Years of Grace · Part IV · III · Chapter 4 3 1 (2/3)

“I can’t have eaten a piece of chocolate cake,” said Muriel meditatively, “for over fifteen years! But you eat it, Jane, and you don’t get fat at all. Neither does Flora. I saw her in Paris last spring, just stuffing down patisserie at Rumpelmayer’s, and she was a perfect thirty-six!”

“You’re looking very pretty today, Muriel,” said Isabel suddenly. Her tone was not that of idle compliment. Rather of acute appraisal. She had been watching Muriel intently since her triumphal entrance.

Muriel glanced quickly up at her. Jane heard her catch her breath in a little excited gasp.

“I⁠—I’m feeling rather pretty,” she said surprisingly. “Do you know what I mean, girls⁠—how you do sometimes feel pretty, from the inside out?”

Jane nodded solemnly. She understood. Though she herself had not felt pretty in just that way for years. Not since that last night when she had gone with Jimmy into the moonlit garden. It was such a happy, excited feeling. And it always told its story in your face. You only felt pretty, Jane reflected wisely, when you knew that someone else, whose opinion you cared about terribly, really thought you were.

“Muriel!” cried Isabel. “What’s the matter with you?”

Jane suddenly realized that Muriel was laughing. Laughing happily, excitedly, and yet a trifle shyly. There was something absurdly virginal about that happy, excited laughter. She clasped her gloved hands impulsively in a little confiding gesture that recalled to Jane’s memory the Muriel of Miss Milgrim’s School.

“Girls,” she said dramatically, “I’m going to marry Ed Brown on the first of June!”

“M-Muriel!” stammered Jane. She rose to her feet. She did not dare to look at Isabel.

“I’m⁠—terribly happy,” said Muriel faintly. She had stopped laughing now. There were actually tears in her great blue eyes. Her carmined lips were trembling. The sudden display of emotion had curiously shattered the hard enamel of her brilliant, fading beauty. Jane took her in her arms. Muriel had never seemed more appealing. Jane felt terribly fond of her. She wanted to protect her from Isabel. From Isabel, who, quite unmoved, was still watching Muriel with that look of acute appraisal. Nevertheless, Jane, herself, could not suppress the thought that Muriel’s ample, corseted figure felt very solid, very mature in her eager embrace. She despised herself for the thought.

“Muriel,” she said, “I think it’s lovely.”

“I know I’m ridiculous,” said Muriel, withdrawing from her arms and fumbling for a handkerchief in her little grey bag. “But it’s terribly cheering to be really ridiculous again. I⁠—I was never very happy with Bert, you know. Ed really loves me. He⁠—he’s like a boy about me⁠—” Meeting Isabel’s appraising eye she stopped abashed. “I know you’re thinking there’s no fool like an old fool, Isabel!”

“I’m not!” protested Isabel. “I’m not at all. I’m sure you’ll be very happy⁠—” Her voice trailed off a trifle lamely.

“We’re going around the world on our honeymoon,” said Muriel. “We won’t be back for a year.”

A honeymoon, thought Jane. A honeymoon for Muriel, who was her own contemporary. It was absurd, of course, but it was touching, too. It was touching to think that anyone could have the courage to believe that life could begin over again at fifty. Love at fifty. It tired Jane to think of it. But perhaps it was possible. Autumn blossoming. A freak of nature, like the flowers of the witch-hazel, bursting weirdly into bloom in October when all the other bushes were bare. But⁠—Ed Brown.

“Have you written Albert?” asked Isabel.

“I cabled him Saturday,” said Muriel. The familiar glint of shameless curiosity glittered in Isabel’s eye. “He was very much pleased,” said Muriel with dignity.

“Of course,” said Jane hastily. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Will he come back for the wedding?” asked Isabel suddenly. “Will he bring Belle?”

“They’re both coming,” said Muriel, smiling. “And bringing the children.”

“You should have them for flower girls,” said Isabel wickedly.

“Ed has grandchildren, too,” said Muriel blandly. Jane felt the spectral presences of Pearl and Gertie hover for an instant in the circumambient air. But Isabel, thank Heaven, was obviously not going to refer to them. “I’m going to have such fun, Jane,” went on Muriel, “buying a trousseau. I’m going to be very foolish. I’m going in for black chiffon nightgowns and I saw a negligee last week at Castberg’s⁠—”

A sudden shuffle, a sound of suppressed laughter, broke in upon their colloquy from the hall. Jane looked up quickly. She had not heard the doorbell ring. A tiny red-sweatered figure stood, tottering, in the doorway.

“Happy birfday, Granma!” it cried and staggering across the room fell tottering across Jane’s knees. It was Robin Redbreast, her youngest grandchild.

“Magnificent!” cried Cicily’s voice.

The twins appeared in the doorway. Tripping on rugs, slipping on the hardwood floor, they dashed across the living-room and cast themselves on Jane’s neck.

“Happy birthday, Grandma!” they repeated.

Cicily stood on the threshold. She looked extremely pretty in a rose-coloured sport suit and immensely amused at her offspring’s dramatic entrance.

“Hello, Mumsy!” she cried. “Happy birthday again! Hello, Aunt Isabel! I thought you’d be here. How do you do, Aunt Muriel?”

“Don’t tell her,” whispered Muriel. “Don’t tell her until I’ve gone.” She rose as she spoke. Untangling herself from the arms of grandchildren, Jane walked with her to the door.

“I do feel a little silly,” confessed Muriel in the hall, “in the presence of Albert’s contemporaries.”

“Nonsense!” said Jane stoutly. Though she could not imagine what her own feelings would be if she had to announce her prospective marriage to Cicily. She kissed Muriel tenderly and returned to the living-room. Isabel had wasted no time. Cicily, standing on the hearthrug, was facing her mother-in-law in shocked, derisive incredulity.

“Oh, I don’t believe it!” she was saying.

“It’s true!” cried Isabel. “It’s perfectly true!”

“You’re kidding me,” said Cicily.

“I’m not!” cried Isabel. “Ask your mother!”

“It’s true,” said Jane soberly.

“Aunt Muriel⁠—is going to marry⁠—Ed Brown?”

Jane nodded solemnly.

“My Gawd!” said Cicily profanely. Then, “How absurd!”

“Why is it absurd?” inquired Jane a trifle sharply. She sat down again at the tea-table and removed Robin Redbreast’s fingers from the sugar-bowl.

“It’s so undignified,” said Cicily promptly. “If Aunt Muriel wanted to marry again, why didn’t she do it years ago?”

“My dear,” said Jane gently, “her husband was living.”

“If you call it living,” said Cicily cheerfully. She had appropriated Robin Redbreast and was removing his scarlet sweater. Little Jane was already seated on Isabel’s knee. Jane put her arm around John and drew him gently to her. She leaned her cheek against the embroidered chevron on the sleeve of his navy-blue reefer. The twins looked exactly alike, brown-eyed and solemn and very like their great-grandfather. Their souls were different, however. Matter-of-fact and matter-of-fancy, Jane always called them. John’s soul was matter-of-fancy. He was a lovely, imaginative little boy. His big brown eyes looked up at her wistfully. There was nothing in the world more endearing, Jane reflected tenderly, than the freckles on an eight-year-old nose!

But Cicily was still intrigued with the problems of her Aunt Muriel.

“I should think she would have fallen in love with someone else long since,” she said.

Jane’s eyes met Isabel’s. She hoped her sister was going to restrain herself. The hope was vain, however.

“She’s been falling in love with someone else every six months for the last thirty years,” said Isabel shortly.

“Why didn’t she walk out on Uncle Bert, then?” asked Cicily lightly. “Why didn’t she get a divorce?”

Jane glanced uneasily at the twins. Eight-year-old children were very understanding. Cicily never seemed to care what she said in their hearing.

“The Lesters are a very conventional family,” she said gravely. “I’m sure your Aunt Muriel never thought of divorce. Not even before Uncle Bert’s stroke.”

“Why not?” asked Cicily again.

“She had Albert to consider,” said Isabel.

“Albert?” cried Cicily. Her voice was greatly astonished. “What had Albert to do with it?”

“It would have broken up his home,” said Isabel, a trifle sententiously.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Cicily. “He might have drawn a very good stepfather.”

“Men who love married women,” said Isabel with asperity, “don’t make very good stepfathers.”

Cicily looked up at her with interest. Robin Redbreast slid from her knees to the floor.

“Do you mean she really had lovers?”

Isabel did not reply. In her turn, she glanced a little uneasily at the twins. Her silence was very eloquent.

“How stupid of her!” said Cicily. “A woman who takes a lover is always the underdog.”

“Your Aunt Muriel wasn’t,” said Isabel. “There was always a good deal of talk, of course, but she managed things very cleverly.”

“I don’t believe in promiscuity,” said Cicily firmly.

“Cicily!” cried Isabel sharply. “What words you use! At your age your mother and I wouldn’t have⁠—”

“I can’t see that it makes much difference what you call things, Aunt Isabel,” said Cicily cheerfully. “You and Mother certainly didn’t believe in it and I don’t either. It isn’t practical and it’s terribly complicated. I believe in monogamy.”

“You reassure me, darling,” murmured Jane, with a smile.

“I believe,” continued Cicily stoutly, “that when a married woman falls in love, she ought to march straight to the divorce court and make everything regular.”

“Oh,” said Jane, still with the smile, “progressive monogamy.”

“Exactly,” said Cicily. Then added wisely, “No woman is ever really happy trying to live with two men at once. And no woman is ever really happy without her marriage lines.”

“No woman is eventually happy,” said Jane rather solemnly, “if she doesn’t play the game with the cards that were dealt her.”

“Why?” said Cicily promptly. “Not all games are like that. I think life’s very like poker. You look over your hand and keep what you like, and what you don’t, you discard. Throw away your Jack, you know, and hope for a king!”

Cicily was smiling a little over her play on words. It was an innocent little joke, of course, but Jane was very thankful that Isabel had not noticed it.

“And if you draw a deuce?” she said soberly.

“Have faith in the future,” said Cicily lightly, “and keep your poker face. There’s always a new deal.”

“You talk,” said Jane severely, “as if a woman had nine lives like a cat.”

“She could have,” said Cicily, “if she had vision and courage.”

“Vision!” cried Jane. “What takes vision is to recognize the imperial qualities in the cards in your hand! What takes courage is to win the pot with a deuce spot!”

“I call that bluffing,” said Cicily, cheerfully. “You fool the world, but you don’t fool yourself. You may win the pot, but it’s not worth the winning. What’s fun is a game with a handful of face cards!”

For the last few minutes Isabel had not been listening to her argumentative daughter-in-law. Her next remark betrayed the fact that her thoughts had been wandering.

“Belle’s coming back for the wedding,” she said.

“Really?” cried Cicily. Her face lit up at the thought. “Oh, I’ll love to see Belle again! Is she bringing the children?”

Isabel nodded cheerfully.

“What fun!” cried Cicily. “What fun for all of us!”

It would be fun for all of them, Jane reflected, as she stood at the front door with Isabel an hour later and watched Cicily, attended by her cavalcade of children, disappear around the bushes at the entrance of the drive. The twins were trying to roller-skate, with a signal lack of success, on the gravel walk. The air resounded with their shrieks of triumph and emulation. Cicily was pushing an empty go-cart and guiding Robin Redbreast’s faltering footsteps with a maternal hand. At the turn of the path she paused to wave gaily back at the two grandmothers.

“Cicily’s a good mother,” said Isabel approvingly.

“She adores the children,” said Jane. “You know, Isabel,” she added slowly, “modern young people don’t mean all they say.”

“I don’t listen much to what Cicily says,” said Isabel. “But what I catch sounds very wild.”

“Their talk is wild,” said Jane. “But their lives are just as tame as ours were.”

“Except for the drink,” said Isabel.

“The drink, of course,” said Jane. “But Cicily never takes too much.”

“I’ve seen her pretty gay at the Casino,” said Isabel. Then added honestly, “But Jack was, too.”

“They all get pretty gay,” said Jane, “but the nice ones don’t get really tight. Not very tight, that is.”

“You don’t have to get very tight to be pretty loose!” said Isabel. She beckoned for her car as she spoke. It was waiting by the service entrance. “But I think you’re right. They don’t mean a thing by it.”

The motor drove slowly up to the front door. Isabel climbed into it.

“Goodbye, birthday child!” she cried, as it started into motion. She was waving cheerfully through the open window. “I can’t wait to tell Robin about Muriel.”

The car moved slowly down the drive. Jane lingered a moment on her doorstep looking after it in the pleasant May sunshine. Her thoughts were still busy with Cicily’s wild talk. To Jane, Cicily seemed barely out of the nursery. She looked barely out of the nursery with her dandelion head and her short slim skirts and her silly silky little legs! She might have been pushing her doll’s carriage down that drive! She shouldn’t be playing with thoughts like that, though. Edged tools in the hands of a child.

Jane turned on her doorstep and walked slowly back into the living-room to ring for the waitress to remove the ravaged tea-tray. She sank down in Stephen’s armchair. Of course the silly child did not mean a word that she had been saying. Good women talked differently in different generations but they always acted the same.

But did they? Women⁠—good women⁠—were getting divorced every day. Just as girls⁠—good girls⁠—were getting, well⁠—gay, every night. In Jane’s mother’s time a girl who got drunk, a woman who was divorced, was an outcast, a public scandal, a skeleton in a family closet. In her time and Isabel’s she was a deplorable curiosity⁠—more to be pitied than censured, perhaps, but always to be deplored. Now Cicily regarded intoxication as an incidental accident, dependent on the quality of bootlegged liquor that was served at a party. She regarded divorce as a practical aid to monogamous living.

When Stephen and young Steve came in from the five-fifty half an hour later, Jane was still sitting in the armchair.

“Jane?” called Stephen, from the front door. Before taking off his overcoat he came into the living-room to give her another birthday kiss. “What are you thinking about?” he inquired, “all alone by the fire.”

“It’s a godless age,” said Jane promptly.

Young Steve grinned pleasantly at her from the threshold.

“What have we done now?” he inquired cheerfully.

“It’s what you don’t do,” said Jane. “Or rather what you don’t think⁠—what you don’t feel.”

“What’s that got to do with God?” inquired Steve, as he, too, kissed her.

“I don’t know,” said Jane thoughtfully. “I guess God’s here, all right, as much as He ever was. But you⁠—you see Him differently.” Then suddenly it came to her just what sort of an age it was. “It’s a graceless age!” said Jane triumphantly.

“Not while you’re in it,” said Stephen with gallantry.

“Bravo, Dad!” laughed Steve. “That ought to cheer her!”