asleep in the tonneau behind them, Jane felt very happy over the events of the evening. She would not have beheved it possible that she could have arrived so easily at an understanding with Jimmy. He was obviously very sorry and she had made her attitude quite clear. Jimmy knew now that she was not to be kissed like a chambermaid, caught in an upper corridor. Jimmy knew now that she was not entertained by philandering. Jimmy knew now that she was not that sort of wife to Stephen and that the idea of flirting with Agnes's husband was, to her, unthinkable. Jimmy knew all those things, though they had not referred to his mistake again after they left the table. Jane had hardly spoken to Jimmy all the latter part of the evenmg. Jane had talked to her father and Jimmy had hung devotedly over

  Muriel. He had entered into open competition with Cyril Fortune for her favour and by the end of the party the blond young landscape-gardener was quite sunk in depression. Stephen had talked with his cousin Flora about her new hat shop. He had given her some splendid ideas about cost accounting. Flora had told Jane she was very grateful. Flora was not much of a bookkeeper.

  How wise she had been, thought Jane, how very wise, not to have said anything to Stephen about that kiss. Not that wisdom had really entered into her decision to keep silent. In fact, all those weeks, when she had been wondering whether or no to talk to Stephen about it, she had felt that the wiser course would be to make a clean breast of the whole affair. And yet she hadn't. Partly, of course, because of what Stephen would think of Jimmy, but even more because of what Stephen would think of her. Jane thought very litde of herself, as she reviewed the incident. Jimmy had been outrageous — Jimmy had been insulting. Yet Jane could not quite bring herself to tell the story to Stephen in the role of the betrayed damsel. Jane knew that she had been growing very" fond of Jimmy. Jane knew that she had liked his flattering attention. And Jane knew that, though she had not expected his kiss and certainly had resented it, yet, after she had had it, she had not been able to get it out of her mind, out, indeed, of the very fibre of her being. That was the kind of thing a wile could not tell a husband — not a husband like Stephen, at least, who had never even glanced at another woman since the day he had married her. Stephen would never understand how she could have thought about that kiss, the way she had. And if she did not tell him that, she really would not be telling him anything. Half-truths had no place in conjugal confidence. Half-truths were cowardly, misleading. Half-trutha were really lies. Whereas silence was—merely silence. No—

  it was not the kiss half as much as the way she had felt about it.

  What was a kiss, after all? Lots of women were kissed. Some of them had told her about it. Muriel was often kissed, and thought nothing of it. It was the thinking something of it that really counted. Jane had been awfully troubled.

  But now, she felt, she had been very wise not to tell Stephen. The incident was over. It was forgiven and — well, if not yet forgotten, it soon would be. Jane hoped she was not going to spend the rest of her life remembering that Stephen's vdfe had been kissed by Agnes's husband and had liked it. Yes, liked it, in retrospect. Jimmy had learned his lesson. It would not happen again.

  Jimmy had not even asked when he might come out to sec her. When he had said good-night, he had left her to interpret the expression of his wistful eyes in silence. It was Stephen who had said in parting, 'How about dinner on Friday, Jimmy? It's fish night. You ought to taste Jane's receipt for planked whitcfish!' Even then he had not responded with a questioning glance at her. She had shpped her arm through Stephen's and said serenely, 'Of course, Jimmy. Just a family party.' And he had accepted without undue rejoicing. No grateful, penitent glances. Nothing to shame her before Stephen's innocence.

  Jimmy knew, now. There would be no more mistakes in the future. Jane snuggled down against Stephen's shoulder under the fiirry laprobe. He took his eyes from the road a moment to smile down into her face.

  'Nice party, wasn't it?' said Stephen.

  *I had a lovely time,' said Jane, smiHng softly. She kept on smihng all the way to Lakewood. A sleepy, reassured, little smile.

  CHAPTER IV

  I

  The
April sunshine was slanting in Jane's open bedroom window. The pale, profuse sunshine of early April, flickering through the bare boughs of the oak trees. The crocuses were blooming in the garden. The daffodils nodded their yellow heads in the bed beneath the evergreens. The apple tree was an emerald mist of tiny budding leaves.

  Jane sat at the window, sewing a fresh lace collar in the neck of a new rose-coloured gown and talking to Miss Parrot. From her chair she could see Jenny, swooping luxuriously up and down in the swing beneath the apple tree, and hear Steve, concealed in the upper branches, clamouring vociferously for his turn.

  *I really hate to leave him,' said Miss Parrot. 'But he'll be all right now, Mrs. Carver, if you just watch him a litdc. Don't let him race around too much this summer. And of course no competitive sports.'

  Jane nodded, over her sewing. She was awfully glad, of course, that little Steve's heart was really so much better, but almost gladder, she thought with a smile, that she would no longer have to talk to Miss Parrot at table, three times a day, or listen to her unasked advice on Uttle Steve's care. Of course, she had been wonderful. She was a very good heart nurse. Still, it had been irritating, having her around under foot all winter, a tacit critic of Jane's every action, an alien observer of her every thought. But it was over now. Little Steve had completely recovered. Dr. Bancroft had dismissed Miss Parrot. She was going in three days.

  'You'll sec that he takes his tonic,' said Miss Panot.

  'Of course,' said Jane, with a hint of irritation in her voice.

  'Well, I hope Sarah remembers it when you're out,' said Miss Parrot, with a sigh of resignation.

  Jane looked up from her sewing at Miss Parrot's starched, immaculate figure. She met her pleasant, impersonal eye. She wished dispassionately that she could push Miss Parrot out of her bedroom by main force. Suddenly Sarah appeared in the doorway.

  'Mr. Trent to see you, madam,' she said impassively.

  Jane jumped to her feet.

  'Mr. Trent? Downstairs?' Jane glanced at the little French clock on the mantelpiece. It pointed exacdy to three. Jimmy had said he was taking the three-nineteen. He was an hour ahead of time. She thrust her sewing into Miss Parrot's hand. 'Miss Parrot,' she said hastily, 'just baste this collair in for me, will you? As quickly as you can, please. I'm wearing it this afternoon. And, Sarah — I want tea in the living-room at four. We won't wait for Mr. Carver. Toast, please, and anchovy sandwiches, and some of that sponge cake we had at luncheon.' She was already sHpping out of her morning gown. 'Tell Mr. Trent I will be down immediately.'

  Sarah turned from the door. Jane sat down hastily at her dressing-table and began to take down her hair. Miss Parrot had seated herself at the window and was picking up Jane's thimble. Jane could catch her reflection in the slanting plane of the cheval glass, near the dressing-table. She was looking at Jane with a faint smile of cynical amusement. Her eye was no longer impersonal. Jane hated Miss Parrot, at the moment. She hated herself for that question she had never been able to answer — had that been Miss Parrot's white sleeve in the playroom bay window, that Thanksgiving atternoon

  when Jimmy She pushed in the last hairpin and rose

  to her feet

  'Ready, Miss Parrot?' she said evenly.

  *Yes,' said Miss Parrot, handing her the gown. She lingered a moment, to put away the thimble and close the sewing box. Again she looked Jane over with that not impersonal eye. 'You look very pretty, Mrs. Carver,' she said.

  Jane dabbed a little perfume on her cheeks and hurried from the room without answering. In the hall she stumbled over the children's cocker spaniel. It yelped sharply, then wagged its tail and started after her down the stairs. At the foot of them Jane saw Belle, just starting up for Cicily's room. She and Jack were coming out for the week-end. They must have been on the train with Jimmy. The child looked up at her with wide, round eyes of admiration. The eyes were so round and the admiration so apparent that Jane stopped and laughed down at her. Belle was really charming. She looked like an apple blossom.

  'Hello, Httle Belle,' said Jane.

  At the sound of her voice, Jimmy Trent came out of the living-room. He looked taller than he really was, beside the staring child. His eyes were very bright and blue and his necktie exactly matched them. He stood smiling up at her from the foot of the staircase. As Jane ran down the last steps, he took her hand and held it for a minute. Jane laughed up at him.

  'You know Httle Belle Bridges,' she said, withdrawing her hand.

  'Of course I do,' said Jimmy. 'Hello, little Belle Bridges!' He too smiled down at the child. Jane stooped over and kissed Httle BeUe's cheek. It felt very smooth and cool, like the petal of an apple blossom. The Httle spaniel was jumping forgivingly about her feet. Jane picked it up and held it tenderly in her arms and kissed the top of its Httle black head and looked up at Jimmy over its long, floppy ears. Then they turned away from BeUe toward the Hving-room door.

  *I didn't expect you 'til four,' said Jane, smiling up at Jimmy over the spaniel.

  He paused to let her precede him through the living-room door.

  *I couldn't wait to play you my last cadenza,' said Jimmy. *Jane, that concerto is finished. I couldn't wait an hour '

  'Silly!' said Jane, looking over her shoulder at Jimmy, as they passed into the living-room. In a moment she heard little Belle, scrambling upstairs to Cicily's bedroom. *But I can't wait myself to hear it. Oh, Jimmy, I can't believe — truly I can't believe — that you've really done it.'

  'You know who made me,' said Jimmy. His eyes searched hers for a moment, before he turned to pick up his fiddle-case from the table. 'It's really your concerto.' He tucked his vioHn under his chin and tuned it airily as he strolled across the room, just as he had done on that first Lakewood evening. He took his stand on the hearthrug, bow in hand, and looked down at her. 'Your concerto, Jane,' he repeated. It seemed to Jane, at the moment, a very solemn dedication. She looked up at Jimmy very seriously as he raised his bow. She never took her eyes off his slender, swaying figure, until the last note had sounded.

  'It's beautiful, Jimmy,' she said then, solemnly, 'it's very beautiful.'

  'You know why, don't you?' said Jimmy, looking down at her firom the hearthrug.

  Just then Sarah came in with the tea.

  'You wouldn't think it was so fiinny,' said Isabel scathingly, 'if you'd heard Muriel talking about it yesterday in Flora's hat shop. She didn't even stop when I came in.'

  *I don't think it's fiinny,' said Jane loftily. *I think it's ridiculous.*

  'Muriel ought to be ashamed of herself,' said Mrs. Ward.

  They were all sitting around the fire in Mr. Ward's library, waiting for Minnie to bring in the tea-tray.

  'She said it was as plain as a pikestaff,' said Isabel. *She said it right before me. She said that just as soon as she and Flora came in they saw you two sitting over at a comer table. She said that you had a quart of champagne, Jane, and that you said something and that Jimmy smiled and lifted his glass and looked at you and kissed the rim before he drank from it.'

  *It was only a pint,' said Jane. 'We were drinking to the success of his concerto. He finished it last week.'

  'It was very unfortunate,' said Mrs. Ward, 'that Muriel had to come in at just that moment.'

  'It was very unfortunate,' said Isabel severely, 'that Jane had to be there at all. If you want to lunch with him, Jane, why can't you lunch at the BLackstone or the Casino as if you'd like to be seen, instead of sneaking off to a place like De Jonche's where no one you know ever goes '

  'We didrCt sneak,' said Jane hotly. 'And we go to De Jonche's because we both Hke snails. They have the best in town.'

  'You go?^ said Mrs. Ward. 'Had you been there before?*

  'Often,' said Jane briefly.

  'When I was your age,' said Mrs. Ward, 'it was as much as a young married woman's reputation was worth to be caught lunching with a man who was not her husband '

  *Oh, nonsense. Mamma!' interrupted Isabel. 'Every one lunches wit
h men, nowadays. It aU depends on how you do it. Of course, as for Jimmy's kissing the rim of his champagne

  glass in a public restaurant ' She stopped abruptly as

  Minnie came in with the tea-tray. Minnie loved family

  gossip, but she was never allowed to hear any. Minnie had been twenty-five years in Mrs. Ward's service, and in all those years Mrs. Ward had never failed to change the conversation from the personal plane whenever she entered the room.

  *I wonder where your father is?' she said now, in a note of hollow inquiry, as Minnie, wheezing slightly, placed the heavy silver tray on the tea-table. Minnie, at fifty-three, was rather plump and puffy. She had recently developed a chronic asthma. But she never allowed any one else to wait on Mrs. Ward.

  'Hello, Minnie!' said Jane.

  Minnie smiled her acknowledgement of the greeting.

  'How are the children, Mrs. Carver?' she asked. Then bending solicitously over Mrs. Ward. 'Don't you eat too much of that plum cake, Mrs. Ward. It's too rich for your blood pressure.' Her cap slightly askew on her iron-grey hair, she made a triumphant exit.

  'Does Minnie think plum cake sends up blood pressure?* smiled Jane.

  'She's really getting impossible,' said Isabel.

  'Sometimes I think she takes more interest in my condition than you children do,' said Mrs. Ward. She poured out a cup of tea for Isabel.

  'No sugar, Mamma,' said Isabel. Then, returning to the charge, 'Well, Jane, I think you ought to cut it out.'

  'Gut what out?' said Jane angrily. 'Two lumps. Mamma.

  'Cut out those clubby little parties d, deux^ with a pint of champagne. When Muriel starts talking '

  'She's a good one to talk,' said Mrs. Ward.

  'Set a thief to catch a thief!' laughed Isabel.

  *Oh, Isabel, shut upP said Jane, in a sudden, snappish return to the vernacular of her childhood. She had not said