“The Hudson’s frozen over,” said Stephen absently.
His voice recalled Jane from the little hell of worry in which she had been blindly revolving. Stephen did not yet know about Cicily. She would have to tell him. But not now. Stephen had had enough.
“Why, so it is!” said Jane.
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
