Years of Grace · Part IV · III · Chapter 4 3 1 (1/3)

I

Jane stood by the piano in the Lakewood living-room, looking fixedly at the flowers that the children had sent her. Fifty Killarney roses in a great glass bowl. Time was when Jane had regarded a woman of fifty as standing with one foot in the grave. Even now she was glad that Isabel was coming out for tea. Isabel was fifty-five. Jane felt that it would be a comfort to look at her. It had been a comfort that morning to look at Stephen, who was fifty-eight. But men were different. To men, years brought distinction. To women, they brought only grey hairs and crow’s-feet, thick waistlines and double chins.

Jane turned from the roses to glance at her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror that hung over her Colonial mantelpiece. Jane’s waistline was nothing to be ashamed of. She had no crow’s-feet. When she remembered to hold her head high, her chin, if slightly⁠—well⁠—mature, was certainly not double. It could not be denied, however, that her hair was very grey. Jane hated that. What had Jimmy once said? “A woman is young as long as she looks beguiling with mussy hair.” Jane looked like the Witch of Endor, now, with mussy hair. Still, she reflected courageously, she never allowed it to be mussy. “Well-groomed”⁠—that was the adjective a well-intentioned eulogist would have chosen with which to describe Jane’s hair at fifty. A barren adjective. An adjective devoid of glamour and romance. Well-groomed hair, Jane reflected sadly, would never have appealed to Jimmy.

Did it appeal to Stephen? Jane smiled a little fondly at the thought. Stephen, she knew, had never even observed her increasingly meticulous arrangement of hairnet and hairpin. To Stephen, Jane still looked like Jane, and, though she had ceased to be the phantom of delight that he had married, in Stephen’s eyes Jane could never be fifty. And yet⁠—she was. There were the smiling flowers to prove it.

Jane turned resolutely from the mirror. A woman of character on her fiftieth birthday, she told herself firmly, should not be staring despondently into a gilt-framed looking-glass regretting her vanished charms. A woman of character on her fiftieth birthday should have put vanity behind her. She should be competently and confidently taking stock of the more durable satisfactions of life.

There were plenty of them to take stock of, Jane reflected. Durable satisfactions were the kind she had gone in for. From her earliest girlhood some unerring instinct of emotional thrift had led her to select them at life’s bargain counter. They had worn well. They had washed splendidly. They had not stretched nor shrunk nor faded. They were all nearly as good as new. They were, perhaps, Jane reminded herself, with a smile, a little out of fashion. Durable satisfactions were not in vogue any longer. Cicily professed to think nothing of them. But at fifty Jane could spread them all out before her and take solid Victorian comfort in the fact that there was not a shred of tarnished tinsel among them. No foolish purchases to regret. Only a very fortunate, a very happy woman could say that, Jane reflected wisely.

And yet⁠—and yet⁠—what wanton instinct whispered that a moment of divine extravagance would be rather glamorous to look back upon? That at fifty it would be cheering to remember having purchased⁠—oh, long ago, of course⁠—something superbly silly that you had loved and paid high for and⁠—But no, Jane’s thoughts continued, if you had done that you would also have to remember that you had tired of it or worn it out or broken it in some deplorable revulsion of feeling. It was much better to have gone in for the satisfactions that endured. Satisfactions that endured like the familiar furniture of the Lakewood living-room. Jane’s eyes surveyed the objects around her with a whimsical twinkle⁠—the books, the Steinway, Stephen’s armchair, her own sewing-table, tangible reminders of the solidity of her life. The very walls were eloquent of domesticity. The serenity of the pleasant, ordered room was very reassuring. It reminded her that she had nothing to worry about in her pleasant, ordered life.

The children, of course. You always worried about your children. Even about good children like Cicily, Jenny, and Steve. You worried about Cicily because she smoked too much and drank a little and played bridge for too high stakes and seemed a trifle moody⁠—too reckless one day, too resigned the next. A curious mixture, at twenty-eight, of daring and domesticity. You worried about Jenny because she did not really like the life in Lakewood, because she did not care for dances and was not interested in any particular young man, and talked absurd nonsense about leaving home and taking a job and leading her own life. Jenny was twenty-five. She really should be falling in love with someone. You worried about Steve because⁠—but of course that was only ridiculous! At twenty-three Steve was proving himself a chip off the old block. He was a most enthusiastic young banker. Stephen was delighted with him and Jane was delighted with Stephen’s delight. She would not admit, even to herself, a certain perverse disappointment that her handsome young son, with the world at his feet and so full of a number of things, had embraced the prosaic career of a banker with such ardent abandon. It was nice, it was natural, she told herself firmly, that Steve should follow in his father’s and his grandfather’s footsteps. It was absurd of her to wish him a little more⁠—adventurous. A little less conventional. A bit of a gypsy.

A gypsy. Jane had only known one gypsy. If she had run off with Jimmy and they had had a son⁠—Jane pulled herself up abruptly. These were no thoughts for Mrs. Stephen Carver to be indulging herself in as she stood staring at the great glass bowl of Killarney roses that her three grown children had sent her on her fiftieth birthday. There was nothing in Steve to criticize, of course, save a certain youthful scorn for his Middle-Western environment, engendered by his education on the Atlantic seaboard. Three years at Milton and four at Harvard had transformed Steve into an ardent Bostonian. He had wanted to settle there and go into his grandfather’s bank. His uncle Alden had encouraged the thought. But Stephen had felt that Chicago offered greater opportunities. Stephen had been for seven years the president of the Midland Loan and Trust Company. He had seated his only son, very firmly, on a high stool in his outer office.

Jane heard the doorbell. That would be Isabel. She turned from the roses as her sister entered. Isabel was well-groomed, too, Jane noticed with a sigh. Well-groomed and portly, with a stole of silver fox thrown around her substantial blue broadcloth shoulders and a smart little black hat pulled unbecomingly down over her worn round face, uncompromisingly concealing the soft waves of her silvery hair. Modern styles were made for the young, Jane reflected.

“Happy birthday!” said Isabel as she kissed her.

Jane acknowledged the ironic salute.

“You won’t mind any other, you know,” smiled Isabel, “until the sixtieth.”

“I don’t mind this one,” said Jane stoutly.

“Tell that to the marines!” laughed Isabel. “I’ll never forget Muriel’s! Wasn’t she down?”

“She certainly was,” smiled Jane, “in spite of the celebration.”

Muriel’s fiftieth birthday had occurred last month. She had celebrated it by taking off her mourning for Bert. He had been dead two years.

“Muriel’s gone off awfully,” sighed Isabel. It was rather a sigh of satisfaction, however. “She’s reverting to race as she gets older.”

“It was a mistake,” said Jane, “for her to bob her hair.”

“It certainly was,” said Isabel. She threw off her fox fur and sank down in Stephen’s armchair. “Do you know that she’s been seeing an awful lot of Ed Brown?”

“I know,” said Jane, “and I can’t understand it. I can’t even understand how she came to know him. He’s very unattractive.”

Isabel, as usual, could supply all required details.

“He gave her twenty-five thousand dollars in her campaign for the Crippled Children. She went to see him in Flora’s old house. He’s turned the gold parlour into his private office.”

A little shiver of repulsion passed over Jane.

“Don’t, Isabel!” she cried. “I can’t bear to think of it!”

“Can you?” said Isabel. “But he has. I suppose he was bowled over by the sight of Mrs. Albert Lancaster in the flesh! He’s just the kind that would read all the society columns. Anyway, he drew out his checkbook with a flourish and that gesture made a great hit with Muriel.”

“He must be as old as Bert Lancaster was,” mused Jane.

“Oh, no, dear,” said Isabel promptly. “Bert was sixty-seven when he died. Ed Brown can’t be a day over sixty.”

“Well, anyway,” said Jane, “it won’t come to anything.”

“Rosalie’s not so sure,” said Isabel. “He has millions. Bert’s illness was awfully expensive, you know. And Muriel’s been generous to Albert.”

“Oh, Isabel!” said Jane defensively. “That won’t make any difference! Whatever you may say against Muriel, she never cared about money. All Muriel ever wanted in life was excitement and admiration and⁠—”

“And love,” interrupted Isabel, with decision. “Ed Brown could love her. Any man can do that. He could love her in an opera box and a Rolls-Royce town-car and a sable cape! I think Muriel would enjoy it immensely.”

“A billboard king,” said Jane reflectively. “I don’t just see Muriel Lancaster as a billboard queen.”

“He’s the president of the Watseka Country Club,” said Isabel with a twinkle. “But I think Muriel could be relied on to make him resign. He couldn’t resign from his married daughters, however. I should think Pearl and Gertie would give Muriel pause for thought.”

Isabel’s command of facts was really astounding.

“Are those their names?”

Isabel nodded solemnly.

“They’re terrible, Jane. They play bridge in the afternoons in lace evening gowns and they wear white fox furs in streetcars! At home, I’m sure they have flats with sun parlours and sit in them in boudoir caps, reading the comic supplements of the Sunday papers⁠—”

“Isabel!” laughed Jane. “You’re simply morbid!”

“Merely clairvoyante,” smiled Isabel. “But I tell you, Jane, since Bert died, curiously enough, Muriel’s been rather lonely. She couldn’t talk to him, of course. But as long as he lived she had to plan for him and quarrel with his nurses and argue with his doctors. It gave her something to do.”

Just then the maid entered the room, bearing the tea-tray. Isabel, pausing discreetly, glanced up at her, just as Mrs. Ward used to glance at Minnie.

“Where’s Jenny?” she asked, on just her mother’s note of hollow inquiry, as Jane poured the water on the tea leaves.

“Out walking with her dogs,” said Jane.

The maid left the room and Isabel promptly resumed.

“It’s fun to flirt, you know, when you haven’t much time for it. But you can’t make a life out of philandering. Not even if you’re Muriel. Especially at fifty.”

“Two lumps?” said Jane.

“Two lumps,” said Isabel. “And lots of cream.” She rose to pick up her cup and stood silently on the hearthrug for a moment, absently stirring her tea. “You know, Jane,” she resumed presently, “it’s a little difficult, from fifty on, to decide just what you will make a life out of. And speaking of that, old girl, what are we going to do about Mamma? She says she won’t go away for the summer.”

“She must,” said Jane firmly, as she offered the toast.

“Well, she won’t,” said Isabel, accepting a piece. “She won’t because of Minnie’s asthma. Minnie has every kind of asthma there is⁠—horse, rose, and goldenrod! Mamma says Minnie must stay in town. Or Minnie says Mamma must. It’s too ridiculous, but I can’t do a thing with her! We ought to have got rid of Minnie years ago, Jane. She rules Mamma with a rod of iron.”

“We’re lucky to have her,” said Jane. “Mamma adores her and she takes very good care of her.”

“We could take care of her,” said Isabel.

“Could we?” said Jane. “I mean⁠—you know, Isabel⁠—would we? Mamma’s awfully trying. Just as trying as Minnie, really. Minnie’s the only person in the world who can manage her.”

“It’s dreadful,” said Isabel, “to think of Mamma being managed by a servant. When you remember how she used to be⁠—so pretty and proud and decided.”

“She’s a very old lady now,” said Jane. “A very lonely old lady.”

“Jane,” said Isabel solemnly, “when you see me getting like that, I hope you’ll kill me.”

“We’ll kill each other,” smiled Jane. “Let’s make a suicide pact.”

“I mean it,” said Isabel.

“So do I,” said Jane. “We’ll jump off the Michigan Boulevard Bridge together.” The thought had really caught Jane’s fancy. “Some early spring afternoon, I think, Isabel, when the ice is just out of the river and the first seagulls have come and the water’s running very clear and green. We’ll climb up on the parapet together⁠—which will be difficult as we’ll both be a little infirm⁠—and take a last look down the boulevard, thinking of how it was once just Pine Street. We’ll shut our eyes and remember the old square houses and the wide green yards and the elm trees, meeting over the cedar-block pavement. We’ll remember the yellow ice wagons, Isabel, and the Furnesses’ four-in-hand, and the bicycles and the hurdy-gurdies and our front steps on summer evenings. And then we’ll take hands and say ‘Out, brief candle!’ and jump! It would make a nine days’ wonder and the front page of all the newspapers, but I think it would be worth it!”

“It would be worth it to Cicily and Belle and Jenny,” said Isabel cynically. “They wouldn’t have to cope with anything worse than a double funeral!”

“To Cicily and Jenny, perhaps,” assented Jane. “Belle won’t have to cope with much if Albert stays in the diplomatic service and keeps the ocean between you.”

“I hope he won’t stay in it,” said Isabel. “He’s got as far up now as he can ever get without a great deal more money. You need millions, Jane, for even a second-rate embassy. Belle’s awfully tired of being the wife of an undersecretary and having a different baby in a new city every third year. I hope to goodness if she ever has another it will be a son! Three daughters in nine years is enough for Belle to handle!”

“A boy in time saves nine!” smiled Jane. As she spoke she heard the doorbell. “That’s probably Cicily,” she said. “She was going to bring over the children.”

In a moment, however, Muriel’s voice was heard in the hall.

“Is Mrs. Carver at home?” She appeared in the doorway, holding a little package in her hands. Muriel hadn’t gone off much, reflected Jane. She was looking very charming, that afternoon, in a new grey spring suit and a little red hat that matched the colour of her carmined lips. Her blue eyes were twinkling, as of old. There was a spirit of youth about Muriel that the frosts of fifty winters could not subdue. It triumphed over the ripe effulgence of her middle years. She looked well-groomed, however.

“How’s the birthday girl?” she cried. “Hello, Isabel!” Advancing to the hearthrug she kissed Jane warmly. “Feeling rather low, old speed?”

“Not at all,” said Jane falsely. “I like to be fifty.”

“I believe you,” said Muriel. “It’s a lovely age. ‘The last of life, for which the first was made!’ How poets do lie! Never mind, darling, you’ll feel better tomorrow. One gets used to everything!” She sank into an armchair and smiled up at Jane. “Here’s a present for you!”

Jane opened the little package. It contained a gold vanity case.

“Why, Muriel!” she cried. “How⁠—how magnificent!”

“Use that lipstick,” said Muriel firmly. “Better and brighter lipsticks are the answer, Jane. No tea, darling! Such as it is, I’m trying to keep my figure! Do you see what I see, Jane? Is Isabel actually eating chocolate cake?”

“I certainly am,” said Isabel, a bit tartly.