V
Jane sat in a corner of Cicily’s French drawing-room, waiting for Cicily to come home. Walking with the twins through the snowy streets of Lakewood, withdrawn from their artless prattle in the sanctuary of thought, Jane had finally arrived at a decision. Something must be done—and done quickly. She would speak to Cicily. She would not procrastinate. She would not falter. She would go in with the twins and talk with Cicily that very afternoon. Perhaps she would find Albert in the little French drawing-room. If so, she would wait, stonily, tactlessly, until he had withdrawn.
She had not found Albert. The maid at the door had informed her that Mrs. Bridges had not yet come in. The girl had thrown a concerned glance at Jane’s snow-powdered coat and saturated shoes. She had turned on one drawing-room lamp and lit the fire under the Marie Laurencin and had brought Jane a little pot of tea on a painted tray.
Jane had consumed the reviving liquid very gratefully. The twins were upstairs in the playroom, doing their homework. Robin Redbreast was eating his supper in the dining-room across the hall. When she had first come in, Jane had not felt equal to sustaining a conversation with even Robin Redbreast. She had finished her tea and was gazing, somewhat like a rabbit fascinated by a snake, at the blank chocolate-coloured eyes and thin, cruel lips of the Marie Laurencin, thinking that the opal-tinted lady had rather the air of passing an ironical comment on her own agitated state of mind.
The mood of the Marie Laurencin was the modern one of detached cynicism. “Well, what of it?” she seemed to be saying. “Why carry on like this about it? Surely you’re not surprised!”
Jane tried to think that she was not surprised, feeling an absurd obligation to justify her Victorian point of view to the opal-tinted lady. At least she admitted that she should not be surprised. This was only the sort of thing that happened, unhappily, now and then in every age. However, when it concerned your own daughter—But Albert Lancaster was merely running true to form. He was his father’s son. He had dragged Cicily into this mess. He would soon tire of her. And then—what a hell of readjustment awaited the poor child.
Jane was roused from revery by the sound of the front door opening and closing. Cicily’s light step was heard in the hall. She was alone. Albert had not come in with her. Her voice, very practical and pleasant, was addressing the waitress at the door.
“Send the car to the Woman’s Club for the twins at once, Ella. I forgot to stop in at their dancing school. They must be waiting.”
Jane heard the waitress start to speak, but Cicily did not pause for a reply. She appeared, abruptly, in the door of the little French drawing-room. The shoulders of her coat, her dark fox fur, her little black hat were all thickly frosted with soft wet snow. She must have been walking in the storm ever since she had left the Woman’s Club. She did not see Jane. She walked quickly over to the antique mirror that hung between the windows. Standing directly in front of it she stared, wide-eyed, at her own reflection in the glass. Jane stared, too, a startled, involuntary stare, at the face in the mirror. The cheeks were rose-red, the eyes were starry bright, the lips were parted in a reminiscent smile. Suddenly Cicily gave a little gasp.
“Oh!” she said softly, and pressing her dark-gloved hands to her rose-red cheeks, continued to stare, wide-eyed at the face in the mirror.
“Cicily,” said Jane gently.
The child started, terrifically. Then faced about, her lips no longer smiling, her eyes no longer starry. Slowly, like a curtain, a veil of controlled indifference dropped over her features.
“Mumsy!” she said. “I didn’t know you were there. You frightened me.”
Jane rose slowly from her chair in the corner.
“Cicily,” she said, “I’ve come to talk to you.”
Behind the veil of indifference, Cicily’s young face hardened defensively.
“What about?” she said.
Jane drew a long breath.
“About yourself—and Albert.”
There was a brief pause. Cicily moved to the fireplace and, stripping off her gloves, stood with her back to the room, holding her hands out to the warmth of the crackling flames.
“I wouldn’t, Mumsy,” she said finally.
“I have to,” said Jane. She was conscious that her knees were wobbling disconcertingly. She sat down rather suddenly in the armchair near the fire. There was another pause. Cicily continued to gaze down at the burning logs. She moved her thin, white hands a trifle nervously. The firelight sparkled on the diamond in her engagement ring. Jane looked steadily at those thin white hands.
“Well,” said Cicily, finally, “all right. Shoot. I suppose you have to get it off your chest.” She turned abruptly as she spoke and flung herself moodily down on the hearthrug. She tossed off her little black hat and dark fox fur. The snow on them was melting rapidly in the heat from the fire. There was quite a little puddle on the light grey rug before Jane spoke again.
“Cicily,” she began slowly, “I don’t—I don’t know quite what’s happening, but I know it’s dangerous. I know you’re not behaving—just the way you ought to behave. Don’t think I don’t sympathize with you, because I do—” She stopped, checked by the sight of the little scornful smile that was flickering on Cicily’s lips, then continued lamely, “I do sympathize with you, Cicily, but—”
“But you believe in the Ten Commandments,” said Cicily brightly. “Especially the seventh. Well—so do I, Mumsy, and I haven’t broken it. There. Will that satisfy you?”
“Cicily,” said Jane reproachfully, “I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I,” said Cicily promptly. “I don’t think adultery’s a joke. And I shouldn’t dream of committing it. Some do, of course, but I’ve always thought they were fools. I’m keeping my head, Mumsy, I’m keeping it like anything. But I haven’t made up my mind. Until I do, I don’t see what’s the use of discussion.”
“You don’t see—what’s the use of discussion?” faltered Jane.
“No, I don’t,” said Cicily bluntly. “It’s my affair. Mine and Albert’s. And, in a secondary capacity, of course, Jack’s and Belle’s. It’s a very difficult situation, and it all depends on me. I don’t want to make any mistake!”
“But Cicily!”—Jane’s protest was almost shrill—“you are making a mistake! You’re making one this minute! It’s a terrible mistake for you to sit there and talk as if there were anything but one thing to do!”
“And what’s that?” said Cicily ironically.
“Put Albert Lancaster out of your life immediately,” said Jane firmly. “And forget him as soon as you can.” She regretted her sharp words as soon as they were spoken. They seemed absurdly melodramatic, punctured by Cicily’s light monosyllable.
“Why?”
“Why?” echoed Jane. “Why, because you’re a married woman with three dear children and Albert’s a married man with three children of his own. Because Belle was your best friend and Jack’s always been a good and loyal husband—”
Jane stopped for breath.
“Yes,” said Cicily slowly. “Jack’s always been a good and loyal husband and I’ve always been a good and loyal wife. We’ve been married nearly ten years and I’m horribly bored with him. He’s really bored with me, though, of course, he won’t admit it. It would be perfectly impossible for either of us to recapture the emotion that brought us together. It’s gone forever. The same thing is perfectly true of Belle and Albert. I’ve fallen in love with Albert. He’s fallen in love with me. I can’t see why that situation has anything to do with a dead past. I’m not robbing Jack if I give my love to Albert. Jack hasn’t had my love for years. I’m not robbing Belle if Albert gives his love to me. Belle had her innings ten years ago. I don’t grudge them to her. But it’s my turn now.”
“Cicily!” cried Jane in horror. “You mustn’t talk like that! You mustn’t think like that!”
“Why not?” said Cicily. “What are your brains given you for, except to think with? I believe in being practical. That’s why I haven’t made up my mind. There are a great many practical difficulties to consider. If I should divorce Jack—”
“Divorce Jack?” cried Jane.
“And Belle should divorce Albert,” continued Cicily imperturbably, “there would still be a lot of adjustments to be made. There are the children for one thing—”
“I’m glad you give them a passing thought,” said Jane ironically.
“Don’t be sarcastic, Mumsy,” smiled Cicily cheerfully. “It’s not your line. You know I adore my children. And Albert’s are sweet. The children do present complications. But perhaps we could solve them. They’re all awfully young. They’d soon get used to it. I like the lovely picture of a sweet, united home, just as much as you do, Mumsy. But our homes aren’t sweet and united. There’s no use kidding yourself that they are. But”—Cicily’s young face clouded thoughtfully as she spoke—“you see there’s the money.”
“The what?” cried Jane. This conversation was really taking on the horror of a nightmare.
“The money,” said Cicily. “You see we haven’t got any. Not any to speak of. Aunt Muriel made ducks and drakes of all she had during Uncle Bert’s illness. She gave a lot to Albert during those years abroad. Albert really can’t afford to run two households. Six children and two wives are no joke! He’d want to give Belle a whacking big alimony. I’d want her to have one. On the other hand, I really couldn’t take money from Jack—now, could I?—not even for the support of his children, if I were living with Albert. Perhaps that seems quixotic to you, Mumsy, but—”
“Quixotic!” cried Jane. This must be a nightmare.
“But that’s the way I feel,” ended Cicily tranquilly. Then added abruptly, “Has it ever occurred to you, Mumsy, that Dad only gives me three thousand a year?”
In the midst of the horror a ridiculous impulse to vindicate Stephen rose hotly in Jane’s heart.
“He gave you this house and lot. He gave Jack his job in the bank!”
“They wouldn’t do me much good,” said Cicily calmly, “in the present crisis. I’d ruin Albert. I really would. He wants to get back into the diplomatic service. He’s trying to save a fortune. Of course, there’s Ed Brown—but Albert says he really couldn’t bring himself to come down on him to pay a brand-new stepson’s wife a princely alimony! And I don’t blame him. Ed Brown does seem a trifle remote. Of course, if Dad would settle about three hundred thousand on me—”
Jane rose from her chair.
“Cicily,” she said solemnly, “I wouldn’t have believed—I really—would—not—have—believed—that you could really shock me—”
“You think he wouldn’t?” said Cicily anxiously.
Jane did not stoop to reply. She walked in silence to the door. She could hear Cicily scrambling to her feet behind her.
“It would fix up everything,” said Cicily, “if he would. I know lots of girls would just take that alimony and think nothing of it, but I couldn’t do it. And Albert feels just that way. We wouldn’t want Belle to give up anything. I couldn’t bear it if she had to go back with the children and live with Aunt Isabel—” Strolling down the hall, she slipped her hand confidingly through Jane’s elbow.
“Cicily,” said Jane with dignity, “I’m not going to discuss it. If you don’t see that this talk is shocking—”
“All right, Mumsy,” said Cicily cheerfully. “I told you you hadn’t better. But you would and you did and I’ve been perfectly frank with you.” Jane opened the front door. “See here, darling, you can’t walk home in this weather. I’ll order the car.”
“I don’t want the car,” said Jane pettishly. “I prefer to walk.” Her pettishness was that of an irritated old lady. It reminded her of her own mother. The storm had turned into a blizzard. Small, icy flakes were driving horizontally across the darkness in the shaft of light that shone from the front door. She could not walk, of course. Cicily had already rung for Ella. She gave her order tranquilly. Then turned to smile mischievously at Jane’s sombre face.
“It’s a compliment, Mumsy,” she said, “when your children are perfectly frank with you. But you won’t face facts. Your generation believes in fairies!” The hall was growing cold. Cicily closed the door. “I’m going to talk to Dad, myself, I think,” she said slowly.
Jane did not reply. She still had the sense of nightmare. This—this would devastate Stephen. She would have to tell him. Tell Stephen—who adored Cicily. Mother and daughter stood in silence until the headlights of the motor, wheeling in the darkness, were visible through the glass panel of the door.
“Good night,” said Cicily. Jane, still, did not reply. “Mumsy, don’t be an ass!” cried Cicily brightly. She kissed Jane very warmly. Jane clung to her for a moment in silence. “Button up your coat, dear! Don’t slip on the steps!”
Jane did not look back. She did not dare to, on the icy path. The wind was very strong. But Cicily’s voice floated out to her in the darkness.
“Don’t worry, Mumsy!”
The friendly chauffeur met her halfway to the car. He took her arm to steady her. Jane was suddenly reminded again of her mother. She was an old lady. Or about to become one. Useless to try to understand the younger generation. But she would have to tell Stephen. She would have to tell Stephen that night.