Years of Grace

Jimmy’s death was unthinkable. Jimmy’s death in a conflict about the issues of which he did not care a damn. A conflict into which he had been driven by her unkindness⁠—No, she would not think that. She would never think that. She had done what she had to do. She had never really regretted it. She would not regret it now. Jimmy had been driven into that conflict by his own restless spirit⁠—by his⁠—

The ring of the doorbell roused Jane from revery. Not the postman’s ring, though, at two o’clock in the afternoon. Jane returned to the map again. Sarah stood a moment on the threshold, unnoticed.

“Mrs. Carver,” she said. “Mrs. Carver, here’s a telegram.”

Jane turned from the map and stared at her in silence. No, she thought, dully, no, it would be a cable! She took the yellow envelope from Sarah’s hand. She opened it without misgiving.

“Jane, dear, this may be a shock to you. Have just received letter from Prussian officer in French prison camp that Jimmy had joined the German army and was killed on the Marne. Had had no word from him since he left Chicago. Jane, dear, this seems for me the end of everything. Could you come to me?

“Agnes”

The yellow papers fluttered from Jane’s fingers. The chintz-hung living-room turned black before her eyes. She caught herself, however, before falling, on the back of Stephen’s armchair. She closed her eyes a moment and then dully opened them. The familiar living-room had returned. Suddenly she felt Sarah’s hand upon her elbow, she heard Sarah’s voice in her ear.

“Mrs. Carver⁠—here⁠—sit down a moment. I’ll get a glass of water.”

Jane shook her head. She stooped suddenly down and picked up the yellow papers. She read the message through once more. All feeling seemed dead. She felt only the need for practical action.

“I’m all right, Sarah,” she said smoothly. “I⁠—I must talk to Mr. Carver.” She walked to the telephone in the pantry and gave Stephen’s number. How strange, she thought, at such a moment to turn instinctively to Stephen!

“Mr. Carver,” she said to his secretary. “Mrs. Carver speaking.”

“Yes, dear,” Stephen’s familiar voice trickled over the wire.

“Stephen,” she said quickly, “Stephen, I’ve just had a wire from Agnes. Jimmy was killed on the Marne.”

“On the Marne!” cried Stephen, in stupefaction.

“Yes,” said Jane dully, “he’s dead. He’s been dead for two months.” Suddenly she heard her voice break into breathless sobbing. But still there was no feeling. “Agnes wants me. Will you get me a compartment on the five-thirty, this afternoon? I’ve just time to pack and catch it.” She was still sobbing.

“Of course,” said Stephen. “But Jane⁠—”

“I’ll motor in,” said Jane, “and pick you up at five o’clock at the office. Can you see me off?”

“Of course!” cried Stephen. “But Jane⁠—”

Jane hung up the receiver. She had never told Stephen, she reflected weakly, that Jimmy was in the German army.

“Sarah!” she called sharply. “Bring down my big black bag to my bedroom and order the motor for a quarter-past four.”

II

“He was killed instantly,” said Agnes. “He was shot in the trenches. He was shot through the head. This German saw it happen.” She handed Jane a creased and wrinkled paper. It was the letter of the Prussian officer, written in perfect English, in a fine German hand, on a sheet of plain block paper. Jane took it in silence. She was sitting beside Agnes on the battered davenport sofa of the Greenwich Village flat. Little Agnes was playing in the nursery beyond the half-open folding doors. It was Saturday afternoon and Agnes had just come home from Macy’s. She was still wearing her new black serge street coat. She had not even taken off her hat. The sheer black chiffon of the widow’s veil, thrown carelessly over it, shadowed her weary eyes.

“He saw him buried,” went on Agnes tonelessly, though Jane was reading the letter. It was as if she could not make herself stop talking about it. “He saw him buried next day. There can’t be any mistake.”

Jane went on reading the letter in silence.

“It was nice of the French to let him mail that letter, wasn’t it, Jane?” said Agnes. “Otherwise I might never have known what happened. I might never have known that he had gone to war.”

Jane, having finished the letter, sat turning it over in her hands.

“Jane,” said Agnes suddenly, “Why did he do it? Why did he go to war?”

Jane still sat staring at the finished letter.

“I suppose,” she said a little huskily, “I suppose he⁠—he was just caught up in the general excitement.”

“But that wasn’t like Jimmy,” said Agnes earnestly. “General excitements always left Jimmy cold. There was nothing that Jimmy despised more than the mob spirit. Why, Jimmy was a pacifist⁠—as much as he was anything⁠—” Her voice trailed off into silence.

Jane looked slowly up at her. Agnes’s sad, worn face was twitching and her throat was throbbing convulsively with the sobs she was trying to master. Jane took her hand in hers.

“Don’t⁠—don’t think about that, Agnes,” she said simply. “It won’t do any good. You’ll never know.”

“No,” said Agnes, “I’ll never know.” Then, after a pause, “Jane, you saw what he said about Jimmy’s concerto⁠—that he had it with him at the front.”

“Yes,” said Jane.

“It⁠—it must be lost,” said Agnes sadly. “They fought over that trench for days after Jimmy⁠—died. The dugouts must have been simply exterminated.”

“Yes,” said Jane.

“Jane,” said Agnes, “did you ever hear the end of it? Did he play it for you?”

“Yes,” said Jane.

“Was it good?” asked Agnes eagerly. “Was it really good?”

“I thought it was very beautiful,” said Jane.

Again they sat in silence.

“Jane,” said Agnes suddenly, “isn’t it dreadful to think there’s nothing left of Jimmy? With all his cleverness and all his talent he left nothing behind him. The world is just the same as if he had never lived.”

“He left you,” said Jane tremulously. “He left you and little Agnes.”

“Yes,” said Agnes, “of course he left little