“Mamma’s terribly critical,” said Isabel. “Sometimes I think she just hates her grandchildren.”
“She doesn’t understand them,” said Jane. “But she loves them. And Papa adores them. He’s always been so proud of Jack, Isabel—with the name and all.”
“Then he ought to want to see him happy,” said Isabel. She rose with a sigh as she spoke. “Come on, Muriel, we must be getting back to town.”
“What do you think, Robin?” asked Jane. “You haven’t said a word all evening.”
“I think it’s fierce,” said Robin solemnly. “Like life.”
“But what can we do?” persisted Jane.
“Nothing, probably,” said Robin. “Again like life.”
Jane slipped her arm through Stephen’s. They walked slowly with their guests to the front door.
“Well—I’ll talk to Belle again,” said Isabel. “Perhaps she’ll listen to reason. And I’ll write to Jack at Rockford before I go to bed tonight.”
“I’m going to wire Albert,” said Muriel. “A very hopeful wire. I think he needs cheering.”
“I’ll take it up with Cicily,” said Jane. “And Stephen wants to talk to her. But I know it won’t do a bit of good.”
“Good night,” said Isabel, from the depths of the motor. “Button up your coat, Robin. It’s a cold evening for June.”
“Good night,” said Jane. The motor crunched slowly around the gravel curve of the driveway. Jane turned to Stephen. “Stephen,” she said, “what will we do?”
“Let nature take its course, I guess,” said Stephen grimly. “You didn’t get much help from Isabel.”
“Wasn’t Muriel terrible?” said Jane. “Did you hear what she said about Bert’s trained nurses?”
“Yes,” said Stephen, turning back to the front door.
“I’m glad it’s not Albert,” said Jane solemnly, as she entered the hall. “I’m awfully sorry for Isabel. I couldn’t bear it, Stephen, really, I couldn’t bear it, if Cicily were going to marry Bert Lancaster’s son.”
“It’s pretty rough all right,” said Stephen. “I’m sorry for Robin.”
“He’s always adored Belle,” said Jane.
“I’ve always adored Cicily,” said Stephen.
“I know,” said Jane. “But we like Jack.”
“He’s a nice kid,” said Stephen. “But as a husband for Cicily—”
“I know,” said Jane. They stood for a moment, gazing rather helplessly into each other’s eyes.
“Well,” said Stephen, turning to bolt the front door, “we’d better go up to bed. I’ll turn out the lights.”
He went back into the living-room. Jane started up the stairs. She was still overcome with a sense of inadequacy for not having foreseen this calamity. But who could have foreseen it? It was perfectly preposterous. What was the matter with the rising generation? What was the matter with her own? She thought again of herself and André. Of her father and mother. She felt she sympathized with them, as never before. But with Cicily, too, when she thought of André. First love—was there not a bloom about it that never came again? What would her life have been if she had married André? If she had married André would he seem now like Stephen? If she had married André she would never have loved Jimmy. She would never have known Jimmy. Jimmy would be alive now, married to Agnes, living in New York. Jane could not imagine her life without her love for Jimmy. Without her marriage to Stephen, for that matter. Yet when she thought of André and of her young self as she had been that last winter before she went to Bryn Mawr—
Your inner life—how confusing it all was! A chaos of conflicting loyalties! You would like to think, of course, that you were the sort of woman who was capable of experiencing, once and forever, a central, dominating passion. But as far as the essential sense of emotional intimacy went, she might as well be André’s wife, or Jimmy’s, that moment, as Stephen’s. Why had things turned out as they had? Predestination was probably the answer. Cause and effect. One thing leading to another. Free will was only a delusion. Why not turn fatalist, pure and simple, and not worry any longer? Not care.
But you had to care about your children. Worry about them, too. You had to and you ought to. When you thought of them all theories of predestination were completely shattered.
Jane turned to smile at Stephen, as he entered the blue bedroom. He looked terribly tired and quite a little discouraged, but he gave her an answering smile.
IV
“The older I grow, Papa,” said Jane very seriously, “the more I admire your technique as a parent.”
“That’s very flattering of you, kid,” said Mr. Ward with a twinkle.
“Why, Isabel and I never gave you and Mamma any trouble,” Jane went on, still very seriously.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, kid,” interrupted Mr. Ward. “You went to Bryn Mawr over your mother’s dead body—”
“Oh—Bryn Mawr!” threw in Jane contemptuously.
“It seemed very important at the time,” said Mr. Ward. “She thought it would damn you to eternal spinsterhood. And before that you had embarked at the age of seventeen on a clandestine engagement—”
“It wasn’t clandestine!” protested Jane. “We told you right away!”
“Yes, you did,” admitted Mr. Ward, with his indulgent twinkle. “You were very good children. Still—it was a bit disquieting—”
They were sitting side by side on the old brown velvet sofa in the Pine Street library. The brilliant June sunshine was pouring in the west window, striking the glass bookcase doors and making them look a little dusty, just as it always had from time immemorial. The firelight was dancing on the shiny surfaces of polished walnut, here and there in the darker corners, and shining on the big brass humidor on the desk that held Mr. Ward’s cigars. Mr. Ward always had a fire, now, even in summer. The room was hotter than it used to be and the big branching rubber tree in the west window was gone. Otherwise everything about the Pine Street library was completely unchanged.
Everything, that is, but Mr. Ward himself. Jane, looking tenderly across the sofa at her father, was suddenly conscious of how old and frail he seemed. Isabel was right. The
