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 coffee in the open air. Mrs. Ward sat, her small black-garbed figure wrapped in the folds of a white Shetland shawl, sipping the 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 weekend. The three women were still in mourning. Their crude, black figures 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 little 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 rattled 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 his 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 Cicily’s making a mistake. But you know how it is, Isabel. She likes Lakewood. 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 Gull Rocks—”
“I know how she feels,” said Robin generously. “No woman wants a husband who’s still in school. Besides, Isabel 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 offer 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 like it.”
“Isabel,” said Mrs. Ward reprovingly, “you shouldn’t talk like that about banking.” Mrs. Ward had a solid 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 Hilton 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 little 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, the 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.
“Yes,” 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 Radcliffe.”
“Well, 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 blueprints in her hand. She shook her dandelion 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 blueprint, 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 freezes—” she began. Looking up, she met her mother-in-law’s inimical eye. Something a little hard and indomitable glittered in Cicily’s own. She did not look fourteen years old any longer. “Oh, don’t tell me you’ve been arguing about it all over again!” she cried mutinously.
“My dear,” said Jane, “it’s not a thing to be lightly 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 warningly.
“Well, I do know him, Dad!” flashed Cicily, “and I’m acting for his best good! Where would engineering get him? Three years at Tech and then building bridges and tunnels and railroad embankments at some jumping-off place all the rest of his life! Me, boarding in construction camps with Molly and the twins! Not even with Molly! She wouldn’t go! What do we live for, anyway? He’s much better off in your bank, leading a civilized life in a city where everyone 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 little house in that lovely country and Belle will meet a lot of distinguished people! I think Belle’s life is going to be perfectly grand! If Albert really does 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, darling.”
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 thing.”
“There!” cried Cicily in triumph, “and our house is going to be perfectly ducky—”
“Cicily—” began Isabel portentously. Then even Isabel obviously saw that argument was a waste of breath. “Let me see the blueprints,” 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 linen 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 from 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 blueprints! Poor old Isabel! It was quite obvious that she had laid down her arms.