The procession wound deliberately across the lawn. The black-gowned figures looked very dignified and austere in the summer sun. The bits of silken colour flashed and shimmered, here and there, with the movement of their wearers. The campus seemed strangely empty, with all its inhabitants gathered into this little procession. Jane suddenly remembered her Keats.
•What little town by river or seashore, Or mountain built with peaceful citadel. Is emptied of this folk, this pious mom?'
The mom was pious and the great, grey, ivied buildings quite deserted. The sky overhead was softly blue. Beyond the maple row, however, great puffy white and silver thunder-heads were rolHng up in the west. It would surely rain before nightfall.
The procession turned into Taylor Hall. It shuffled down the tiled corridor, past the great bust of Juno at the head of the passage, and slowly ascended the stairs. The chapel was decorated with the Commencement daisy chain. It was very hot and very full of people. Fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers, all fanning themselves and craning their necks to look at the Seniors as they passed by. The faculty took their places on the platform. The Seniors filled the first six rows of chairs. Jane stood in Une with the other marshals, facing the audience. The Head Marshal raised her baton. Every one sat down at once. The visiting clergyman rose to make his prayer.
Jane didn't listen much. She felt very hot and very, very sleepy. She had been up at dawn and out in the fields at six picking the daisies for the chain. It had been hard to get up but it was lots of fun to pick the daisies. The day had been cool, then, and the meadows were wet with dew. Jane had loved wading about in the long damp grass with Agnes and Marion, plucking great armfuls of the white and yellow flowers. They had gathered thousands in less than two hours. Whole fields were white with them. Great green fields, sloping up against the morning sky, with big white patches of dazzHng daisies, shining in the morning sun. They picked until their fingers were red and sore.
*" The meanest flower that grows,"' said Agnes, struggling
with a fibrous stem, *in the words of the worthy Wordsworth.' 'Worthy, but wordy,' said Jane. She had found the 'Prelude' rather long. 'You could make an epigram out of that.' Agnes had done so at once.
'Wordsworth was a worthy man. He wrote as much as poet can. But if you try to read him through You'll find him rather wordy, too.*
Jane and Marion had both laughed uproariously. It made Jane laugh, now, sleepy as she was and right in the middle of the prayer, just to think of it. Agnes was terribly funny. It made Jane feel very sad to think that she would never laugh again like that, over nothing at all, with Agnes and Marion. She was going out into a world where, she was quite certain, nothing would ever seem as irresistibly funny as everything did at Bryn Mawr. She was going out to grow up and live at home and come out with Flora and Muriel and be a good daughter to her father and mother and a sister to Isabel and a sister-in-law to Robin and an aunt, grotesquely enough, to Isabel's baby. She thought she would much rather stay on in Pembroke and just be a Bryn Mawr Junior with no entanghng alliances, whatever.
The prayer was over and the Commencement speaker was rising to his feet. Jane stifled a yawn. The heat was really terrific. Every window was open and Jane could see far out over the campus and the maple row to the rolling Pennsylvania hills beneath the thunder heads. What a lovely place to have to leave for Pine Street. She would carry it with her, though, back to the flat, sandy shores of Lake Michigan. She would remember, always, this paradise of flowering shrub and tree, of sweet green spaces and grey ivied walls. The memory would be a sanctuary. She was momentarily grateful to the wordy Wordsworth for an unforgettable fragment.
'They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude. And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.'
Jane knew all about the inward eye. But she thanked the poet for the phrase. If her education had done nothing else for her, Jane reflected, it had provided her with an apt quotation for every romantic emotion.
The Commencement exercises dragged wearily on. Jane couldn't remember, when she tried to concentrate, just what the speaker had said his subject was. He seemed to be talking about Opportunity. Jane didn't hear him define it. He had a lot to say, somewhere toward the end, about Preparation for Wifehood and Motherhood. That wouldn't please Miss Thomas. She took those states of grace decidedly for granted. He sat down at last and Miss Thomas arose in his place. Jane listened dreamily. Not to the words but to the familiar cadence of that admired voice. She might never hear it again, like this from a rostrum. Miss Thomas was very brief The dreary routine of giving out degrees began. The Seniors advanced to the platform, six at a time, received their parchments and descended. Miss Thomas's voice went steadily on. *By the authority vested in the trustees of Bryn Mawr College by the State of Pennsylvania and by them vested in me,' and so forth and so on, for each little group, ending up with the presentation of the parchment and the final impressive phrase T admit you to the degree of Bachelor of Arts of Br^'n Mawr College and to all rights, dignities, and privileges thereto appertaining.' Rights, dignities, and privileges that would never be Jane's. It was over at last.
The procession reformed and moved slowly out of the chapel. On the stairs of Taylor Jane became suddenly conscious of the change in the weather. The wind was up and great drops
of rain were pattering down on Taylor steps. The air felt clean and cold. The caterer's men were hurriedly dragging the tables set for the Commencement luncheon into the shelter of Pembroke. It couldn't be out on the campus, after all. And Jane couldn't take that last walk she had planned with Agnes and Marion, under the maple trees and down into the hollow. The procession had broken and scattered. Students and faculty, alike, were scurrying, vdth gowns upturned over silken hoods, to the protection of Pembroke Arch. Jane and Agnes ran there, hand in hand. There was nothing to do, now, but snatch a hurried luncheon and run back to her room to change for the train. Agnes was going to New York at three o'clock. She had taken a job with 'Scribner's Magazine' for the summer. Jane was leaving for the West a httlc later. Her last glimpse of the campus would be in the rain.
PART II STEPHEN
PART II
STEPHEN
CHAPTER I
I
'You'll need,' said Jane's mother reflectively, 'at least four new evening dresses. The blue can be made over in the house.' She was standing in the doorway of Jane's closet, regarding Jane's depleted wardrobe with an appraising eye.
Jane, darning a stocking by the window overlooking the willow tree, was conscious of a certain sense of unwonted importance. Four new evening dresses. Nothing like that, of course, had ever occurred to her before.
'The pink,' continued her mother, turning to look at her earnestly, 'will be home in time for Flora's dance. You will need three others.' She gave a little sigh as she spoke. 'Things aren't as simple as they were when Isabel came out,'
'Here's Isabel now,' said Jane.
Her mother hurried to the window. There was Isabel, indeed, pushing the baby carriage up the side path.
'She's getting nice and thin again,' said Jane's mother, 'now she's stopped nursing the baby.'
Isabel saw them and waved cheerfully over the hood of the carriage. Jane thought she had never looked so pretty.
'I like her fat,' she said.
Isabel stooped to lift up the soft armful of afghans that was her son. His head wobbled alarmingly in his big blue bonnet and came safely to rest on Isabel's shoulder. She picked up a botde and a bundle of blankets with her free hand and turned toward the side door.
'It's a great deal for Isabel to do/ said Jane's mother, *to take care of that great child all by herself.'
*I think she hkes it,' said Jane. 'I'd Hke it if he were mine.' Her nephew always appealed to her as an animated doll. She loved to go over to Isabel's little apartment in the Kin-zie flats and watch her bathe and dress him.
Isabel's voice floated up the stairs.
'Aren't you ready?' she ask
ed.
'You're early,' said Jane's mother.
*I know. I brought the baby over so he could have his nap.' Isabel appeared in the doorway. Jane ought to be there before it begins.*
They were all going over to Muriel's reception. Jane and Flora were going to pour tea.
'She will be,' said Jane's mother. 'Let me have him.*
Jane's mother sat down in the chair by the window with her grandson in her arms. She began unwrapping the afghans.
'Isabel,' she said, 'you don't keep this child warm enough.'
Isabel exchanged a covert glance with Jane. Jane knew just how she felt. He was Isabel's baby.
'Oh — he's all right,' Isabel said. 'Put him on the bed and let him kick.'
'Shut the Ndndow, Jane,' said Jane's mother, 'so there won't be a draught.'
Jane obeyed in silence.
'You ought to be getting dressed, Mother,' said Isabel.
'Give me that bottle,' said Mrs. Ward. 'I'll put it on ice.* She left the room, bottle in hand.
'Tell Minnie she has to watch him while we're out,' called Isabel. Then privately to Jane, 'Honesdy — Mother gets od my nerves.'
'She's crazy about the baby,' said Jane.
*She gets on Robin's nerves, too, sometimes,' said Isabel, and opened the window.
It was curious, thought Jane, to see Robin and the baby insidiously wedging their way in between her mother and Isabel. They had always been so close before.
*Do you like my dress?' asked Isabel.
It W21S very pretty. Jane recognized it at once. The blue and yellow stripe made over from the trousseau.
'It's just 3ls good as new,' said Jane.
'No, it's not,' said Isabel. Her pretty face was clouded. 'And it's much too tight. But it has to do.* Then irrelevantly, 'Robin got a raise last week.'
'That's good,' said Jane. 'Unbutton my waist, will you?'
Isabel's fingers busied themselves with hooks and eyes.
'What do you know about Muriel?' she asked.
'Muriel?' said Jane, surprised. She wasn't conscious of anything.
'Muriel and Bert,' said Isabel. 'Bert Lancaster.'
'Bert Lancaster?' echoed Jane. 'What about them?'
'Rosalie says he's crazy about her.'
'Isabel!' cried Jane. 'That old man!'
'He's not forty,' said Isabel. 'I don't believe he's more than thirty-eight.'
Jane slipped out of her skirt and turned toward her closet door.
'He sends her flowers,' said Isabel, 'three dmes a week.'
'Every one,' said Jane, 'sends Muriel flowers.'
'He's over there,' said Isabel, *all the time.'
'Great for Muriel,' said Jane laconically. Then, emerging from the closet, 'Here's my new dress.'
'It's lovely,' said Isabel. Jane thought it was too. Pink taffeta with ecru lace revers over the enormous sleeves, 'You'll look sweet.'
Jane walked over to the walnut bureau and began to take down her hair.
'Mrs. Lester,' said Isabel, 'doesn't like it a bit.'
*Vhy, she hasn't seen it!' cried Jane indignantly. No one could help liking that pink taffeta dress. It was ordered for Muriel's debut,
'Not the dress, goose!' laughed Isabel. 'Bert.'
'Oh!' said Jane, immensely relieved.
'Rosalie says she can't do a thing with Muriel,' said Isabel. 'Of course she never could.'
'Do you think I ought to curl my hair?* asked Jane anxiously. 'I suppose I could learn '
Isabel regarded her very seriously, her head on one side.
'N-no,' she said slowly. 'I like it straight. 'You've got a certain style, Jane, all your own.'
That was the first time that Jane had ever heard that. She flushed with pleasure.
'I shouldn't think she would like it,' resumed Isabel. 'Robin says Bert's been awfully fast.'
'Ready, Jane?' It was her mother's voice. Mrs. Ward stood in the doorway. She looked very pretty in her violet gown with her httle black lace shoulder cape and violet bonnet. 'Who opened the window?' Mrs. Ward promptly shut it and walked over to the bed to feel the baby's feet soHcitously, with a reproving glance at Isabel.
'Hook me up,' said Jane, backing down on her sister just in time to prevent an outburst of protest.
'What were you saying,' asked Mrs. Ward, 'that Robin said about Bert?' The baby was forgotten. Isabel faced her mother over Jane's shoulder with a kindhng eye. Jane could see her in the mirror,
'Robin says,' she began eagerly, 'that Bert has always gone an awful pace. And Rosalie says that Freddy thinks it's
dreadful of her mother to let Muriel have anything to do with him.'
'It would certainly be very awkward,* mused Jane's mother, 'if it should come to anything. Considering Muriel's j&iendship with Flora.'
'I don't think Flora has ever noticed a thing,* said Isabel. *Do you, Jane?'
'Did she ever mention it?' asked Jane's mother.
'No,' said Jane, and took her new hat out of the hat-box.
'Lily Furness is a fool,' said Mrs. Ward, 'but in a way she's clever. I dare say she'd be very careful.'
'She's not very careful now,' said Isabel. 'She looks like the wrath of heaven.*
'I don't understand,' said Mrs. Ward with dignity, *why she hasn't more pride.'
'You never see him there any more,' said Isabel. 'You don't ever see him, do you, Jane?'
Jane was putting on her hat before the mirror. It was a very pretty hat with a big pink taffeta bow standing high in the back. Jane adjusted her white face veil, making htde moutlis at herself in the glass as she drew it down tightly over her chin.
'Why, no,' she said slowly, 'I — I haven't — lately.'
'It would be sad,' said Jane's mother, shaking her head, *if it weren't so silly.'
'It's certainly silly,' said Isabel, laughing. 'Giving yourself away like that over a man who's running around after your daughter's best friend '
Jane turned suddenly to face them. Her eyes were snapping with anger.
'I don't think it's silly at all,' she said abruptiy. If it's true, I think it's tragic. I like Flora's mother. She's always been lovely to me. And she's always been perfecdy beautiful. She is still. If—if Bert Lancaster ever — ever loved her and
— and got over it, I think he's the one that's silly. Chas^ ing after Muriel Lester who's young enough to be his own daughter! I think it's dreadful for people to get over lov-
mg
'Has it ever occurred to you,' said Jane's mother icily,
*that Flora's mother is a married woman?'
Jane felt suddenly deflated. And a Httle unequal to coping
with the complications tlic situation presented. But she stood
by her guns.
'I don't care if she is,' she said stoutiy. 'She's no more married now than she was when it began. Anyway, I think it's her own business,' She caught up her wrap from the bed and stooped to kiss the baby. 'Isabel, he is cute. I'm ready, now.'
'You look very well,' said her mother.
In the hall they met Minnie, coming up all smiles to play nursemaid. Isabel lingered to speak to her for a moment. Mrs. Ward was on the stairs.
'You can open the east window,' Jane heard Isabel murmur. Then her mother's voice rang out from the lower hall.
'Come on, girls! The cab's at the door.'
The November air felt very cool and bracing as they stood on the front steps. It was very luxurious, Jane thought, to be driving over to Muriel's in a cab when it was only four blocks away. Everything at home seemed luxurious, after Bryn Mawr. It really wasn't nearly as bad as she had thought it was going to be. It was fun to be with her father again. He had given her a new desk and a bookcase to hold all her Bryn Mawr books. Her mother had had her room repapered. It was very exciting to buy all the new clothes and to feel herself, for once, the central figure on the Uttie family stage. Even Isabel seemed to think that nothing was too good for
her. Hats and frocks and shoes and stockings were arriving every d
ay, regardless of expense. Jane was a little appalled at the outlay, but every one else seemed to take it completely for granted. Jane was a debutante. She had to have things. Her mother had even ordered her some new calling cards, though the old ones were not half used up. 'Miss Ward,' they said, with the Jane' left off. Jane couldn't quite think of herself as 'Miss Ward.' She was, of course, now Isabel was married.
The cab turned the comer that always made her remember Andre's last smile. She could still see his tall, slender figure, walking, furiously fast, up Pine Street. But she had grown accustomed, now, to missing Andre. The first fall days, that always made her feel that school should be beginning, had brought him to mind at every turn. She had planned to go to see his mother just as soon as she was sure that she was back from her summer in France. Mrs. Duroy would tell her all about him.
She had mentioned that projected visit a little diffidently to her father. She had not seen Mrs. Duroy since the night of the bicycle picnic. Two years ago and more. Her father had looked at her very kindly.
'They've gone, Jane,' he said gently.
'Gone?' she had echoed faintly.
*Hc was called back to Europe. Stationed in Prague, now, I think. They left last winter, soon afler Christmas.'
So that was that.
'Papa,' Jane had said, rather hesitantly, *do — do you know anything about Andre?'
'Not a thing, Kid. Haven't heard of him since he lefl.*
'I — I wish I could have seen his mother,' Jane had said miserably, 'before she went away.' Her father patted her hand. There was nothing to say. Prague. Jane wasn't even
quite sure what country it was in. She kept thinkiug of Andr^ in Prague. Or Paris.
She kept thinking, too, of Agnes and Marion, and of what they were doing, each hour of tlie day, on the green October campus. It was very easy to imagine that, for the Bryn Mawr days were marked off meticulously hour by hour, with a fixed, unchanging programme. A quarter to nine — chapel was assembling. Miss Thomas was entering the rostrum. The choir was tuning up. The Quaker prayer was begun. Ten minutes past nine — Agnes was settling down for her Greek lecture. Ten—Marion was entering Major Latin. Twelve—the English professor was ascending the stairs. One — Pembroke dining-room was a babel of tongues. Four — Agnes was getting out the tea-kettle. Five — they were running down the Gulf Road for a brisk walk before supper. Jane could almost hear Taylor clock striking off the hours.
Years of Grace Page 11