Across the room, uncomfortably erect, Cicily and Jenny were perched on the slippery black horsehair upholstery of a mahogany sofa. Their bright young blondness was accentuated by their sombre mourning. They looked subdued and preternaturally grave, however. Stephen, who seemed, Jane thought, unspeakably tired, was sitting in a sdff-backed Sheraton chair in the middle of the room, absently staring over his daughters' heads at a large steel engraving, 'The Return of the Mayflower,' that hung over the mahogany sofa. Young Steve was standing by the white marble mantelpiece. His eyes were wandering, with a faint twinkle of amusement, from the glass dome of wax flowers on top of it to the great jar of dried grasses, combined with peacock feathers, that adorned the hearth at his feet. Mrs. Carver never had a fire in the front parlour. Jane knew he was longing for a cigarette and hoped he would refrain from lighting one. Old Mr. Carver had ne'er held with cigarettes — 'coffin nails,' he had called them — and Mrs. Carver only allowed Alden to smoke his in the big brown library that overlooked the river.
Alden himself was pacing up and down the room, skirting the old mahogany rockers and marble-topped tables and plush-covered footstools with care. The furniture in the Carvers' front parlour was oddly assorted. The Colonial period rubbed elbows with the Victorian age. There were several good eighteenth-century pieces that had been in the family for generations and, mingled with them, were the rosewood 'parlour suite' that Mrs. Car^er had bought in the first year of her marriage, and a triple-tiered black walnut whatnot that had been left to Mr. Carver in the will of a favourite sister, and an old cerise plush armchair, with a fringe of braided tassels, where Mr. Car'er always used to sit, and a large glass cabinet of Chinese Chippendale design, in which were displayed a collection of curios assembled by long-dead Carvers in the course of their voyages on the whale-ships and merchantmen that had carried them over the seven seas — ivory pie-cutters and paper-knives and bodkins, a set of Chinese beads which included a jade necklace that Cicily had always coveted, a tiny model of a clipper ship, miraculously erect in a small-necked rum bottle, tortoise-shell snuffboxes, ebony chessmen, sandalwood fans, a bronze Javanese gong of intricate pattern, and a small marble replica of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Also a first edition of Oliver Wendell Holmes's 'The School Boy,' personally autographed and inscribed to Mr. Carver by Mr. Holmes,
Jane liked the funny cluttered room, however. She liked the old incongruous furniture and the silly curios and 'The Return of the Mayflower.' She liked the sense of the past that curiously consecrated this ridiculous collection of inanimate objects that people had cared for and loved. No modem decorator could catch it, she thought, no matter how passionate his preoccupation with antiquity.
'Where is Mother?' said Alden suddenly.
Alden seemed a trifle out of humour. Tired, of course. Fearfully tired. They had all just returned from the service in the cemetery and Mrs. Carver had gone upstairs with Silly to take off her bonnet, in preparation for the Reading of the Will, in the front parlour. The Reading of the Will was a ceremony that all proper Carvers felt should follow a burial as day follows dawn. Jane had thought, considering how exhausted they all were and how long that Unitarian minister had prayed his impromptu prayers, that it would be just as well to defer it until the next morning. But Alden, as head of the family, had been adamant. And Mrs. Carver had thought it would be only correct. And Stephen had said that they might as well get it over. And Silly had murmured that it did not seem quite respectful to wait.
As Alden spoke, Mrs. Carver and Silly came into the parlour. Her mother-in-law, at eighty-four, Jane thought, was a very miraculous old lady. What a strain she had been under, what a shock she had sustained — the tragic termination of sixty-three years of marriage! Yet Mrs. Carver, as she entered the room, looked just as she had looked for the last ten years. She wore her familiar house gown of loose black silk. Mrs. Carver thought extremes were very foolish. She had not gone in for widow's weeds. Her little white collar was fastened by a mourning pin of black jet. It was the only concession she had made to the solemnity of the day. She had told Jane, before setting out for the cemetery, that she had worn that pin to the funeral of her mother in eighteen-scventy-nine. Beneath the straight parting of her thin white hair, her face looked only a little tired and rather worried than sad. Jane soon saw what was worrying her. She walked straight across the room and pulled down one window shade until it was even with the other. A grief-stricken parlour maid, Jane thought with a smile, in raising them after the
family had left the house for the funeral, had had no thought for the critical eyes across Beacon Street. Mrs. Carver turned and faced her family.
'Alden,' she said, 'you look tired. Would you like a glass of port?'
Alden shook his head. He produced an imposing-looking document from the inside pocket of his cutaway.
'Stephen,' continued Mrs. Carver, 'you're not comfortable in that stiff chair. You'd better take your father's. Sit down, Steve, and don't fidget about.' She had seated herself, as she spoke, in the seat that Stephen had abandoned. Jane rose, with a gesture toward her own armchair. 'No, Jane, I like a straight back. Now, Alden, find a nice place for yourself with a good light. Silly! Turn on the lamp for Alden. Can you see, dear? Tlien I think we're quite ready.'
As Alden unfolded his imposing document. Silly sank down on a footstool beside his chair, her lank figure relaxed in lines of complete fatigue. In the folds of her new mourning Silly really looked as old as Mrs. Carver, thought Jane. Her hair was just as white and her face infinitely more weary. Two old ladies — mother and daughter! It was a shame about Silly. She had never had a life. She had never even achieved one care-free summer with Susan Frothingham, one trip abroad alone, one spree, one careless burst of freedom to enjoy and remember. Susan Frothingham had been dead for seven years, carried oflf by a gust ot pneumonia in the flu epidemic of nineteen-twenty. It was a shame about Silly. But Alden was clearing his throat. He was looking at them all very solemnly through h^s pince-nez eye-glasses over the top of the imposing document.
The assembled Carvers stirred a trifle uneasily. A faint, tense thrill seemed to run around the room. The best, the most grief-stricken of families, Jane thought with a smile.
were not quite impervious to the dramatic suspense of the moment in which a will is read. But Alden was speaking.
*I was made the executor of this will,' he was say-ing, and surely there was a hint of irritation in his voice, 'but I never knew an)^hing about its contents until yesterday morning, when I found it in Father's safety-deposit box. He made it twelve years ago, just after Uncle Stephen's death.'
Alden paused to adjust his eye-glasses, and again the assembled Carvers stirred a trifle uneasily. A dreadful phrase from the pen of John Galsworthy flashed through Jane's mind. *01d Soames Forsyte would cut up a very warm man.' Old Mr. Carver would cut up a very warm man, also. But Jane felt curiously detached from the provisions of his testament. Stephen had more money, now, than Jane could spend the income on. And a Carver would always leave his fortune to Carvers. Soon Stephen would have too much money. Too much money to leave, in his turn, to his children. But that day, fortunately, thought Jane with a glance at Cicily, would not come soon. But Alden had resumed.
'The first provision, I am happy to say and you will all be happy to hear' — Alden's voice had brightened a trifle — 'is the foundation of a trust fund of one hundred thousand dollars for Aunt Marie, the interest on which is to continue the allowance that Father had been making her since the death of Uncle Stephen, the principal to go, on her death, to Harvard College, to form the nucleus of a Stephen Carver Memon^ Fund, the purpose of which will be to purchase books and manuscripts for the Department of Reformation Drama, of which Uncle Stephen so long held the chair.'
Why, Alden was m.aking a speech, thought Jane irreverently, as the Carvers about her moved and murmured their gratified approbation. But that was nice for Aunt Marie. She was a bedridden old lady, now, in a Cambridge flat.
*I must remember
,' thought Jane to herself, *to go to see her to-morrow.' But Alden was again speaking.
Jane listened, absently, to the elaborate phrases that rolled from his lips. He was reading from the document, now, and it was all frightfully legal. Jane caught the gist of it, however. It was quite as she had thought. A Carver would always leave his fortune to Carvers. The estate was large, but no larger than Jane had expected. It was a simple will. Jane automatically checked off the bequests in her mind as they were read.
One million dollars outright to Alden and one million dollars outright to Stephen. One million dollars left in trust with Alden and Stephen, the income of which was to be expended on Mrs. Carver for her lifetime and to be expended on Silly after her death. Poor old Silly! How hke Mr. Carver to leave sixty-year-old Silly — not a nickel outright, but a deferred million in trust! Alden's voice was rolling on.
It was the wish of the testator that Mrs. Carver should keep up the Beacon Street house and the place at Gull Rocks just as they had been kept in the testator's lifetime, and that Silly should keep them up after her death. On the death of Silly, Alden, and Stephen, both houses were to go to young Steve, *the last perpetuator of the Carver name.' When all debts were paid and some minor bequests to the servants attended to, the residue of the estate, if any, was to be divided between Mr. Carver's three grandchildren, Cicily, Jenny, and Steve.
A proper Carver will, thought Jane. And exactly like her father-in-law. One hundred thousand dollars to Harvard College and three million to Carvers. All debts paid, poor relations pensioned, old servants remembered, and Silly ignored. Exactly like her father-in-law. Jane hoped that Silly would come into the income of that million before she
was seventy. She hoped she would make ducks and drakes of it when she did. But no — she would undoubtedly save it for Stephen's children. For Silly was a Carver.
At all events, the will did not affect her life, thought Jane. She felt curiously indifferent to the possession of that added million. There was a little awkward pause when Alden had finished speaking. It was broken by Mrs. Carver.
'Thank you, Alden,' she said simply.
T never reahzed,' said Silly — and her voice was slightly shaken — 'I never realized that Father had so much money.'
'Why should you have realized it?' said Mrs. Carver sharply. 'Money is not to be spoken of.' Mrs. Carver still talked to Silly as if she were a child. Her dignified reproo/ put a sudden quietus on further discussion of the will.
'I'm going to take a walk,' declared Steve abruptly.
Cicily's and Jenny's eyes met his. Cicily, Jane thought, looked a trifle downcast. The three children rose simul' taneously to their feet.
'We'll go with you,' said Jenny.
'Don't be late for supper,' said Mrs. Carver. She smiled very kindly up at Silly, who had risen from the footstool and was standing patiently by her chair. 'I think I'll lie down now, but I don't feel like sleeping, I wish you'd come up and read the "Transcript" to me. Silly.'
Mother and daughter left the room. The children turned toward the door.
'It's all right for them to go, isn't it, Stephen?' asked Jane. 'I mean — it won't create a scandal if any one sees them carousing up Beacon Street?'
'Well — I shouldn't advise them to carouse,* smiled Stephen.
*I should hope not!' put in Alden.
*Wc won't carouse!' twinkled Jenny. *Wc'lI walk very discreetly.'
*We'll walk lugubriously,* said Steve cheerfully, 'if Uncle Alden thinks we'd better.'
Alden did not stoop to reply.
'Get along with you!' said Stephen, still smiling. When they had left the room, however, and he had turned to Alden, his face was very grave. Alden was folding up the document and putting it back into the inside pocket of his cutaway. Stephen walked over to him and stood for a moment at his side in silence. Then, 'I'm sorry, Alden,' he said.
Caught by the gravity of his tone, Jane looked quickly up at him. Alden did not speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was thickened with emotion.
'Father — Father wasn't quite himself these last years. If he had been he would have realized.'
'Of course he would,' said Stephen warmly.
'He would have changed it,' said Alden, still in that thickened voice.
'What are you talking about?' cried Jane sharply. She rose from her chair as she spoke and walked to Stephen's side.
'We — we've rather walked off with the lion's share, Jane,' said Stephen quietly. 'We and ours.'
'I don't understand,' said Jane.
Alden turned on her almost belligerently.
'Don't you know what bank stocks have been doing in the last ten years?' he inquired angrily. 'Since Father made that will the estate's doubled. In nineteen-fifteen the residue was worth about fifty thousand dollars. And now your children are going to come into a cool three million — or nearly that
' He stopped abruptly. He stared, astonished, at Jane's
horrified face.
'Stephen,' she said faintly, 'Stephen — that's not true, is it?*
Stephen nodded gravely.
'It's rather rough on Alden — and on Silly, too, of course
' Then he, too, stopped, for Jane had suddenly begun to
cry.
*Oh, Stephen — Stephen — can't anything be done?'
'I'm afraid not, darling.' His arms were around her. She was sobbing rather wildly.
'Don't take it like that, Jane,' said Alden kindly. He pulled himself together. 'It — it's not so very important.'
'You don't know!' cried Jane. 'You don't know — anything about it!'
Alden let that insult pass unchallenged. He was rapidly revising his opinion of his sister-in-law. She had never seemed to him an hysterical woman. But this stroke of luck had quite unbalanced her.
'You don't know anything!' she kept repeating. 'You don't know anything, either of you! You don't know anything at aU!'
n
On looking back on the first few weeks that followed her father-in-law's death, Jane was always most impressed by the astounding efficiency of her children. The explosive efficiency of her children. Jane felt as if the dead hand of Mr. Carver had pulled the corks from the three bottles of extremely effervescent champagne. Event followed event with catastrophic rapidity.
It was young Steve who threw the first bomb. He threw it in Boston the day after his grandfather's funeral, just two hours after he had heard of his legacy. He walked in abruptly on Alden and Stephen and Jane, who were discussing the questions of inheritance tax and probate in the old brown library that overlooked the river.
*The contents of both houses must be appraised immedi-
ately,' Alden was saying, when his nephew entered the room.
'Am I interrupting?' said Steve amiably. *I want to ask Uncle Alden a question,'
'I've told you everj-thing I know about that bequest already,' said Alden, with that faint hint of irritation in his tone.
'This isn't about the bequest,' said Steve cheerfully. 'And it's a very simple question. Have you got a job for me?'
'A job for you?' echoed Alden.
'Yes. In the Bay State Trust Company. I want to live here.*
'Here?' echoed Jane.
'Well, not in this house,' said Steve calmly. 'Though I like that view of the river. But in Boston. I've always loved Boston. I think it's the place for Carvers to live.'
'You're right there, my boy,' put in Alden approvingly.
*I've just been taking,' said Steve — and his eye brightened — 'a walk around Beacon Hill. You don't know what it does to me, Mumsy. I simply love it. It's the call of the blood or something. I'm going to buy a little old red-brick house on Chestnut or Mount Vernon Street — a little old red-brick house with a white front door and a bright brass knocker and lavender-tinted panes of old glass in its front window. I'm going to buy the best old stuff I can get to furnish it with. It's going to be — well — if not an American Wing, at least an American Lean-to! The Metropolitan is going to
en'y mc some of my pieces. I'm going to have a good cook and a better cellar and give delightful little parties. I'm going to be Boston's Most Desirable Bachelor. But I'm not going to end up like Uncle Alden!' Steve paused to smile engagingly at his astounded relatives. 'On my twenty-ninth birthday, I'm going to marry the season's most eligible debutante — and her name will be Cabot or Lodge or Lowell — and replenish
the dwindling Carver stock, I'm going to have ten children in the good old New England tradition, and marry them all off to the best Back Bay connections. There! That's a brief r6sum6 of my earthly plans and ambitions. But in the mean time, I need a job. Id rather be in Grandfather's bank than in any other. So I thought if Uncle Alden had a high stool vacant, I'd just put in a bid for it. If not *
But Alden's face was shining with approbation.
'Of course I have, Steve!' he said warmly. 'And I must say this would have dehghted your grandfather! Wouldn't it have delighted him, Stephen?'
Jane looked quickly at Stephen's face. Her own sense of defeat was clearly written there.
*I suppose it would have,' he said slowly. 'But, just the same, Steve's really a Westerner. Partly by blood and wholly by upbringing '
Jane loved him for his words. Alden looked pained.
'Do you call an education at Milton and Harvard a Western upbringing?' he inquired with acerbity.
Stephen laughed shortly.
'I suppose we should have sent him to the high school ir Lakewood,' he said a trifle bitterly.
'And to some fresh-water college?' inquired Alden. 'Don't be absurd, Stephen!'
'You don't need me. Dad, in the Midland Loan and Trust Company,' said Steve persuasively. 'You've got Jack.'
'I want you, nevertheless,' said Stephen soberly.
'But I want this, Dad,' said Ste'e. He walked to the window as he spoke and gazed out over the back yards of Beacon Street and the sparkUng blue river toward the grey domes and cornices of the Tech buildings across the basin. 'I — want — this. I want to Live forever in sight of that little gold dome that tops Beacon HiU. I know what I want, Dad '
Years of Grace Page 46
