'I'll take you up,' said Stephen.
Side by side they mounted the staircase in silence. In the upper hall Jane was vaguely conscious of a faint, penetrating odour. It was almost imperceptible, but Jane recognized it at once. The great round red gas tanks on Division Street smelled that way, sometimes, when you bicycled past them.
The door to Flora's mother's room was closed. As they went by, Jane stumbled over something in the darkness — something small and soft and Hving. Jane knew, instantly, before she looked, that it was Folly, the pug, lying on the hall carpet, his httle wrinkled muzzle pressed tighdy against the crack of the door.
*Oh — Stephen!' she said faintly. Folly seemed terribly pathetic. It was incredible to think that httle, old, rheumatic Folly was living, when Flora's mother — Flora's brilhant, young, gay mother — was dead. Irrevocably dead.
Stephen pressed Jane's hand in the darkness. Then she saw the bathroom door. There was a Chinese screen drawn around it, but Jane could see the splintered panels over the top. In the hushed order of that silent corridor, those broken, battered bits of wood assaulted the eye with the brutahty of a blow.
Stephen paused before Flora's door. Jane tapped Ughtly.
'Flora,' she said, 'it's Jane.'
'Come in, Jane,' said Flora's tearful voice. Jane opened the door and closed it again upon Stephen Carver.
Flora was sitting up in her Utde brass bed, surrounded with
pillows. She looked incredibly childlike and appealing, with her long yellow hair falling around her Uttlc tear-blanched face and the great tear-stained circles under her wide blue eyes. She held out her arms to Jane. Jane hugged her passionately.
'Flora,' she said, *do you know how I loved your mother?' Jane was a Uttle shocked to observe how easily she had slipped into the past tense. Flora's mother seemed dreadfully dead, already.
'Every one loved her,' said Flora brokenly.
'Every one,' thought Jane, 'but one. And that one '
Jane found herself wondering, with the horrible curiosity of Isabel, if Flora knew.
'She never came to, at all,' said Flora presendy. 'Her — her heart had stopped. I — I don't see how it could have happened. She was locked in the bathroom. She — she must have fainted.'
Jane's horrible curiosity was satisfied.
She sat quite still on the bed, holding Flora's hand in hers. There did not seem to be much to say. The old heart-shaped picture frame had been moved from the dressing-table to the bed stand. Within its silver circumference Flora's mother smiled radiantly over her feather fan. Alone on the dressing-table Jvlr. Fumess stared solemnly from his silver heart. He looked as out of place there as ever. Jane's mind wandered, uncontrollably, to Flora's mother's problem. She felt she understood perfectly. Flora's mother's heart was just another silver frame. Fat, puffy Mr. Fumess, with his pale, popping eyes, and grey moustache, had never really belonged there. Life was dreadful, thought Jane.
There was a gentie tap on the door. The discreet voice of a maid was heard.
'Miss Flora — Mrs. Lester has called.'
Flora looked doubtfully at Jane.
'Shall I tell her to come up?' she asked.
Jane nodded. Mrs. Lester could always be counted on.
The maid departed with the message. Presently there was a second tap at the door. Jane rose as Mrs. Lester entered the room. Mrs. Lester's enormous bulk was shimmering in dull black taffeta. Under her httle black bonnet, her face looked terribly old and yellow and shocked and sad. Her kind dark eyes were weary and bloodshot. Their whites were ivory yellow. Jane realized, suddenly, how grey Mrs. Lester's black hair had grown during this last year. In her arms she held a bunch of white roses and a big cardboard dress box.
'Flora, dear,' she said very gently, 'I've come to do anything I can for you.' She laid the roses down on the bed. Flora picked them up and buried her face in them and suddenly began to cry.
'Flora, dear,' said Mrs. Lester again, 'you'll need help. You and your dear father are very much alone.' She sat down in an armchair that Jane had drawn forward and began to open the dress box. 'I've brought you the little black frock, dear,' she said, her hands busy with the wrappings, 'that RosaUe wore last year for Freddy's father. I think it will just about fit you. You can wear it until your new thiings come home. You must let Rosalie shop for you, Flora. You must let every one help you.'
Flora continued to cry, silently, into the roses. She didn't look at the black frock at all. Jane had forgotten all about mourning.
'You'd better get up, dear,' continued Mrs. Lester steadily; 'you'll feel better if you're doing something.*
'There's — nothing — to do,' sobbed Flora.
*There's lots to do for your poor father,' said Mrs. Lester sadly.
'Papa doesn't — want me!' faltered Flora. 'He — he's with Mamma. He's locked the door. He doesn't want me at all.'
A sudden spasm of pain seemed to pass over Mrs. Lester's face. The absurd little mouth above its double chins quivered, uncontrollably. Mrs. Lester took her handkerchief out of her Uttle silver chatelaine. She wiped her eyes, quite frankly.
'He will want you, Flora,' she said. 'Come, dear, get up now. The thing to do is always to keep busy.'
Flora obediently slipped from beneath the bedclothes. She looked very slim and frail in her long white nightgown.
'We'll stay with you, dear,' said Mrs. Lester kindly, 'while you dress.*
Flora moved silently about the room, collecting her underclothes. The blue muslin bridesmaid's dress still lay in a heap on a chair. Jane rose to pick it up. She smoothed its crumpled folds and hung it up, very carefully, in Flora's closet. Flora sat down before her mirror to comb her yellow hair. She was looking much better already. Mrs. Lester was right. The thing to do was to keep busy.
'I — I somehow forgot about Muriel,' said Flora presently, with a wan little smile. 'Of course you haven't heard from them yet, Mrs. Lester?*
Mrs. Lester had risen and was shaking out Rosalie's black gown. She looked a little startled.
'No, dear,' she said. 'No — I haven't.'
'Of course,' said Flora, 'they're still on the train.'
A forgotten fragment of something rose up in Jane's mind. Something very far away and almost forgotten. What was it? Oh — of course! 'In the mean time yEneas unwaveringly pursued his way across the waters.' Faithless iEneas! Why
hadn't she thought of it before? It was just Hke Dido. Dido, who had loved and lost and died a gallant lady. Why did books seem so different from Hfe?
When Flora's curls were coiled in place she rose and took the black dress from Mrs. Lester's hands. Mrs. Lester hooked it up the back for her.
*It fits you beautifully,' she said.
Flora looked very white and thin in the sepulchral folds. And strangely older. She moved to the bed to pick up the white roses. As she did so another discreet tap sounded at the door.
'Mrs. Ward, Miss Flora,' said the voice of the maid.
*I — I'll come down,' said Flora. They moved silently together out of the room. Jane didn't look at the bathroom door again. Folly was still keeping his vigH. They stepped around him and went down the staircase.
Mrs. Ward was waiting in the green-and-gold drawing-room. She was standing up in the centre of the room, under the crystal chandeher. Stephen Carver was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Ward took Flora in her arms and kissed her very kindly. She smiled then, gravely, at Mrs. Lester. Jane caught the faint glint of appraisal in her eye. Mrs. Lester looked terribly sad and broken and somehow unprotected. Jane was sorry she did.
'Flora, dear,' began Mrs. Ward, taking a little package from under her arm, 'I've brought you the crepe veil I wore for my own dear mother. A young girl hke you will only need
crepe for the funeral ' Mrs. Ward drew the veil from its
wrappings. It was very long and black and crinkly and it smelled faintly of dye. Mrs. Ward sat down on a htde gold so£i. The veil trailed over the skirt of her light grey street dress. Flora looked at it in
silence. Mrs. Lester sank wearily down in a gUt bergire. Mrs. Ward looked up at Flora as if she
didn't know just what to say to her. Then she patted the sola scat beside her.
'Come and sit down, dear,' said Mrs. Ward. 'I want to talk to you about your dear mother.'
Flora sank obediendy on the green brocade cushions. She turned her big blue eyes silently on Mrs. Ward.
'Flora,' said Mrs. Ward very solemnly, 'this is a very terrible thing. I don't know what you've been thinking, but I just want to tell you that I have always felt that we should never judge others. We must keep our charity. You must remember always only the best in your mother. You must try to forget everything else. You may be very sure that every one else will forget it too '
A sudden noise in the hall made Jane turn suddenly to stare at the door. Mr. Furness stood there, between the green brocade portieres. His puffy face was livid and swollen and his pale blue eyes looked very, very angry. His mouth was trembling under his grey moustache. He was positively glaring at Mrs. Ward and Mrs. Lester and Jane.
'Stop talking about my wife!* he said suddenly. His angry voice rang out in the silent room. 'Stop talking about her at least until you are out of this house!'
Mrs. Ward rose slowly to her feet, staring at Mr. Fumess's distorted face.
*I want to speak to my daughter,' said Mr. Furness. *I want to speak to her alone.' He advanced belligerently into the room. Mrs. Ward began to move with dignity toward the door. The black crepe veil fell at her feet. Mr. Furness pointed to it contemptuously.
'Take those trappings with you,' he said.
Mrs. Ward stooped, without a word, and picked up the veil. Two little spots of colour were flaming in her cheeks. She walked with composure from the room, however, her head
held high. She never even glanced at Mr. Fumess or at Flora. Flora, who was standing in terrified silence by the sofa, a little black streak in the gold-and-green splendour oi the room.
Mrs. Lester rose hesitatingly, and moved unsteadily to Mr. Fumess's elbow. He glared at her in silence. He might never have seen her before. Mrs. Lester put out her hand and gendy touched his arm. Her face was working strangely. Jane saw her try to speak, then shake her head, and stand staring at Mr. Fumess while great tears gathered in her dark eyes and rolled, unheeded, down her fat, sagging cheeks. Mr. Fumess just kept on glaring, like a crazy man. Mrs. Lester dropped his arm, after a minute, and followed Jane's mother out into the hall. She hadn't uttered a word. Jane scurried after them. She suddenly realized that she was crying. Jane's mother was standing beside Mrs. Lester and Stephen Carver near the front doer. Stephen looked awfully concerned. Mrs Ward was talking very excitedly.
'I don't blame him,' she was saying, 'I don't blame him a particle. He was like one distraught. And I don't wonder — with all the disgrace!'
Jane suddenly realized that Stephen Carver had seen her tears. He was looking down at her very tenderly. Mrs. Lester was getting her mother to the door.
Jane — don't!' said Stephen. His arm was half around her. He looked very understanding.
'It's just that Mamma —' faltered Jane, 'Mamma shouldn't talk so.'
'It is a disgrace,' said Stephen solemnly.
Jane felt terribly shocked. He didn't understand at all, after ail.
*Oh — no!' she said faintly. 'It's just — tragedy.' Stephen still stared at her, quite uncomprehending. 'Never — disgrace,' said Jane. 'She loved him.'
Stephen was looking at her as if he found her words quite unintelligible. Jane sUpped through the front door. Her mother, on the steps, was still talking volubly to Mrs. Lester.
'I don't think he knew what he was saying or to whom he was speaking,' she said eagerly. 'But how he'll explain it to Flora '
Jane silently followed them down to the sidewalk. She felt strangely calmed and exalted. A finished life was a very solemn, very splendid thing. She didn't care what her mother said, now. Death had an unassailable dignity.
*And it's not only the disgrace,' her mother was murmuring earnestly. 'The whole thing seems so terribly sordid — turning on the gas like that — in a bathroom — hke any woman of the streets. Lily Fumess had always so much pride.'
*I have lived and accomphshed the task that Destiny gave me,' thought Jane very solemnly, 'and now I shall pass beneath the earth no conmion shade.'
CHAPTER III
I
Jane sat beside Flora on the little rosewood sofa in Mrs. Fumcss's bedroom. They were listing the contents of the bureau drawers. That morning they had gone through the closets. Mrs. Furness's wardrobe was heaped in four great piles on the big rosewood bed. Dresses that Flora wished to keep for herself Dresses that her aunt Mrs. Carver might care to wear in Boston. A few darker, soberer dresses that Flora thought might be suitable for her mother's sister in Galena. And a very few much older, shabbier ones that Flora was planning to send to the Salvation Army. It had been a very hard morning for Flora. It had been a very hard one for Jane. Jane could remember just how Mrs. Fumess had looked in nearly every gown that they had examined. She could see her dancing at Flora's debut in the violet velvet. She knew just how the black lace ruff of the little silk shoulder cape had framed her white face, while Mr. Bert Lancaster was talking to Muriel in the dining-room at the coming-out tea.
Muriel and Mr. Bert Lancaster were still in the Canadian Rockies. Muriel had written at once to Flora. Jane had seen the letter. Muriel wasn't much of a letter writer, but you could read between the inarticulate, straggling lines that she was really awfully sorry. Muriel wrote just the way she did when she was a httle girl at Miss Milgrim's. It made both Jane and Flora think of their school compositions to read her round childUke hand.
The western sun was slanting in the bedroom windows. Their task was nearly finished. Flora was keeping all the underclothes. And the jewellery, of course. She had given
Jane a little gold pin, set with turquoises in the form of forget-me-nots. Jane had often seen Mrs. Furness wear it, nestling in a tulle bow on her bare shoulder.
The room was quite dismantled. The window curtains were down and the carpet was up and all the little ornaments were put away. Mr. Furness was going to close the house next week. He was going to take Flora around the world. They were going to be gone for a year. Mr. Furness said he might never open the brown-stone house again.
'I'm awfully tired,' said Flora suddenly. She looked tired, and very white in the sable folds of her crisp new mourning.
*Go and lie down,* said Jane brightly. 'We've almost finished. There's just the desk.'
'Papa is going to do the desk, himself,' said Flora. *Hc told mc not to touch it.'
'Then we're through,' said Jane.
The sound of the doorbell rang through the silent house.
'That's Stephen,' said Flora. 'I forgot all about him. He said he would drop in on his way home fi"om the bank for a cup of tea.'
'Never mind Stephen,' said Jane. 'You go and rest.'
'Stephen's been awfully good to us,* said Flora.
'He'd want you to rest,' said Jane. 'I'll go down and explain to him. ril give him tea.*
'I wish you would,' said Flora. She looked unspeakably weary. Jane kissed her pale cheek and turned toward the door. 'Don't stay in here alone,' she said, pausing on the threshold.
'I won't,' said Flora. She followed Jane into the hall.
Jane ran lightly down the staircase. She looked a fright, she thought, after a day spent poking into shelves and boxes. Her hair was very mussy and, when she closed one eye, she could sec a streak of soot on one side of her nose. She paused
by the walnut hat-rack to remove it with her handkerchief-Then passed in through the drawing-room door.
Stephen Carver was standing at the open front window, looking out at the flowering hlacs. Their sweet, passionless perfume pervaded the room. The gold-and-green furniture was all in Hnen covers. The rugs were up and the crystal chandelier was swathed in a great canvas bag. It all looked very cool and clean and unlived-in. Stephen t
urned at the sound of her step.
*Hello, Jane,* he said. He looked awfully pleased.
'Flora's too tired to come down,' said Jane. 'We — we've been working all day long.'
Stephen nodded gravely. He knew what they had beea doing.
'Ring for tea,* said Jane. 'Flora said I was to give it to you.'
Stephen pulled the beaded bellrope by the white marble fireplace. Jane sat down on the Hnen-covered bergere.
'You look tired, too,' said Stephen sympathetically.
Stephen was nice, thought Jane. She had come to feel veiy near to Stephen in the last sad weeks. He had been very sweet with Flora.
'I am tired,' said Jane.
The butier brought in the tea. The big silver tea-set was down at the bank. The little china service on the old tin tray looked very strange in the Furncsses' drawing-room.
'I'll never see a china tea-set,' thought Jane suddenly, 'without thinking of Andre's mother.'
She made Stephen's tea in silence. She was much too tired to talk. She didn't have to talk to Stephen. She knew hirn awfully well.
Stephen didn't seem to have much to say, himself. He sat across the swept and garnished hearth and drank his tea without uttering a word.
*I*m glad Flora's going away,' said Jane presently. *It will be good for her.*
'You'll be going away, yourself, soon,' said Stephen.
Jane's face lit up at the thought. Her father was taking a three months' holiday that summer. Such a thing hadn't occurred since he had gone abroad with Jane's mother eleven years before. They were going to make the grand tour of the West. They were going first to Yellowstone Park. Jane was thrilled over the plan.
'Yes,' she said simply. 'It will be good for me. I'm awfully glad to go.'
'Are you, really?' said Stephen. He put his teacup down as he spoke.
'Of course,' said Jane. 'I've never seen a mountain.'
There was a little pause.
'I hate to have you go,' said Stephen, breaking it.
Years of Grace Page 15
