Courage and common-sense, again, perhaps. Bravery and bravado. But it did seem a little heartless
The front door opened and Stephen and Jack and Jenny came in from the five-fifty.
'Jenny,' cried Jane, 'how did the exam go?'
'Oh, all right,' said Jenny calmly; 'but why should a girl know physics?'
Jack made a dive for the stairs.
*Golly!' he cried, 'I've got to step on it! Where's Cicily? Where are the kids?'
*In her room,' called Jane. She turned to smile at Stephen.
'That's boy's going to make a banker,' said Stephen proudly.
Jane shpped her arm around Jenny's thin young shoulders.
*Do you really think you passed?' she inquired.
*Oh, I guess so,' said Jenny. She tossed her felt hat on the hall table and ran her hand through her straight blonde bob. Her plain little face was twinkling at her mother in an indulgent smile. 'Don't fuss, Mumsy!'
Just then Httle Steve burst in at the front door. He looked flushed and excited and just a trifle mussy in grass-stained flannels. Tennis racket in hand he towered lankily over Jane.
'Mumsy, can we have dinner early? Can we have it at half-past six?'
*I don't think so/ said Jane, with a glance at the clock and a thought for the menu. Her eyes returned to her son. His blond, boyish beauty always made her heart beat a little faster. A t fifteen he looked so much like Stephen — the young Stephen that Jane had met in Flora's ballroom. *Why?'
'Well, because I promised Buzzy Barker that I'd take her to the seven-thirty movie. I said I'd be there in the car at seven-fifteen. I can't keep Buzzy waiting, Mumsy. I absolutely can't! If we can't have dinner early, I'll have to go without it, but I've been playing tennis all afternoon, and I think when a man comes home tired at night and says he'd like to have dinner early '
Jane, Stephen, and Jenny burst simultaneously into laughter.
*Go vamp the cook, Steve,' said Jenny unsympathetically. *You're a devil with women!'
Steve vanished, with a contemptuous snort in the direction of the pantry.
'He's awful, Mumsy,* continued Jenny. 'And Buzzy Barker is the arch-petter of her generation.'
'You're all awful,' smiled Stephen, as he entered the hving-room. 'I don't know how your mother puts up with you.'
Jane shpped her arm through his.
'Come out and look at the roses,' she said, 'they're lovely this time of day.'
Somehow it seemed to her at the moment that she put up with them all very easily. She had a normal life and children did amuse you! Arm in arm with Stephen she strolled across the terrace in the early evening air. A faint damp breeze was stealing in from the west — the very breath of the swamps. An amber sunset hght was flooding the Skokie Valley. It turned the terrace turf a vivid yellow green. It intensified the kaleidoscopic colours of the flower border. The roses looked
redder and pinker than they did at high noon. Jane was thinking of defrauded Flora. She was wondering why she, herself, was ever discouraged about life. When she had Stephen and three funny children and two ridiculous grand-twins
'Do you remember the swamp this garden was sixteen years ago?' said Stephen suddenly.
Jane nodded solemnly.
*It was under this apple tree,' she said, 'that I told you that I knew Steve was going to be a boy. And you kissed me, Stephen *
'I'll kiss you again,' said Stephen handsomely, suiting the action to the words.
'Mumsy!' shrieked Steve from the pantry window. 'Stop necking with Dad! Lena says we can have dinner at six-thirty! I absolutely can't keep Buzzy waiting, Mumsy *
Jane slipped from Stephen's arms.
'Come in and eat and keep him quiet,' she said tranquilly. Still arm in arm, they strolled back across the terrace. As they entered the Uving-room, Cicily's voice was floating down the stairs.
'Where are those bonnets of Cousin Flora's, Mumsy?'
'Jane,' said Stephen cheerfully, sinking into his armchair and opening the 'Evening Post,' 'this house is Bedlam.'
'I like it Bedlam,' said Jane, smiling. She picked up Flora's bonnets from the hving-room table and started with them toward the door. On the threshold she ran into Steve.
'Golly, Dad!' he was crying, aghast. 'Don't start to read the paper before dinner! I absolutely can't keep Buzzy waiting '
Jane walked slowly up the stairs, smoothing out the fiilly ruffles of Flora's httle blue bonnets. She could still hear Steve arguing incoherently with his father in the hving-room.
On the first landing she caught the great guffaw of Jack's laughter as he played with the twins on Cicily's bed. Jenny was singing to the accompaniment of running water in the bathroom off her bedroom at the head of the stairs.
*Yes, sir, she's my babyl
Tra-la — I don't mean maybeP
Ignoring her brother's views on early dinner, Jenny was obviously taking a tub. She had not bothered to close any doors.
There was nothing more satisfactory, thought Jane, as she knocked lightly at Cicily's threshold, than a large, quarrelsome, and united family.
*Mumsy!' shouted Steve from the lower hall. 'Dinner's served!'
'Come in!' czdled Cicily shrilly, over Jack's laughter.
Jenny!' shouted Steve. 'Come on down! Dinner's ready!*
'Oh, shut up, Romeo!' shrieked Jenny affably, over the sound of running water.
Jane smiled indulgendy as she opened Cicily's door. There was a comfortable domestic sense of reassurance about a house that was Bedlam. Bedlam was exactiy the kind of a house she liked.
VI
Jane sat on the brick parapet of her little terrace, wondering if the soft October air was too cool for her mother. It was a lovely autumn afternoon. An Indian summer haze hung over the tanned stretch of the Skokie Valley. The leaves of the oak trees were wine-red. A few scattered clumps of marigolds and zinnias that had withstood the early frost still splashed the withered flower border with patches of orange and rose.
Isabel and Robin had motored Mrs. Ward out for Sunday
luncheon at Lakewood, and the sun was so warm and the terrace so sheltered and the last breath of summer so precious that Jane had suggested that they take their after-luncheon coflfee in the open air. Mrs. Ward sat, her small black-garbed figure wrapped in the folds of a white Shetland shawl, sipping tlie hot liquid a shade gratefully. She was warming her thin, ringed hands on the outside of the little cup.
'Cold, Mamma?' asked Jane. 'That shawl's not very thick.' 'Certainly not,' said Mrs. Ward tartly. 'I'm never cold.* Jane's eyes met Isabel's. They were always incredibly touched by their mother's perpetual, proud refusal to admit the infirmities of age. Infirmities that had seemed to creep insidiously upon her since her husband's death, eight months before. That death had vividly emphasized for Jane and Isabel the menace of the years.
Robin and Stephen were casually dressed in tan tweeds for a country week-end. The three women were still in mourning. Their crude, black figiu^es stood out uncompromisingly against the soft russet background of the October garden. The sombre badge of grief seemed to draw them closer together, to emphasize the family unit and their common loss. Nevertheless, it was still impossible for Jane to realize that her father was dead. That he would never again make one of the Httle group that was gathered that sunny afternoon on her terrace. Never again meet her eyes with his indulgent twinkle, half-veiled in cigar smoke, as Isabel and her mother ratded off their brittle, shameless, incisive comment on life. Never again help solve a family problem, like the one now under discussion. Isabel was discussing it, very incisively.
'I hate,' she said, *to have him give up his engineering.*
'He wants to give it up,' said Stephen eagerly.
*Not really,' said Isabel; 'he just thinks he ought to. I wish
he could go to Tech this winter. Cicily could take a little flat in Boston.'
'My dear,' said Robin seriously, 'Jack ought to support liis wife.'
'He's only twenty-three,' sighed Isabel.
'He oughtn't to have a wife,' put in Mrs. Ward, again rather tartly, 'at his age.'
'But he has,' said Robin, 'and he ought to support her.'
'He's planned on engineering since he was a little boy,' said Isabel plaintively. 'You know, Jane, I think it's really up to Cicily. If she told him she'd like to live in Boston '
'I know,' said Jane, 'but Cicily wouldn't like to live in Boston. She'd like to buy that four-acre lot and build a little French farmhouse and live here in Lakewood while Jack worked in Stephen's bank.'
'He's awfully good in the bank,* said Stephen.
Isabel rose impatiently from her chair and walked across the terrace. She stared a moment in silence at the tanned stretch of meadow.
'He's good at anything,' she said presently. Jane caught the sob that was trembling in her voice. 'But he ought to have his chance.'
'I think myself,' said Jane seriously, 'that Cicil/s making a mistake. But you know how it is, Isabel. She likes Lake-wood. She's made all her plans. She doesn't want to go into exile.'
'Boston isn't exile!' said Isabel, turning back to her chair.
'Thank you, Isabel!' threw in Stephen parenthetically.
'But Cicily thinks it is,' said Jane. 'She's never liked the Bostonians she met at GuU Rocks *
*I know how she feels,' said Robin generously. *No woman wants a husband who's stiU in school. Besides, Isabel^ wi
can't support them. I mean — we couldn't give Cicily the things she's accustomed to have. Jack made his decision when he married. He has a wife and two children. He can't settle back on his father-in-law for a meal ticket. Stephen's very generous to oflfer to build them that house and to give him such a good job in the bank.'
'I'm glad to have him there,' said Stephen warmly. 'He's a bright kid.*
*Just the same,' said Isabel, 'Jack's been building bridges since the age of ten. I can see him now with his first set of Meccano! He'll be awfully bored with banking! He'll never really Kke it.'
'Isabel,' said Mrs. Ward reprovingly, 'you shouldn't talk like that about banking.' Mrs. Ward had a soHd Victorian respect for the source of her younger son-in-law's income. Her remark was ignored, however. In the heat of family discussion, Jane reflected, it was becoming increasingly customary' to ignore Mrs. Ward.
'He'll like Cicily,' said Robin, 'and the twins and the little French farmhouse. He'll like the fun of starting out in life, on his own. He'll like himself if he's holding down an honest job.'
'Of course, I can understand,' said Isabel, 'that Jane would like to have Cicily near her, now Steve's at Ivlilton and Jenny's in Bryn Mawr. I hate to give up Belle. But if it's for Albert's best good '
'How's Jenny getting on?' inquired Robin abruptly. He had always admired his plain Uttle niece.
'She loves it,' smiled Jane. And Jenny really did. Her unexpected enthusiasm for the cloisters had made Jane very happy. 'She's rooming in Pembroke with Barbara Belmont — you know, tlie daughter of Stephen's friend.'
'Really?' said Isabel, a trifle incredulously. 'Belmont, the
banker?' At heart, Jane knew, Isabel shared her mother's Victorian confidence in banks.
*Ycs,' said Jane. 'He was in Stephen's class at Harvard.*
'Such nice girls go to college nowadays,' mused Isabel. The note of incredulity still lingered in her voice. 'Your friends were so queer, Jane.'
*They certainly were,* put in Mrs. Ward with a sigh.
A little flame of adolescent resentment flashed up in Jane's heart. She felt as if she were fourteen once more and had just bumped up against one of Isabel's and her mother's 'opinions.* At forty-two, however, resentment was articulate.
*I don't know what was queer about them,' she said indignantly, 'unless it was queer of them to be so very able. Agnes is one of the most successful dramatists on Broadway. Her new crime play's a wow. And Marion Park has just been appointed Dean of RadcHffe.'
'WeU, I never knew Marion Park,' said Isabel doubtfully.
'But certainly no one would ever have expected Agnes Johnson to amount to anything,' said Mrs. Ward.
As she spoke, the door to the living-room opened and Cicily came out on the terrace. She was wearing a little green sport suit and carrying a roll of blue-prints in her hand. She shook her dandeHon head and smiled charmingly at the assembled family.
'Oh, here you are!' she said pleasantly. 'Isn't it too cold for Granny? I want to show Uncle Robin the last plans for the house.' Unrolling a blue-print, she dropped down on her knees by his chair. Cicily still looked about fourteen years old, reflected Jane, tenderly. 'We want to get it started before the
ground fi"eezes ' she began. Looking up, she met her
mother-in-law's inimical eye. Something a Utde hard and indomitable glittered in Cicily's own. She did not look four-
teen years old any longer. *Oh, don't teU me you've been arguing about it all over again!' she cried mutinously.
'My dear,' said Jane, 'it's not a thing to be Hghtly decided.'
'Who's deciding it lightly?' cried Cicily hotly. 'Mumsy, you make me tired.'
'Don't talk like that, Cicily!' put in Mrs. Ward, and was again ignored.
'Aunt Isabel makes me tired!' continued Cicily. *I get so sick of all this family discussion! You act exactly as if I didn't know what was good for Jack, myself! I'm his wife! I ought to know him by this time!'
'Cicily!' said Stephen wamingly.
'Well, I do know him, Dad!' flashed Cicily, 'and I'm acting for his best good! Where would engineering get him? Tlu-ec years at Tech and then building bridges and tunnels and railroad embankments at some jumping-off place all the rest of his Hfe! Me, boarding in construction camps with Molly and the twins! Not even with Molly! She wouldn't go! WTiat do we Uve for, anyway? He's much better off in your bank, leading a civilized life in a city where every one knows him!'
'Belle didn't talk like that,' said Isabel reprovingly, 'when Albert decided to go to Oxford.'
'Well, I shouldn't think she would!' flashed Cicily again. *Oxford University isn't Boston Tech! Aunt Muriel's going to rent them a beautiful littie house in that lo'ely country and Belle will meet a lot of distinguished people! I think Belle's life is going to be perfecdy grand! If Albert really docs go into the diplomatic service. Belle will have a career! She may end up in the Court of Saint James! I'd love to be an ambassador's lady '
'Albert's not an ambassador yet, Cicily,' twinkled Stephen;
'he's just succeeded with some difficulty in becoming an Oxford undergraduate.'
'It's a step in the right direction,' said Cicily. *I wish to goodness Jack had his ambition.'
Jack has his own ambitions,' said Stephen quietly.
*He certainly has!' retorted Cicily, *and he ought to be protected from them! You can't tell me anything about Jack, Dad! I think he's just as sweet as you do. He's worth ten of Albert! But just the same he'll never get anywhere if I don't push him. I'm pushing him now, just as hard as I can, into your bank! It's a splendid opening!' She paused a trifle breathlessly, then smiled very sweetly at her father. *You know you think so yourself, Dad, darUng.'
Jane watched Stephen try to steel himself against that smile, then reluctantly succumb to it.
*I wouldn't offer Jack anything, Isabel,* he said slowly, 'that I didn't think was going to turn into a pretty good tiling.'
'There!' cried Cicily in triumph, 'and our house is going to be perfectly ducky '
'Cicily ' began Isabel portentously. Then even Isabel
oDviously saw that argument was a waste of breath. 'Let nu see the blue-prints,' she said helplessly.
Cicily surrendered them with a forgiving smile. She rose and looked interestedly over her mother-in-law's shoulder.
'Do you think the Unen closet is large enough?' she asked tactfully.
'No, I don't,' said Isabel judicially, 'and it ought to be nearer the clothes chute.'
'I'll have it changed,' said Cicily generously. It was the generosity of the victor.
Jane rose slowly f
rom her seat on the parapet. She could not do anything about Cicily. She could, however, go into
the house and bring out Stephen's overcoat to wrap around her mother. As she walked across the terrace, she could see Isabel bending interestedly over the blue-prints! Poor old Isabel! It was quite obvious that she had laid down her arms.
CHAPTER III
I Jane stood by the piano in the Lakewood Hving-room, looking iBxedly at the flowers that the children had sent her. Fifty Killamey roses in a great glass bowl. Time was when Jane had regarded a woman of fifty as standing with one foot in the grave. Even now she was glad that Isabel was coming out for tea. Isabel was fifty-five. Jane felt that it would be a comfort to look at her. It had been a comfort that morning to look at Stephen, who was fifty-eight. But men were different. To men, years brought distinction. To women, they brought only grey hairs and crow's-feet, thick waistHnes and double chins.
Jane turned firom the roses to glance at her reflection in the gilt-fi:amed mirror that hung over her Colonial mantelpiece. Jane's waistHne was nothing to be ashamed of. She had no crow's-feet. When she remembered to hold her head high, her chin, if shghdy — well — mature, was certainly not double. It could not be denied, however, that her hair was /cry grey. Jane hated that. What had Jimmy once said? 'A woman is young as long as she looks beguiling with mussy hair.' Jane looked Hke the Witch of Endor, now, with mussy hair. Still, she reflected courageously, she never allowed it to be mussy. * Well-groomed' — that was the adjective a well-intentioned eulogist would have chosen with which to describe Jane's hair at fifty. A barren adjective. An adjective devoid of glamour and romance. Well-groomed hair, Jane reflected sadly, would never have appealed to Jimmy.
Did it appeal to Stephen? Jane smiled a little fondly at the thought. Stephen, she knew, had never even observed her
increasingly meticulous arrangement of hairnet and hairpin*. To Stephen, Jane still looked like Jane, and, though she had ceased to be the phantom of deUght that he had married, in Stephen's eyes Jane could never be fifty. And yet — she was. There were the smiHng flowers to prove it.
Years of Grace Page 40
