IV
Jane sat in the window of the Lakewood living-room, cross-stitching little brown and scarlet robins on a bib that she was making for Robin Redbreast’s fourth Christmas. The Skokie Valley was a plain of spotless white. The sun was high and the sky was blue and the bare boughs of the oak trees were outlined with a crust of silvery snow that was melting, a little, in the heat of the December noon. Jenny was stretched on the sofa, intent on the pages of The American Kennels Gazette. She was investigating the state of the market on Russian wolf hounds.
It was Saturday and Stephen would soon be home for luncheon. Young Steve was staying late at the bank. He was winding up his affairs there very conscientiously, preparatory to his departure for Boston on the New Year.
“Mumsy,” said Jenny presently.
“Yes,” said Jane.
“Has it occurred to you that Dad’s looking rather off his feed? Since we came home from Boston, I mean?”
“Yes,” said Jane soberly, “it has.”
“Why don’t you go off together somewhere—take a trip to Egypt or a Mediterranean cruise?”
“Dad couldn’t leave the bank,” said Jane shortly. “And I wouldn’t want to leave you children.”
“It seems to me,” said Jenny cheerfully, “that we children are leaving you.”
“Cicily isn’t,” said Jane with equal cheerfulness. “And we have the grandchildren.”
“Mumsy,” said Jenny earnestly, “do you know I think parents make a mistake to count so much on their children? I think you and Dad ought to have more fun on your own. When you were young, Mumsy, weren’t you ever bored with Lakewood? Didn’t you want to see the world?”
“Yes, I was,” said Jane honestly. “I wanted to see the world.”
“Well, then, why don’t you?” said Jenny eagerly. “Why don’t you, now you can?”
“But I can’t,” said Jane.
“Why not?” said Jenny.
“Because I’m needed here,” said Jane a trifle tartly.
“That’s just nonsense,” said Jenny very reasonably. “What do you do here that couldn’t be left undone?”
On that outrageous question Jane heard Stephen’s latchkey. He opened the front door and walked across the hall to hang up his hat and coat. His step, Jane thought, was just a little heavy. He smiled a trifle absently at his wife and daughter, from the living-room door.
“Am I late?” he asked.
“No. Just in time,” said Jane. She rose to touch the bell as she spoke.
Stephen did look off his feed. He looked as if something were worrying him. Something more than Jenny and Steve. He had looked just that way for the last ten days—ever since their return from his father’s funeral. He had had almost nothing to say on the further chimerical development of Jenny’s and Steve’s plans for emancipation. Jane, sensing his preoccupation, had said nothing about Cicily. And Cicily, amazingly, had said nothing about herself. She had accepted the news of her legacy in Boston with incredulous joy. But she had made no comment on her domestic situation. She had returned to the little French farmhouse in silence. She had brought her children three times to see Jane. In their presence, of course, discussion of her predicament—if wilful wrongdoing could be called a predicament—was impossible. Jane had almost begun to hope, against hope, that Cicily had recognized the error of her ways. That financial freedom had brought emotional enlightenment. That as soon as the door was opened, Cicily had realized that she did not want to leave home. Perhaps she would never have to tell Stephen. Or tell him, at least, only of an evil that had been avoided, a peril that had been escaped, a sin that had been atoned.
“Luncheon is served, madam,” said the waitress.
Jenny chatted pleasantly of the charms of Russian wolf hounds while they sat at table. Stephen toyed with his chop, picked at his salad, and ignored his soufflé.
“I want to talk to your mother,” he said abruptly, when they had reentered the living-room.
“About me?” smiled Jenny. “What have I done?”
But Stephen did not smile.
“Run along, dear,” said Jane.
Jenny picked up The American Kennels Gazette and left the room. Jane turned inquiringly toward Stephen. He had seated himself in his armchair near the fire. He sat for some time in silence, gazing abstractedly at the blazing logs.
“Well, dear?” ventured Jane presently.
“I don’t know how to begin,” said Stephen soberly. He had not raised his eyes from the fire.
“Stephen!” cried Jane in alarm. She sat down on the arm of his chair. “Stephen, what is it?”
“It’s going to be a shock to you,” said Stephen. “It was a great shock to me. I’ve known it for ten days and I haven’t known how to tell you. Cicily is going to divorce Jack.”
“Stephen!” cried Jane, aghast. Then, “Who told you?”
“Cicily,” said Stephen. “She came down to my office in the bank the day after we came home from Boston. I hope I handled her right, Jane—” Stephen’s face was terribly troubled.
“What did you do?” asked Jane.
“I lost my temper,” said Stephen simply. “I hit the ceiling. She said she wanted to marry Albert Lancaster and I said we would never allow it—that she was disgraceful—that—”
“And what did she do?” asked Jane.
“She went away,” said Stephen. “She kissed me and went away. This morning she came back again.”
“Yes?” said Jane breathlessly.
“She came back,” said Stephen slowly, “to say that everything was settled. Belle and Jack have consented. Albert talked to Robin this morning. Belle’s going to Reno in January—”
“Oh, Stephen!” cried Jane.
“And Cicily’s sailing for Paris next week.”
“Next week!” cried Jane.
“Next week,” said Stephen. “She says she wants to spend Christmas Day on the boat—because of the children, you know. She does—she does think of the children, Jane—”
Stephen’s voice was faltering.
“Stephen,” said Jane very solemnly, “this just can’t be. We’ve got to stop her.”
“You try,” said Stephen grimly.
Just then Jane heard the doorbell.
“I don’t want to see anyone, Irma!” she called to the waitress.
But when the front door opened, Jane heard Isabel’s voice. Her sister’s quick step crossed the hall.
“Jane!” she called sharply. “Jane! Stephen!”
Jane exchanged one long look with Stephen.
“This is going to be perfectly terrible,” she said. Then, “Here we are, Isabel!”
Isabel appeared in the living-room door. Her eyes were red and her worn, round face was swollen. She must have been crying all the way out from town in her car. She still held a damp little handkerchief, twisted into a tight, round ball in her hand.
“What did I tell you, Jane?” was the first thing she said.
“Isabel, darling,” said Jane, “come in and sit down and help us. We’re trying to decide what we must do.”
“What you must do!” cried Isabel. “You must stop Cicily!”
“How?” said Jane.
“I don’t care,” said Isabel, “as long as you stop her!” She sank down on a sofa near the fire. She looked accusingly up at Jane. “You know I saw what was coming, Jane. I warned you. But of course I never really knew—I never even imagined anything like this could happen until Belle came in this morning and told me all about it. It was dreadful, Jane, for Mamma was there. Belle never thought of her—of how, I mean, we’d have to break it to her. Belle’s like me—she speaks right out. And Mamma was awful, Jane. It was a terrible shock to her and she went all to pieces.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jane anxiously. “What did she do?”
“Talked,” said Isabel briefly. “She rather sought refuge in the old-time religion. She thinks Cicily’s damned—utterly damned. And she told Belle she was worse than Cicily for condoning sin, in cold blood. For letting Albert off, I mean. For going to Reno. And that knocked Belle up. She’d been very calm and controlled before. And she began to cry—she just cried her heart out, Jane! I had to send for Minnie to take Mamma away, so I could talk to Belle. And then Robin came home. He was utterly shattered. He’d just had the most awful, heartless interview with Albert in his office. About settlements, I mean, and horrible, final things like that. I’d just got Belle quiet, but that set her off again. She’s simply distracted, Jane—and we tried to get hold of Jack, but he wasn’t at the bank and he wasn’t out here in Lakewood. And I didn’t want any lunch, so I just left Belle with Robin and came straight to talk to you and Stephen. You must stop Cicily!” Isabel paused for breath.
“Poor—little—Belle,” said Stephen, slowly. “Poor young kid!”
“Isabel—” said Jane impulsively, then paused. After a moment she went on, however. “I think that’s very fine of Belle—to let Albert go, I mean. Do you know—does she—does she really love him?”
“Does she love him?” cried Isabel indignantly. “Of course she loves him! She married him, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” said Jane slowly. “She married him. But—”
“And she’s got three lovely children. Of course she loves him. And Jack loves Cicily. He really does, Jane, though I don’t see how he can. He loves her and he adores his babies and—”
“I know,” said Jane. “I know. I’d always count on Jack.”
“I just can’t realize it,” said Isabel. “A double scandal like this in our family! In our family, Jane. I feel as if it weren’t possible—as if I must be dreaming. When will you see Cicily?”
“Now,” said Jane. She rose decisively to her feet as she spoke. “Will you come, Stephen?”
Stephen shook his head very soberly.
“You’d get on better without me, Jane. I said my say to Cicily this morning. I don’t know that she’ll ever want to see me again. Not this afternoon, at any rate.”
Bending over the back of his armchair, Jane kissed his grey hair very tenderly.
“Then you stay here with Isabel,” she said.