“Those young lives,” said Isabel, now frankly sobbing, “may end in another two months. We owe those boys all the fulfilment we can give them.”
Of course, however, she did not want Belle to marry Albert Lancaster. Logic had never been Isabel’s strong point. She wanted Cicily to marry Jack and Belle to consent to an engagement. Albert would not be twenty until the first of August. And twenty was a preposterous age for a husband. Jane could easily understand, however, if Isabel couldn’t, why pretty little pink-and-white Belle wanted to marry him.
Albert Lancaster was a very alluring young person. He seemed quite grown up. He seemed older than Jack, in fact, who was two years his senior. He had inherited his father’s easy social charm and combined it with his mother’s dark beauty. Not that Albert really looked like Muriel. He looked like her family, however, though not at all like a Jew. Rather like some young Greek of the Golden Age, with his pale, olive-coloured face, his dark eyes and hair, his aquiline nose, his short supercilious Greek lip, and his flat, low Greek brow—a discus-thrower, perhaps, or runner—no, thought Jane, more like a youthful Bacchus. You felt that vine leaves would adorn his hair. They sometimes did, of course. That was probably one of the things that was troubling Isabel. Naturally she could not go into that in front of Muriel, Oh, yes—Jane could quite understand why Belle wanted to marry him.
Now Jack, on the other hand. Jack who looked just like Robin—Jack with his snub nose and pleasant friendly twinkle—Jack who had played with Cicily from her cradle—why did Cicily want to marry him? He was a sweet boy, of course. Clever and kindly and considerate. A much safer son-in-law than Albert Lancaster, with his looks and his inheritance and his vine leaves! But still—Jane really could not understand how Cicily could want to marry him.
“I don’t see what either of you object to in either marriage,” said Muriel. “We’re all old friends. We’ve known all four children from the day of their birth. There’s plenty of money. Cicily and Belle are charming girls and best friends. The boys have both been to Harvard and are going to war and are very attractive young men. My goodness! When you think what some people’s children marry! I can’t see why it’s not all very suitable.”
“But Muriel, they’re children,” put in Stephen from the depths of his armchair.
“Kids,” said Robin solemnly, from the corner of the sofa.
“I don’t care,” said Muriel. “I was only just twenty when I married, myself. And I’ve often thought,” she continued superbly, “that life would have been quite a little easier for me if Bert hadn’t been nineteen years older than I. I believe in early marriages. I think they keep a boy straight all those important years when his character is forming. And a girl has her babies early and gets through with all that sort of thing when she’s still young enough to enjoy herself—”
“But that’s just what’s dangerous about them!” wailed Isabel. Jane knew she had it on the tip of her tongue to say, “Look at you, Muriel!” Time was when she would have said it. Isabel was growing discreet with age.
“I think you’re very cynical,” said Muriel. “I think it would be lovely—a double wedding, Jane, in your beautiful garden—”
“In any case,” said Isabel, “I think Belle should be married from her father’s house. It’s very sweet of you, Jane, to offer—”
“I haven’t offered!” cried Jane. “I haven’t done anything all evening but say we shouldn’t let them. The boys will be sailing in six weeks—” She saw, instantly, that she had not helped her cause at all. Isabel again buried her face in her handkerchief. Muriel returned to the charge.
“If little Steve were twenty, instead of fourteen, Jane, you wouldn’t be so unfeeling!”
That was quite true, reflected Jane. If little Steve were the age to make suitable cannon fodder, she would want him to have everything, everything life had to give, before he went to France.
“I suppose,” said Isabel, wiping her eyes, “I suppose we’ll have to give in.”
“Of course we will,” said Muriel briskly. Then added piously, “My greatest regret is that dear Bert isn’t able to share in Albert’s happiness.”
“How is he now, Muriel?” asked Isabel curiously. For a moment the war weddings were forgotten.
“Oh—quite helpless,” said Muriel. “In bed, of course. He can’t talk and I don’t know how much he does understand. He has two very good nurses, however. Such pretty girls. I hope Bert can realize how pretty they are—”
“But Isabel,” said Jane, returning to more important issue, “you don’t mean you think we’ve lost the fight? You don’t mean you think we ought to let them?”
“How can we help it?” said Isabel. “But about the double wedding—”
“Oh, I think that would be lovely!” said Muriel again. “Your apartment is so small, Isabel, and June’s so pretty in the country. If Jane will take it off your hands—”
“I won’t take it off her hands,” said Jane. “Anyway, I think we oughtn’t to decide until we’ve talked it all over with Papa.”
“Oh—Papa!” said Isabel doubtfully. “You know how Papa is, Jane. He’s really quite—difficult, sometimes. The war has aged him awfully.”
“I don’t think he’s difficult,” said Jane. “I think he’s very wise. And I think we ought to talk with Mrs. Lester.”
“Well, Jane,” said Muriel, “you know Mother’s eighty. Of course she’s wonderful and she adores Albert, but I often think she’s a little out of sympathy with the
