Not consciously, of course, for she never would have admitted such a
terrible fact, Grandma looked forward, all year, to her days of travel.
Usually, each year contained three trips, each of about the same
length, and these days were Grandma’s golden milestones. Not that she
wasn’t happy the rest of the time—of course she was—but this—well, this
was different.
At Fred’s now—Grandma was happy at Fred’s, of course, every one was
friendly and pleasant, though her feet and head and sometimes her back
ached at the end of the day. One isn’t so young at seventy-three and
younger people are apt to forget how tired seventy-three becomes, after
innumerable answerings of the door, step-climbing and dish-washing.
Grandma loved being useful, of course, but she did wish that there
was a little more leisure, a little time to sit down and rest—if only
Fred’s and Albert’s homes could be combined, in some way!
Grandma had three children. When they were young there had never been
much money, but Grandma had tried to do her best for them. They had
lived in Lexington then, and the three had been brought up just alike
and yet how differently they had turned out! There was Fred, quite poor
but happy, still in Lexington, where he was born. Mary had married John
Falconer when she was twenty-four and had gone to St. Louis to live,
and Albert, the ambitious one of the family, had gone to New York in
search of fortune and had found part of it, at least.
If only Fred and Albert hadn’t been so foolish and quarrelled, years
ago! But they had. Albert had tried to give Fred advice and Fred had
resented it. They had made up the quarrel, but there was nothing that
Fred would let Albert do for him, even if Albert had wanted to do
something. Fred liked to refer, in scorn, to his elder brother as
“that New York millionaire,” and say things about being “just as well
off if I haven’t got his money.” But then, Albert probably forgot,
most of the time, that he had a younger brother. Outside of a polite
inquiry, when Grandma arrived, he never referred to Fred at all. It
worried Grandma to think that her children weren’t good friends, but
she knew she could never do anything to make them feel differently.
Years and circumstances had taken them too far apart.
Grandma had no favorite child, unless it was a slight, natural leaning
toward her only daughter. She liked Albert and was glad she was on her
way to visit him. She just wished that Albert wasn’t so—well, so cold.
He didn’t mean anything, of course. When one is busy all day on the
Stock Exchange one hasn’t time for other things. And, when one is as
rich as Albert, there are so many things to take up one’s time. Albert
was awfully good to Grandma. She told herself that many times. He asked
her if she needed anything, whenever she visited him. He frequently
gave her expensive presents. She wouldn’t take any more money from him
than she had to, and her wants were simple, for that wouldn’t have been
right, though she let him give her some on her last visit and had given
it to Nell for Homer—he had been sick then—without letting Fred find
out.
Grandma liked it all right at Albert’s. How could there be anything to
complain of? At seventy-three, Grandma had learned to make the best of
things. Albert was Grandma’s oldest child and now he was fifty-two. His
ménage consisted of his wife, Florence; their two children, Albert,
junior, who, at twenty-four, was being taught the business of Wall
Street; their daughter, Arlene, twenty, and six servants.
The Albert Cunninghams lived in a very large apartment in Park Avenue.
Mrs. Cunningham was of rather a good New York family. Albert had met
her after his first taste of success and had been greatly impressed
with her and her antecedents. Even then Albert had learned to look
ahead. The family had had some years of social strivings, but now lived
rather quietly. Arlene had made her début the year before and now
entertained and went out quite a little. Albert, junior, was rather a
serious fellow, though he, too, enjoyed the social life that was open
to him. Altogether, they were fairly sensible, decent people, a bit
snobbish, perhaps, very self-centred, but with no really objectionable
features.
The thing that Grandma couldn’t understand nor enjoy in the Albert
Cunninghams’ family life was the, to her, great coldness and formality.
Grandma’s idea of how a family ought to live was the way Fred’s family
lived, only with more money and more leisure and more pleasure and a
servant or two, friendly, jolly, intimate. At Albert’s, the life was
strangely lonely and distant. Grandma never felt quite at ease nor at
home. She had no definite place in the family life. She had the fear,
constantly, that she was doing something wrong, much more so than at
Mary’s, where her acts were criticized and commented on. No one ever
gave Grandma a harsh word at Albert’s. Albert, dignified; Florence,
courteous, calm; Junior, a young edition of his father; Arlene, gentle,
distant, quiet,—were all kind to Grandma. But most of the time they
unthinkingly ignored her. She didn’t fit in, she knew that.
At Albert’s, Grandma had her own room and her own bath, as did each
member of the family. There was no regular “family breakfast.” Albert
and Junior breakfasted about nine, going to the office in the closed
car. Florence and Arlene breakfasted in their rooms. Grandma had gone
to the dining-room for breakfast, on her first visit there eight years
ago, after Grandpa died and her own modest home had been broken up.
But Florence decided that it would be more comfortable for Grandma if
she breakfasted in her room. So each morning, about nine, Grandma’s
tray was brought up to her by Florence’s own maid, Terry, who asked,
each time, “if there is anything I can do?” Grandma rather resented a
personal maid. Wasn’t she able to bathe and dress herself, even if she
was seventy-three? Grandma was always dressed when Terry knocked.
All day there was nothing for Grandma to do at Albert’s. She couldn’t
help at all around the house. She found that out, at her first visit.
There was no darning nor mending to be done—a sewing woman came in
regularly to do the things that Terry could not do. Albert didn’t care
for the home dishes that had once delighted him and the cook didn’t
want any one bothering around the kitchen. Grandma had luncheon at one,
with Florence and Arlene, when they were at home, which was seldom
enough. In the afternoon, on nice days, Grandma went for a drive,
unless the cars were being used. Usually Grandma went alone, getting
real pleasure out of the things she saw; sometimes Florence went with
her. Florence, too, occasionally took Grandma to teas and receptions
and musicales, most of which bored Grandma and at none of which did she
feel at home.
Grandma wondered where all of the old ladies were in New York. She
seldom saw any. At the theatre, where she was taken once in a while,
she would see white-haired old dowagers, carefully marcelled and
massaged, in evening gowns with very low-cut bodices. Grandma didn’t
mean that kind of old lady. She was always looking for comfortable old
ladies, with neatly parted hair, ample old ladies with little rheumatic
hands and wrinkles, but she never found them.
Dinner, at Albert’s, was at seven. When the family dined alone, at
home, the meals were about the same, good things to eat, but everything
so cold and distant. It was hard for Grandma to remember just what to
do, so that Florence and Arlene wouldn’t think she didn’t know, though
they were always polite and gracious. Grandma was constantly afraid she
would spill things when the maid presented the silver dishes to her or
that she’d take too large a portion for politeness. Grandma was served
first—she couldn’t watch to see the way the others did.
When the family was having a real dinner party Grandma found that it
was easier for every one if she had a tray in her room. She really
liked that just as well—it was nice, seated at the little table in
her room, comfortably unannoyed by manners. About half of the time
the Albert Cunninghams did not dine at home—Arlene and Junior went to
numerous dinners and even Florence and Albert had frequent engagements.
Then Grandma usually dined alone in the big empty dining-room, a
little, lonely figure amid empty chairs, silver and glass. She would
have preferred a tray in her room, then, but didn’t like to mention
it—this arrangement seemed to suit Florence. Grandma’s meals were
always excellently prepared and served, but eating alone in a big,
still room isn’t very jolly.
After dinner, Grandma was occasionally included in some social affair,
but nearly always she was supposed to sit in the library until about
nine or ten and then retire, as the other members of the family
sometimes did when they were at home. The family saw that Grandma was
given interesting light fiction and magazines full of stories and
current events, but Grandma had never had enough leisure in her youth
to find time to learn to enjoy reading. She could read only a short
time without falling asleep.
Grandma knitted, too, so she was glad when the fad came back so she
could be modern in something. Albert’s family approved of knitting,
and on the last visit her old fingers had made many pairs of socks
and sweaters for charity. Now she was glad to be able to get to
knitting—she had had no time for it since she had been there before.
Yes—Albert and his family were awfully nice—of course they didn’t mean
anything, when they paid no attention to Grandma, when their days went
on as serenely undisturbed as if she were not there. They asked her how
she felt, nearly every day, a cool “trust you are well this morning,
Mother,” and gave her presents. But thinking of the lonely hours in
her room, the tiresome evenings, the long, useless, dragged-out days,
Grandma wasn’t enthusiastic over her visit with Albert.