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But Stephen had lived and he was still very much alive. That consoling thought struck Jane the moment that she entered the little green sitting-room in the Chatham Hotel, and she felt distinctly cheered by it. Stephen was sitting between the twins on the Empire sofa, with Robin Redbreast on his knees. He looked cheerfully up at Jane over the book he was reading. Jane recognized it at once. It was the familiar copy of the King Arthur Stories, from their library at home. Stephen must have taken it from the shelf, Jane thought swiftly, and packed it in his trunk for the grandchildren without saying anything to her about it. Stephen was a darling! Husbands had a lot to do with it, too, of course. Stephen had had a lot to do with the sort of Jane Jane found herself at fifty-one. Facing Stephen and the grandchildren she felt a little ashamed of her recent preoccupation with André and with Jimmy.
“Go on,” she said. “Don’t stop reading.” She sank into a chair. The children wriggled their approval.
Stephen’s eyes returned to the book. “We’re just finishing,” he said.
Jane knew the story well. It was the first adventure of Sir Percival in the Forest of Arroy. The boyish Sir Percival—Jane’s favourite knight. She had heard Stephen read it innumerable times to Cicily, Jenny, and Steve. Years ago now, of course, though it seemed only yesterday. When she closed her eyes, Jane lost all sense of time. She lost all sense of the grandchildren. When Jane closed her eyes, she was no longer in Paris. But she was not in the Forest of Arroy. She was back once more in the Lakewood living-room, and Stephen was sitting in his armchair with the children around him, and Cicily’s hair was long and crinkly, and Jenny’s round forehead was topped with her Alice in Wonderland comb, and Steve was wearing his first sailor suit.
How odd it was, thought Jane, that children grew up so unexpectedly. On looking back down the years, you could not see just what you had done—just what you had let them do that—And once they had escaped you, what was there to say to them? But Stephen was finishing the story of Sir Percival.
“ ‘And as it was with Sir Percival in that first adventure, so may you meet with a like success when you ride forth upon your first undertakings after you have entered into the glory of your knighthood, with your life lying before you and a whole world whereinto you may freely enter to do your devoirs to the glory of God and your own honour.’ ”
There it was in a nutshell. That was all there was for parents to say to children. You could bring them up according to your lights, but in the end you could only watch them ride forth and wish them well. And parents should remember, Jane admitted with a sigh, that the whole world should be freely entered, and that the idea of devoirs was apt to differ in successive generations.
Stephen closed the book. Robin Redbreast wriggled off his knee. Littlejohn Ward’s eyes were shining. His sister’s face, however, looked a trifle wistful. Perhaps she had not been listening so very attentively.
“I wonder,” she said slowly, “I wonder where Mother is now.”
Stephen’s eyes met Jane’s. “I was thinking,” he said, “we might all go out to the theatre this evening.”
“All of us?” cried little Jane. Her eyes were shining now like John Ward’s.
“All of us,” said Stephen solemnly.
“Not Robin Redbreast?” said John Ward.
“Yes, Robin Redbreast,” said Stephen.
The twins began jumping up and down in ecstasy. Robin Redbreast’s four-year-old countenance was stupefied with delight. It was fun to please children. You could please them so easily. Nevertheless, Jane looked inquiringly at Stephen.
“There’s a company reviving the Gilbert and Sullivan operas at the Comédie des Champs-Élysées,” said Stephen. “I found it in the Paris Herald. Tonight they’re playing The Mikado.”
The twins’ jumps had accelerated into a spirited game of tag. They were chasing Robin Redbreast around the Empire sofa. Stephen, King Arthur stories in hand, had risen to his feet. He was looking indulgently at his grandchildren and humming a little tune. He did not know the words, of course.
Stephen never knew the words of anything! But Jane knew them. She walked over to Stephen and put her arm through his.
Robin Redbreast had collided with the centre table. He promptly fell down, and little Jane fell over him and John Ward triumphantly tagged her on an uplifted ankle. Stephen was still looking indulgently at his grandchildren and he was still humming his tune. The grimness, Jane realized suddenly, had quite faded from his face. Jane’s eyes returned to the twins and Robin Redbreast. The unspoken words of Stephen’s tune were ringing in her ears:
“Everything is a source of fun,
Nobody’s safe, for we care for none,
Life is a joke that’s just begun—”
When you looked at a child, Jane reflected solemnly, you could never believe that it would grow up to disappoint you.
Colophon
Years of Grace
was published in by
Margaret Ayer Barnes.
This ebook was produced for
Standard Ebooks
by
Alex Cabal,
and is based on digital scans from the
Internet Archive.
The cover page is adapted from
Old House at East Hampton,
a painting completed in by
Childe Hassam.
The cover and title pages feature the
League Spartan and Sorts Mill Goudy
typefaces created in and by
The League of Moveable Type.
The first edition of this ebook was released on
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