The Gilded Cage (62 page)

“The last depression has marked us,” Elijah brooded. “And I see this war fever as a bad sign. It doesn't bode well for the future. I don't know if America will ever really get a sense of class consciousness. We'll continue to exalt our individualism, and that's what might defeat us in the end. We're not a nation that understands community. We just want to elbow each other out of the way while we bluster about patriotism and grab for a piece of the pie.”

“Elijah, I'm going to forbid you the paper before tea. Especially on a soft spring evening like this one. Can't we talk of pleasanter things, like our wedding?”

“I'm counting the days, love.”

A shriek of laughter came through the window, and Columbine wandered over with her teacup. She looked out into the back yard and smiled. Hawthorn had somehow persuaded her aunt Olive to sit on the grass with her, and was earnestly telling her a story, her thin arms waving in the dusky light, her bright hair flying. Olive was listening gravely, chewing on a piece of grass.

Columbine leaned against the sill, lost in the pleasure of her daughter's happiness. It had taken Hawthorn awhile to come out from the shadow of Ned's death, but lately the old look of mischievous mirth was back in her eyes. She'd found comfort in Elijah's bearlike solidity, and she shouted with laughter at his sly jokes. Someday she would know that Elijah was her father, Columbine vowed.

Elijah had taken up the paper again. “It's that damn Hearst fanning the flames,” he grumbled. “And the president is of no use at all. We're wasting time on a stupid war when we could be doing something here. What will the next century bring, I wonder. More foolishness, I suppose.”

“Yes, darling,” Columbine said, hearing Hawthorn's laughter as the cool spring air moved the curtains and she smelled the wet earth and the growing green shoots in the garden. “Tomorrow we'll start all over again. But tonight, come look at our daughter.”