'So smile the heavens upon this holy act That after hours with sorrow chide us not.*
The library, filled with softly smiling, softly stirring people, was very little like a finar's cell. Still Jane had an almost irresistible impulse to jar the solemnity of the occasion by greeting old Dr. Winter with JuUet's sprightly opening line,
'Good even to my ghostly confessor!'
What would he do, thought Jane, if she did? What would Stephen? Stephen would think she was mad. Stephen had never even read 'Romeo and Juliet.' He had told her so, months ago, and she had marvelled, at the time, that a Harvard degree could crown an education so singularly deficient!
Stephen was standing with Alden, embowered in smilax, at the left hand of the clergyman, both fearfully correct in new frock coats and boutonnieres of lihes of the valley. Stephen looked very charming and serious and distinctly nervous. Jane smiled reassuringly up at him, as she relinquished her father's arm. The music died away into silence.
'Dearly beloved brethren,' began Dr. Winter.
Jane looked up, very calmly, at Stephen's set young profile. How young he was, she thought! How terribly young to be going to war! Her fingers tightened slightly on his broadcloth sleeve. He looked down at her and smiled reassuringly in his turn. She stared up into his eyes. She was marrying Stephen. Her father's voice aroused her. It was very clear and firm.
*I do,' he said. Jane could hear him behind her, stepping back beside her mother. Then Dr. Winter took up his part, again, sonorously. Presently there was a barely perceptible pause in the famiHar cadence of the ritual.
'I, Stephen, take thee, Jane,' said Stephen hastily.
Jane felt herself smihng. She was sorry for Stephen. When her turn came she was quite collected.
*I, Jane, take thee, Stephen, for my wedded husband,' the
words were devoid of meaning. She could have said them all, unprompted by the clergyman. She had an odd sensation of playing a role. Dr. Winter was blessing the ring. They were putting it on her finger. Stephen was speaking again.
*With this ring I thee wed ' It stuck a bit, over the last
knuckle. Stephen was still nervous. Dr. Winter had resumed. Suddenly the stringed orchestra swelled out into Mendelssohn. Jane's main feeUng was that it had all been over in a moment — this ceremony that every one had been talking about for two weeks. Why — it was nothing. Stephen stooped to kiss her — a self-conscious httle kiss — barely brushing her cheek. He became entangled in the tulle veil. Jane laughed up at him. She felt her mother's arms about her. Then she was looking up into her father's eyes.
'ELid, be happy,' he said, as he kissed her.
Every one was around her then. Stephen's mother was crying. Mr. Carver's beard felt very bristly. IMuriel's cheek smelled of French toilet water. Freddy Waters's hair of bay rum. Rosalie was saying ' What a lovely dress!' Alden surprisingly kissed her. Silly was laughing at Stephen.
'Your form's not up to par in the ring,' she was crying. 'All right in the paddock, old boy, but you fell down in the show! Jane's the prize entry. She gets the blue ribbon!'
'Gome cut the cake!' cried Isabel. Every one was kissed by now.
*Carry my train!' cried Jane to Stephen. She felt very light-hearted. He picked it up, laughing. He looked awfully happy. They led the crowd to the dining-room. Minnie handed Jane the knife, festooned with white satin. Jane dug into the bride's cake, just under the sugar cupid. Every one was applauding. The orchestra in the hall was playing 'The Stars and Stripes Forever.' The groom's cake was decorated with a little silken flag.
Jane sank down in her mother's armchair at one end of the room. Stephen was standing beside her. People began to bring them food. Dr. Winter, with vestments removed, showed up to wish them happiness. She must go upstairs, soon, and change her dress. They were taking a six o'clock train. They were going up to The Dells, in northern Wisconsin. They had only a week before Stephen left for San Antonio. People ^vere singing now. Alden had started 'Fair Harvard.' All the men, old and young, knew the words. The male chorus swelled out very bravely, the orchestra accompanying softly:
'Fair Harvard, thy sons to thy jubilee throng, And with blessings surrender thee o'er, By these festival rites from the age that is past To the age that is waiting before '
Uncle Stephen, red-faced and white-headed, arm in arm with her father, was singing loudest of all and a little off key. It made Jane feel just a little chokey to look at them. All Harvard men, she thought, every one except Freddy. Even Mr. Bert Lancaster. Freddy went to Yale. He was singing, though, very generously. The words were lovely, thought Jane, just as lovely as the air.
The song over, Stephen's father raised his champagne glass.
'A toast to the bride!' he cried. Every one drank it, cheering. When it was over Stephen crashed his goblet to the floor. Applause greeted the gallant gesture. Jane saw her mother, however, noting with gratitude that it was only a caterer's class.
'I must go up,' said Jane. Stephen squeezed her hand.
T'll go with you,' said Isabel. Hand in hand they ran up the stairs. Minnie was waiting in Jane's bedroom. The packed suitcase was lying on the bed.
'Stephen's magnificent,' laughed Isabel, as she unhooked the wedding dress. Jane was removing the veil.
*I don't believe the Rough Riders will ever sec action,' said Isabel. 'Robin says it will be a short war.'
•Alden thinks,' said Jane doubtfully, 'that it will last forever. He says the Spanish fleet may bombard Boston.'
'That's nonsense,' said Isabel promptly.
Jane stepped out of her wedding dress.
'Sit down,' said Minnie gruffly. 'I'll take off your shppers and stockings.' Jane sank down on the chair overlooking the willow tree. She had never been waited on like that before.
'Mr. Carver says,' said Jane, 'that lots of Bostonians have taken their securities out of the Bay State Trust Company and put them in banks in Worcester.'
'They're crazy,' said Isabel. Some one downstairs had ineptly started the orchestra on 'Dolhe Grey.' Every one was singing it.
'Papa thinks they are,' said Jane. Minnie handed her her waist and skirt. Isabel busied herself with hooks once more. Mrs. Ward appeared in the doorway.
'Nearly ready, Jane?' she asked.
Jane picked up her hat from the bed. It was a pretty hat, with a wreath of bachelor's buttons around it.
'In a minute,* said Jane, facing the mirror again. 'It was a lovely wedding. Mamma.'
'I thought so,' said Mrs. Ward a little tremulously. Jane heard tears in her 'oice. Jane was determined to fight off sendment.
'Mamma,' she said quickly, 'I'll be back in a week.'
That simple statement didn't seem to make things any better.
'Jane dear,' said Mrs. Ward, 'I can't bear it *
Mr. Ward appeared in the doorway.
'Mrs. Carver, your husband is waiting for you,' he said. Jane was very grateful for his twinkle.
'It won't be the last time he'll wait for me!' she laughed. She caught up her coat and kissed Isabel.
'I'll take down the suitcase,' said Isabel. She left the room. Mrs. Ward took Jane in her arms.
'My child ' she began, with emotion. Jane stopped her
with a kiss.
'Good-bye, Minnie,' she said Ughtly. At the door her father shpped his arm around her. She stood looking up at him. Her — father. Jane was suddenly overcome with a sense of what she was doing. She was leaving home — forever.
'Papa,' she said brokenly, 'Papa, you've always ' She
couldn't say it.
Mr. Ward patted her back.
'Gk)od luck, Kid,' he said huskily. She gave him a tremendous hug.
'Don't forget to throw your bouquet,' said Mrs. Ward solemnly, through her tears. Jane snatched it up from the bed.
Stephen was waiting in the upper hall. Jane took his arm. There was no time to speak to him. Every one wai pressing around the foot of the staircase. Alden was leading the band. As Stephen appeared it struck up' Hail, t
he Conquering Hero Comes.'
'Oh, good Lord!' muttered Stephen disgustedly. 'That's just Uke Alden!' They started down the stairs. From the first landing Jane pitched her bouquet straight into the virgin arms of Silly, the only maiden present. Stephen gripped her elbow. A shower of rice and confetti rose from the httle crowd below. They dashed madly down and through the press of people. The front door was open, Robin standing
guard. The mild May air was very refreshing, after the crowded rooms. Jane took a great breath of it as they rushed down the steps, past the crowd by the awning. The wedding guests came running after them. Rice still flew. Jane gained the shelter of the waiting brougham. Stephen flung liimself after her and banged the door. The brougham started smartly into motion. Jane was looking out of the Httle back window at Isabel and Robin and RosaHe and Freddy, on the curb. Silly suddenly appeared to wave the Hhes of the valley with one long, thin arm, above their heads. The brougham turned into Erie Street.
*Jane!' said Stephen, and suddenly his arms were around her. Jane,' he said again, very solemnly, 'we're — married.* Jane felt again that fiightful fear of sentiment. Couldn't — couldn't people take weddings — calmly? She smiled, a little shakily, into Stephen's eyes. Suddenly his arms grew strong and strangely urgent. He pulled her to him roughly, abruptly.
*Stephen!' cried Jane, in consternation. His eyes were smihng, excitedly, straight into her own. Jane fell a sudden prey to panic. 'Stephen,' she said quickly — 'don't — please — don't!'
His face changed then, perplexedly. It grew strangely wistful.
*I — I won't, Jane,' he said very gently. His arms relaxed their hold.
Jane felt suddenly contrite. And somehow — inadequate. She felt she was faiUng Stephen. Stephen, whom she had married, who would have only a week with her, who was going to war. DeHberately she put her arms around him.
'Stephen, truly I love you,' she said. Stephen's Ups met hers. Dear Stephen! She did love him. She would love him. She had married him. That point was settled. The brougham rolled on up Erie Street,
V
The midsummer willow stood motionless in the late August sunshine, not a grey-green leaf stirring, and Jane was sitting at her window looking out at it and thinking of Stephen, when Andre's second letter arrived.
Minnie brought it up to her, immediately after the postman's ring. No one could do too much for Jane now. Jane saw the Italian stamp, the strange transparent paper, before she took it from Minnie's considerate hand. She had a queer revulsion of feeling the moment she recognized it. An impulse to cast it from her, unread. Jane didn't want to hear from Andre. She didn't want to hear anything he might have to say.
When Minnie had left the room, however, she opened it, very thoughtfully. After all — it couldn't make any difference. She was glad to see that it was very brief.
'Dear Jane,
'I was terribly surprised and terribly shocked at the news your letter contained. Why, I don't know. I was always afraid, all these past four years, that I \ould hear that you were going to marry. I hadn't counted, though, on just what the sight of my name on an envelope, in your handwriting, would do to me. I haven't felt ready to answer until just now.
*I hope, awfully, that you will be very happy. That you're happy now. But I won't plan to come to the States. I know I don't want to meet your husband next spring and I think I don't want to meet you, Jane, ever again. You mean a very special thing to me. No one will ever take your place. But I won't come to Chicago. Feeling as I do, I should really have nothing to say to you. "Ilfaut qu'une porie soil ouverte ou fermee."
Andre'
Well, thought Jane, that was that. But why did he have to write just as he did? Jane frowned over her instant recognition of the pluck the brief note had given to her lieart strings. It was unforgettable, like everything else about Andre.
Jane put it away with his other letter in her desk drawer. She was teri'ibly glad that she would not have to sec him. She didn't want to see Andre, ever again. He — he shouldn't have mentioned it, of course, but he was quite right about doors.
A great deal of water had run under the bridge since the April afternoon when his first letter had arrived. Stephen, an authentic hero, had charged up San Juan Hil!, following the waving sombrero of Theodore Roosevelt. He was recovering from malarial fever, now, down at Montauk Point. The war was over. Cuba was free. The United States owned the Phihppine Islands. Boston had not been bombarded. And Jane had known, for more than three months, that she was going to have a baby in Februar)'.
PART III
JIMMY
PART III
JIMMY
CHAPTER I
I Jane Carver opened the screened door that led from the living-room of her father-in-law's house at Gull Rocks, Seaconsit, to the verandah that commanded a dew of the sea. She closed it quietly behind her and walked quickly over to the wooden steps that led down to the grassy terrace.
Fifteen years of matrimony had not impaired the lightness of Jane's step. Her fine straight hair was still untouched with grey, her waist was still slender, and her eyes were still bright. They gleamed, now, with a spark of irritation. Had Mrs. Ward and Isabel been present they would have recognized, immediately, the storm signal. 'Tantrum' would have been their verdict.
Jane stood still, for a moment, by a porch pillar and looked up at the vast assuaging reaches of blue sky "beyond the green festoons and orange flowers of the trumpet vine. The sky was delightfully impersonal, thought Jane. Its very impersonality was vaguely comforting. With an acute sense of peril, momentarily escaped, Jane drew in a great breath of the warm sea-scented air. She was feeling better, already, just because of the sky and the sunshine and the soft sea-breeze and the tender waving tendrils of the trumpet vine.
If she had stayed in that living-room another minute, Jane knew she would have been rude to her mother-in-law. And Jane had never been that. Not really. Not once in fifteen years. But if she had listened once more to Mrs. Carver'?
gentle expression of the pious hope, already reiterated three times since luncheon, that the good weather that they were now enjoying did not mean that it v/as going to rain during Stephen's vacation, Jane knew her record would have been broken.
It was terrible, thought Jane, it was really terrible, what it did to her to Usten to Stephen's family talk about Stephen. And incomprehensible. For Jane loved Stephen. They were
very happy together. Yet, somehow, when his mother
Oh, well, there was no use going into it. She had been knitting quietly by the living-room fire when Aunt Marie had observed that it was a pleasant afternoon for the race and Uncle Stephen had remarked that there was not much wind and Mrs. Carver had opened her mouth to reply. The pious hope had cast its shadow before. Jane had known what was coming. She had sprung to her feet and made good her escape.
It all seemed rather silly, now, as she looked back on it. Jane opened her knitting-bag and sat down on the top step in the sunshine.
A sunshot August haze hung over the familiar view of lawn and beach and bay. The Seaconsit harbour was filled with flitting sails. The Saturday afternoon race would begin in half an hour. Her father-in-law's launch was riding at anchor, ready to follow the contestants around the course, and Jane could see her father-in-law, dapjjer in blue coat and white flannels, standing at the end of the pier, binoculars in hand. He was watching Alden and Silly, rounding the first flag in their catboat, already manoeuvring for position, half an hour ahead of the starting gun.
Mrs. Carver was watching them, too, Jane knew, from a living-room window, but without binoculars. On racing afternoons the binoculars became the passionate personal
property of Mr. Carver. No one else would have thought of touching them.
Jane picked up her worsted and began to knit. She was maJdng a blue sweater for her fourteen-year-old daughter, copying the shoulder pattern from the printed directions on the Mothers' Page of 'The Woman's Home Magazine.' She spread the periodical on the porch floor beside her and ben
t placidly over her work. The sweater would be becoming to Gicily. When this one was finished, she would knit another for Jenny and a third for little Steve, much as he disliked being dressed to match his sisters. All three children were very blond. Like the Carvers, thought Jane, with a httle sigh. When she looked up she could see her son's yellow head bent over his pad and paint-box on the beach at the foot of the lawn and the stiff white contour of his trained nurse's figure, stretched in the shadow of a rock at his side. Her daughters were nowhere to be seen. They were out in their Aunt Silly's kennels, perhaps, playing with the cocker-spaniel puppy that she had given them.
It was very peaceful, alone on the verandah. And very quiet. Jane could hear the faint eternal ripple of the Httle lapping waves on the beach beyond the lawn, the insistent put-put of an unseen motor-boat in the harbour and the mechanical tap of a woodpecker in the oak tree near the garden. The click of her own knitting-needles was the only other sound that broke the sunny silence.
It was pleasant to be alone. At Gull Rocks, Jane perversely reflected, one seldom was. The Carvers, as a family, were animated by the clan spirit. They did things, if at all, in concert. They even did nothing in concert. They abhorred solitude as nature does a vacuum.
Years of Grace Page 20
