Mrs. Cissy Beale and her daughter Cecily sat together in the latter's
bedroom--a bewitching apartment, in which pale-gray paper and pale-gray
draperies formed an effective background for the rosewood furniture and
the French mirrors and tapestried screens.
Between the two women was a bassinet and a baby.
"You act," said Cecily, "as if you were sorry about--the baby."
Her mother, who lay stretched at ease on a pillowed couch, shook her
head.
"I'm not sorry about the baby--she's a darling--but you needn't think
I'm going to be called 'grandmother,' Cecily. A grandmother is a person
who settles down. I don't expect to settle down. My life has been hard.
I struggled and strove through all those awful years after your
father--left me. I educated you and Bob. And now you've both married
well, and I've a bit of money ahead from my little book. For the first
time in my life I can have leisure and pretty clothes; for the first
time in my life I feel young; and then, absolutely without warning, you
come back from Europe with your beautiful Surprise, and expect me to
live up to it--"
"Oh, no!" Cecily protested.
"Yes, you do," insisted little Mrs. Beale. She sat up and gazed at her
daughter accusingly. With the lace of her boudoir cap framing her small,
fair face, she looked really young--as young almost as the demure
Cecily, who, in less coquettish garb, was taking her new motherhood very
seriously.
"Yes, you do," Mrs. Beale repeated. "I know just what you expect of me.
You expect me to put on black velvet and old lace and diamonds. I shan't
dare to show you my new afternoon frock--it's _red_, Cecily, geranium
_red_; I shan't dare to wear even the tiniest slit in my skirts; I
shan't dare to wear a Bulgarian sash or a Russian blouse, or a low
neck--without expecting to hear some one say, disapprovingly, 'And
she's a _grandmother_!'" She paused, and Cecily broke in tumultuously:
"I should think you'd be proud of--the baby."
"No, I'm not proud." Mrs. Beale thrust her toes into a pair of
silver-embroidered Turkish slippers and stood up. "I'm not proud just at
this moment, Cecily. You see--there's Valentine Landry."
"Mother--!"
"Now please don't say it that way, Cecily. He's half in love with me,
and I'm beginning to like him, awfully. I've never had a bit of romance
in my life. I married your father when I was too young to know my own
mind, and he was much older than I. Then came the years of struggle
after he went away.... I was a good wife and a good mother. I worshiped
you and Bob, and I gave my youth for you. I never thought of any other
man while your father lived, even though he did not belong to me. And
now he is dead. You'll never know--I hope you may _never_ know--what
drudgery means as I have known it. I've written my poor little screeds
when I was half-dead with fatigue; I've been out in cold and rain to get
news; I've interviewed all sorts of people when I've hated them and
hated the work. And if now I want to have my little fling, why not?
Everybody effervesces some time. This is my moment--and you can't expect
me to spoil it by playing the devoted grandmother."
The baby was wailing, a little hungry call, which made her mother take
her up and say, hastily: "It's time to feed her. You won't mind,
mother?"
"Yes, I _do_ mind," said the little lady. "I don't like that Madonna
effect, with the baby in your arms. It makes me feel horribly frivolous
and worldly, Cecily. But it doesn't change my mind a bit."