Years of Grace

Little Jane Ward sat at her father’s left hand at the family breakfast table, her sleek, brown pigtailed head bent discreetly over her plate. She was washing down great mouthfuls of bacon and eggs with gulps of too hot cocoa. She did not have to look at the great black clock, surmounted by the bronze bird, that had stood on the dining-room mantelpiece ever since she could remember, to know that it was twenty minutes after eight. If she hurried with her breakfast she could get off for school before Flora and Muriel called to walk up with her. If she could escape them she could meet André, loitering nonchalantly near the Water Works Tower, and walk up with him. She could walk up with him anyway, of course, but, with Flora and Muriel fluttering and giggling at her elbow, it would not be quite the same.

Her father was buried behind the far-flung pages of the Chicago Tribune. Her mother sat behind the coffee tray, immaculately clad in a crisp white dressing-sack, her pretty, proud little head held high above the silver urn, her eyes wandering competently over the breakfast table. Her sister, Isabel, was not yet down. Her sister Isabel was nineteen. Grown up. Her school days behind her. A young lady. About to become a débutante. Old enough to loiter, unrebuked, in bed, after a late party, until her father had left for the office and Jane was well on her way to school.

“Jane,” said her mother tranquilly, “don’t take such large mouthfuls.” Jane was not grown up. Jane was still fourteen. Young enough to be rebuked for almost anything, including table manners.

“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 André,” she said. Her voice, in her own ears, sounded strangely husky.

“André!” said her mother, staring at Isabel. “That explains it.”

“You don’t mean to say,” said Isabel, “that André gave you that book?”

“Yes,” said Jane with difficulty.

“What for?” 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 André and their perfect plan were in some dreadful danger. She must try to explain.

“Jane,” said André almost immediately, “do you realize that I’m⁠—leaving you⁠—next week?”

“Yes,” said Jane softly.

There was a little pause.

“Jane,” said André again, “I can’t go without⁠—without talking to you.”

“Talking to me?” repeated Jane stupidly.

“Telling you,” said André. He was walking quickly along the beach, not looking at her. Jane was hurrying a little to keep up with him.

“Telling me?” she said.

Suddenly he stopped. He stood looking down at her in the moonlight.

“Telling you,” he said. “Though of course you know. Telling you that I⁠—love you.”

Jane felt her heart jump, as if it skipped a beat. She felt terribly excited. And terribly happy.

“Oh, André!” she said.

“I⁠—love you,” said André again.

She was staring up at him. His face looked very stern.

“Oh, do you?” she cried. “Do you, really?”

“Don’t you know?” said André.

Jane suddenly began to tremble, tremble uncontrollably, all over. She put out her hands to him, quickly. He clasped them in his own. Suddenly he seemed to realize how she was shaking.

“Jane!” he said, and his voice was suddenly tremulous. For a moment they stood staring into each other’s eyes. Then⁠—

“Jane!” he said again, and took her in his arms.

“My love,” said André.

Jane clung to him desperately. Why, this⁠—this was terrible. She was utterly shattered.

“Jane,” said André again, “look at me.”

Obediently she raised her eyes to his.

“You’re crying!” said André. Jane hadn’t known it.

“Jane⁠—you do love me,” said André.

Jane only wept the more.

“Kiss me,” said André.

“Jane, leave the room,” she said.

“I won’t,” said Jane. And closed the door behind her. Her father held out his hand.

“Come here, kid,” he said. Jane rushed to his side. She looked quickly up at André. She hoped her heart was in her eyes. André smiled steadily down at her. He looked shaken, however.

“Jane⁠—” began her mother again.

“Lizzie,” said her father, and there was a note in his voice Jane had never heard before. “Leave this to me.”

Her mother, with compressed lips, sank down in the other armchair. Her father pressed Jane’s hand very kindly.

“Kid,” he said gently. “You know this won’t do.”

“What won’t do?” cried Jane in desperation.

Her father still held her hand.

“You⁠—you and André can’t⁠—get married.”

“Why not?” flashed Jane.

“Because you’re children,” said her father. It was terribly true.

“I don’t care!” said Jane.

“Well, I do,” said her father. “And so does your mother. And so do André’s parents. He very honestly told me that. And so does André, really. André doesn’t want to persuade you to do anything that isn’t right⁠—that won’t bring you happiness⁠—”

Happiness! Jane threw a tearful glance at André. He looked very proud and stern, standing there before her father. He gave her a tremulous smile.

“Papa,” said Jane, “I know I’d be happy with André⁠—”

“Don’t talk like that!” cried her mother sharply. But her father silenced her.

“You think so now, kid,” he said kindly. “But you can’t tell. You don’t know anything about it, either of you. André’s nineteen years old.

“Oh!” said Jane again.

Jimmy continued to contemplate her with a sunny smile.

“I took this train,” he said presently, “because I thought we’d have fun on it together. Don’t you think it’s time we began? We’ve lost almost an hour already.”

“What⁠—what do you want to do?” asked Jane, again rather stupidly. She felt totally unequal to coping with Jimmy.

“I want to talk to you,” said Jimmy disarmingly. “There’s nothing in all the world as much fun as talk. When you’re talking, that is, with the right person.”

Jane, still staring up at him, felt her features harden defensively.

Jimmy burst into gentle laughter.

“Jane,” he said, “you look like a startled faun! You needn’t. Would it have been more discreet of me to use the plural? Should I have said ‘the right people’? I don’t like that phrase. It has an unfortunate social significance.”

Jane began to feel a little foolish. She laughed in spite of herself. Her laughter seemed to cheer Jimmy immensely.

“Curious, isn’t it,” he went on airily, “that ‘talking with the right people’ means something so very different from ‘talking with the right person’? You are an awfully right person, Jane. No doubt you’re of the right people, too, but don’t let’s dwell on that aspect of your many charms. Do you want to stand here in the train aisle all afternoon?”