Muriel was worried about Albert, too, of course. But she took a vicarious pride in his miHtary exploits. She loved to have him gracing her Chicago drawing-room on his brief leaves from Camp Brant, looking decorative and dedicated and dapper in his second Heutenant's uniform. Albert Lancaster was a very beautiful young man and he was very fond of his mother. In the presence of Muriel's other beautiful young men he always flirted with her, very flatteringly. Jane had sometimes felt that Muriel was just a Httle in love with him. She had said as much one day to Isabel at their men ther's luncheon-table.
'Now, Jane,' Isabel had responded airily, 'don't suggest that Muriel is going to add incest to her list of crimes!'
Mrs. Ward had said they should not talk hke that. With Bert in the helpless condition he was, it was very natural for Muriel to centre her affections on her only son.
*If she only did!' had been Isabel's telling comment.
Muriel had been very capable about the war, however, in ipite of her frivolity. She had organized the Red Cross circle on top of the Chicago skyscraper. She had ordered the lupplies and enrolled the workers and persuaded the owner of the skyscraper to give them the room rent free. She was a member of the countless Food Administration and National Council of Defence committees.
Nevertheless, Isabel deplored her frivolity. Muriel did not care. She just went on being frivolous. At the moment she was making airy httlc jokes about the sunny side of being a famine victim.
Jane soon ceased to listen. From her seat near the window she could look out over the roofs of the smaller office buildings toward the east, past the slender silliouette of the Montgomery Ward Tower, across the desert wastes of Grant Park, to the Illinois Central switchyards, where the miniature engines, dwarfed by distance, pulled their toy trains and belched their black smoke and puffed their white steam up into the serene face of the May sky. Beyond them stretched the sparkling blue plane that was the lake.
A lovely day, reflected Jane, idly. A lovely day, with a bright spring sun and a stiff east breeze to sweep the city clean. Her hands still busy mechanically folding her gauze sponges, she gazed up, blinking a Uttle, at the golden orb that shone dazzhngly down on the city roofs above the gilded Diana that topped the Tower. What had that sun seen, she was thinking, since it had last sunk behind the murk of the stockyards, since she herself, staring from that same window, had watched its dying rays paint the Montgomery Ward Diana with rosy fire? The words of the Stevenson nursery rhyme she had so often repeated to the children, when they were little, came into her mind.
*The sun is not abed when I At night upon my pillow lie, But round the earth his way he takes And morning after morning makes.'
One morning here on the Chicago lake front. A few hours earlier a ver^' different one on the battle-fields of France. The battle-fields that would so soon swallow up Isabel's Jack and Muriel's Albert. But the battle-fields that still, in May, 1918, almost four years after Jimm.y's death, achieved for Jane their major significance as Jimmy's last resting-place.
Curious tliat Jimmy's death had never made her realize the war. It had remained for her the supremely inelevant accident that had killed him. An act of God, Uke a casual stroke of lightning. Or perhaps an act of man, hke the blow of a death-deaUng taxi, turning too quickly on a policeman's whistle, to crush an absent-minded pedestrian under its indifferent wheels.
Jimmy had not died for Germany, in spite of his Prussian helmet. He had not died for her, in spite of his love. He had died — for fun, perhaps, as he had lived. Died true to his creed embraced in night school, in a supreme desire 'to be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital forces unite in their purest energy.' Jimmy had died for Pater, as much as for anything! Strange end for a hedonist.
You grew accustomed to pain, thought Jane. You really did. Even to pain hke hers over Jimmy, that was so sharp, so constant, so distinctly localized that she almost felt that it had an organic focus in her heart. You grew wise and philosophical about it. You generalized. You struggled for resignation.
In her struggles for resignation, Jane knew that she was sometimes guilty of the great injustice to Jimmy of wondering if it weren't aU better so. Better so, she tried to think she nieant, because of Agnes and httie Agnes, who were Uving on
the proceeds of Agnes's third play so much more comfortably with Jimmy's memory than they could ever have lived in his restless, unhappy presence. Jane tried to think she meant that, but really she knew she was thinking only of herself and of the intolerable problems a future, with or without a living Jimmy, had propounded.
For death had given her Jimmy. He had died loving her. He had died with that love unsullied and unspoiled. Would he have lived to love her always? Few men were capable of that. Would she have lived to see him grow indifferent, remote, concerned, perhaps, oh, vitally concerned! with some other woman? Now he was hers forever. The future held no fears. Time, changing reladonships, distance, estrangement — all these were powerless. She could dismiss that fearful question as to whether she had ever really, in her secret heart, wanted Jimmy to go back to Agnes. She could dismiss her vague forebodings on the world of women that waited for him if he didn't. She could dismiss the thought of Stephen. You could love the dead without disloyalty to the living.
Nevertheless, it was an act of treachery to Jimmy's memory to allow herself to think, even for a moment, that he was better dead. Jimmy — dead. The thought was still incredible. She had never lost the illusion of his laughing, living presence. He was the constant companion of her reveries. He would be laughing now, if he could read her thoughts. Laughing at her involuntary sense of guilt. 'Invincible innocent!' would be his ironical comment. You could not shock Jimmy. And he always rnocked you when you shocked yourself Jimmy would be the first to advance the consoling theory that he had made everything much easier for e'ery one by passing, so opportunely, out of the picture. He would have prided himself on the fehcitous gesture. He would have admired his romantic role.
Yet Jimmy had not wanted to die. He had said as much, very definitely, in that last letter he had written her. Not that he hoped much from the future. But he had no fear of it. Jimmy accepted life on its face value. He lived for the moment.
Sudden death. At thirty-five. Before you knew the answer to any of life's riddles. Perhaps you never knew that, though. Perhaps there was no answer. Perhaps all lives, at any age, ended like Jimmy's on an unresolved chord. What difference did it make, anyway, once you were safely dead? It did not make any difference, if you had played the game and had done what you had to do and had never really regretted it
But there was the pain at your heart that made you keep on thinking. Thinking, in spite of Stephen, whom you loved, and the children, whom you adored, and all the little practical things you had to do every day, like folding sponges for the Red Gross.
Why couldn't she feel the war more keenly? With the maps still hung on the living-room wall and Stephen immersed in Liberty Loan campaigns, and Jack and Albert always about the house on their leaves from Camp Brant, and Cicily and Jenny and Isabel's little Belle out every day in Red Cross uniforms, feeding hot dogs and coffee to the entrained doughboys at the canteens in the city switchyards?
Tbgj felt the war keenly enough — Cicily and Jenny and httle Belle. They were all eager to go to France with the boys from Camp Brant. Cicily wanted to drive an ambulance. Under age, thank Heaven! She and Stephen would not have to face that problem. Uncle Sam, a less yielding relation than two indulgent parents, could be relied upon to keep the girls at home. Yes, ignoble but consoling thought, with Httle Steve still only fourteen the war could not touch her immediate family.
Isabel was talking of Crisco, now. She was saying it could never take the place of butter.
Jane rose from her seat abruptly. She had promised to meet Cicily at Marshall Field's at noon. They were going to look for a new evening gown. Jack and Albert were coming down for the next week-end. Cicily and Belle were planning a pzirty.
*But you'
re children^ said Stephen.
*Oh, Dad,' said Cicily, with a tolerant smile, 'be your age!'
Jane looked from Stephen to her twinkling daughter. Stephen was sitting in his armchair in the Lakewood living-room. The 'Evening Post,' which had fallen from his hands a moment before at Cicily's astounding announcement, lay on the floor at his feet. He was gazing at Cicily with an expression of mingled incredulity and consternation.
Cicily, her hand thrust casually through Jack Bridges's arm, A^as standing on the hearthrug. She looked very cool and a little amused and not at all disheartened. She looked, indeed, just as she always did, Uke a yellow dandehon, with her tempestuous bobbed head of golden excelsior. The severity of her khaki uniform Vv^ith its Red Cross insignia enhanced her flower-like charm. It was the common clay from which the flower had sprung. She looked as fresh as a dandelion, and as indifferent and as irresponsible. Jack Bridges was in khaki, too, with the crossed rifles of the infantryman on his collar and the gold bar of the second Heutenant on his shoulders. He had come down yesterday for that week-end's leave from Camp Brant at Rockford. He had just learned that he was sailing for France in six weeks, with the Eighty-Sixth Division.
Jack did not look at all disheartened, either, but not quite
as cool as Cicily, nor nearly as indifferent nor as much amused. He looked just like Robin, Jane thought, with his pleasant snub-nosed smile and his friendly pale blue eyes. He was glancing at Stephen a trifle apologetically, but with no lack of self-confidence.
'How could I not have seen this was coming?' thoT'.gbt Jane.
'We're not children, Dad,' continued Cicily with a pleasant smile. 'I was nineteen in February and Jack will be twenty-two in July. We're both well out of the perambulator!'
'I knov/ just how you feel, sir,' said Jack sympathetically, 'and I dare say, in a way, you're right. If it weren't for the war, I don't suppose we would be getting married. If it weren't for the war I'd be going to Tech all next winter and Cicily would be buzzing about the tea-fights at home. StiU, she'd soon be marrying some one else, you know. I'd never have had the ner'e to ask a girl hke Cicily to wait for me. If it weren't for the war, I'd be just an "also ran"!'
'Wasn't fought in vain, was it, Jacky?' said Cicily, pinching liis elbow.
He kissed her pink cheek, very coolly, under her parents' startled eyes.
'I wouldn't expect to keep Cicily waiting at the church very long, e'en in war-time,' said Jack —Jane caught the note of humility behind his leity — 'so we thought '
Jack!' said Cicily. 'Don't put it hke that! We don't think — we know! We're going to get married, Dad. on the last day of June and have a two weeks' honeymoon before he sails for France.'
'Cicily,' said Jane, 'you're much too young. You haven't had any experience. You can't know your own mind. The war has been fearfully upsetting, I know, for your generation. But you're still a child. Oh — I know you've been home a year from Rosemary! But what son of a year iias it been?
Just war work — and Jack. Not even a proper debut. He was here every evening last summer when he was at Fort Shf.ridan in the R.O.T.G. And since he went to Rockford you've been getting letters and motoring up to see him and planning to get him down here on leave! You've never
looked at another man ' Why hadn't she seen this was
coming? It was all so terribly clear in retrospect.
'You can't get married,' said Stephen firmly, 'before Jack goes to France.'
'You married Mumsy,' said Cicily sweetly, 'before you went to Cuba.'
'That was very different,' said Jane.
'Whiy was it different?' said Cicily.
'Because your father was twenty-nine years old,' said Jane decidedly, 'and I was twenty-one and I'd been home from college for two years and I'd known lots of men and '
'Well, I bet if you'd wanted to marry the first man you looked at you'd have done it!' said Cicily.
A sudden flood of memories swept over Jane. Her father's library on Pine Street. Her mother, shrill and effective. Her father, kind and competent. Herself and Andr^, two shaken, irresolute children, standing mute before them, a world of young emotion lying shattered at their feet. But this generation was different. No trace even of anxiety in Cicily's amused smile.
'Anyway, I'm going to. We're not asking you, Mumsy, we're telling you! It's all settled. Belle's talking to Aunt Isabel this minute '
'Belle?' questioned Jane.
'Belle and Albert,' said Cicily. 'Albert Lancaster. He's told his mother. We're going to have a double wedding, here in the garden, the last day of June.'
*A double wedding!' cried Jane and Stephen at once
Years of GRAcas
*Yes,' said Cicily calmly. 'Do you think the roses will be out? We've planned for everything. Why, Jenny's known about it for two weeks. She's going to be bridesmaid for both of us. Just Jenny — but lots of ushers, with crossed swords, you know. Belle and I are going to cut the cakes with Albert's and Jack's sabres.'
'Cicily,' said Jane, 'this is perfectly preposterous! Aunt Isabel will never listen to you! Why, Belle's only eighteen! Albert's not yet twenty.'
'He will be in August,' said Cicily. *I don't see why you carry on about it like this. I don't see why you don't think it's all very sweet and touching. Belle's been my best fiiend all my hfe and now I'm marrying her brother and she's marrying the son of one o^your best friends and '
'In the first place,' said Stephen, 'you're all first cousins.'
'Albert isn't anybody's first cousin,' said Cicily pertly. *So that lets Belle out. And as for Jack and me — that's all right. We looked it all up in Havelock Ellis. There's no danger in consanguinity if there isn't an hereditary taint in the family. We've been awfully eugenic, Mumsy! We've simply scoured the connection for an hereditary taint! And we haven't found a tiling but Uncle Robin's short-sightedness. Of course I'd hate to have a short-sighted baby — but maybe I wouldn't as it's not in the common line. Anyway, there's no insanity, nor epilepsy, nor cancer, nor T.B., nor venereal disease '
'Cicily,' said Stephen a Htde hastily, 'you don't know what you're talking about '
Cicily dropped Jack's arm and sank down on the arm of her father's chair. She kissed the bald spot on top of his head very tenderly.
'Dad, dear,' she said very sweetly, 'perhaps we don't. Perhaps you didn't know just what^OM were talking about when
you wanted to marry Mumsy. But still you did it. You did it and you went to war and it all came out all right. Can't you remember how you felt when you wanted to marry Mumsy ?'
Across the dandelion head Stephen's eyes met Jane's.
'WTiat arc we going to do with them, Jane?' he said, with a smile that was half a sigh.
'Nothing,' said Jane ver)^ practically, 'at the moment. We'll talk it over with Isabel and Robin. And Muriel, of course. I don't suppose Bert understands much, any more, of what goes on around him, but Muriel's always decided '
Cicily jumped to her feet and threw her arms around Jane's neck.
'That's a good Mumsy!' she cried. Then, turning to Jack, 'Come out in the garden, old thing! The apple tree's stiU in bloom!' She seized his hand and turned toward the terrace doors.
'Cicily,' said Jane doubtfully, 'nothing is settled. I don't quite like '
Cicily burst into indulgent laughter.
'What do you think I am, Mumsy?' she inquired cheerfully 'Sweet nineteen and never been kissed? Oh, you are precious — both of you!' She tossed a kiss to her parents on the hearthrug and dragged Jack from the room. Jane watched their slim, young, khaki-clad figiu-cs romp down the lawn and disappear behind the clump of evergreens.
'Stephen,' said Jane, 'it's a very different generation. But what are we going to do?*
'I'm going to remember,' said Stephen, rising from his chair, 'how I felt when I wanted to marry Mumsy!' He took her hand in his. Dear old Stephen! His eyes were just a little moist behind his bone-rimmed spectacles. Jane kissed him very tenderly.
*Just the same,' said Jane, 'I w
asn't a bit like Cicily.' *You were just as sweet,' said Stephen, 'and nearly aa
young.'
'But I was different,' said Jane. *I know I was different.'
She sighed a little as she slipped from Stephen's embrace.
'^Vell — we'U see what Isabel has to say,' she said.
m
*I don't see why,' said Isabel, 'you object to Cicily's marrying Jack. Poor child, he's going to war next month. He may be killed ' Her hp was trembling.
'Well,' said Muriel, 'I don't see -why you object to Belle's marr^-ing Albert. He^s going to war next month and he may be killed.' Muriel's lip was not trembling. Her voice was as logical as her statement.
'Belle's younger,' said Isabel.
'Only a year,' said Jane.
'And Belle's different,' said Isabel. 'Cicily's always equal to any situation. She's so much more dominating. Cicily's one of the people you know will always come out on top. And Jack adores her. He's always adored her.'
'Well, Albert's one of the people you know will always come out on top,' said Muriel. 'I'm sure he's very dominating. And he's ver)' much in love with Belle. I can't see why they shouldn't be very happy.'
'Of course,' said Isabel, producing her handkerchief, 'neither of them may ever come home from France.'
'But again they may,' said Jane a trifle cynically. 'If they don't, of course, I suppose a war marriage would not really hurt any one. But if they do, they'll have to Uve with each other for another fifty years or so.'
'It's very easy to see,' said Isabel reproachfully, from the depths of the handkerchief, 'that you haven't given a son to the nation.'
Years of Grace Page 35
