Swing (Jan-Dec 1953)

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16 S« he had presented her with the treasures the old house contained. "All these things belonged to Gran. You would have liked Gran," he said, "She was a great lady." "She doesn't like me," thought Jan. "She doesn't want me to have her house — her lovely things. She doesn't want me to have Tim. She can't imagine an ordinary creature having the effrontery to aspire to a place in the family . . ." Timothy Marsh Whitney was the last . . . the only one left to carry on the traditions of a hundred years of gentle living. Now there was no money left . . . only the old house with its collection of museum pieces, and the name Jan's children would bear. FOR nearly a year, Jan had lived with the reproving eyes of grandmother Whitney upon her. She had said nothing to Tim of her feelings. Rather she had let the obsession grow. Something within her would not allow a moment's peace until the portrait was removed from above the marble-topped mantel. Today the bubble of unease had suddenly burst and she had gotten as far as the top of the ladder. Leaning against the mantel was a bright landscape she had found in the attic; dusted and cleaned, it was to have replaced grandmother Whitney. Then she had thought of Tim. For nearly a year she had waited for him to suggest that they make some changes in the old house — changes that would make it Jan's instead of grandmother's. The suggestions had not come. Jan had done nothing, for she could not bring her self to move any of the sacred objects on her own responsibility, and besides, Gran's eyes were always watching. Purposefully, Jan rose and crossed the room to the velvet draped windows. She'd call Bess Elliot next door to come over and lend moral support. Bess and Tim had played together as children, and Bess had befriended Jan with little acts of kindness. Jan pulled back the hangings. Beyond the garden, Jan could see Bess, long of limb, striding about among the azaleas. The other girl raised a dark, closecropped head in answer to Jan's call. "What's the matter, Chicken?" she queried, skirting the hedge that separated the two residences. "The little men after you again?" Jan brightened. "Come on over, I need your advice." The two girls looked up at grandmother Whitney, and Bess argued, "Why do you let that mouldy old painting get you down this way? If it bothered me that much I'd have had it down long ago, Tim or no Tim." "She doesn't like me — I can feel it," Jan held out stubbornly. "How could a picture like or dislike anyone, Goose?" Bess laughed. "You're always imagining things. Come on — get up there and let's take the thing down. I'll hold the ladder." SLOWLY Jan mounted the ladder. She looked at the portrait. "Bess," she justified herself, "it's not that I don't like the picture and all the rest of these lovely old things. It's just that this way it isn't my home at all. It's hers. I keep thinking, too, about the difference in our backgrounds. Tim says she was a great lady. If she were