Jane thought she would like to begin Greek, too. It made her feel awfully illiterate to have to skip the quotations she bumped into in English and French books. But she knew she would never have the stamina to do it. The alphabet was too discouraging.
“Agnes,” she said, “it makes me tired to listen to you. I’m going to take French and Philosophy and English.”
“I’m going to take an elective in Narrative Writing,” said Agnes. “I’m going to learn to write if it kills me.”
Jane contemplated the white froth of the cherry blossoms against the stainless sky.
“This place is heaven,” she said.
The captain of the Freshman basketball team sauntered up to them across the green lawn.
“I wish you two would get out and practise with the team,” she said.
“Well—we won’t,” said Agnes obligingly.
“We’re intellectuals,” explained Jane sweetly. “Sit down, Mugsy, and look at the cherry blossoms.”
Mugsy dropped down cross-legged on the grass.
“You’d be good, if you’d try,” she said persuasively.
Agnes shook her head.
“Our arms and legs don’t work,” she said cheerfully.
“Only our brains,” said Jane.
“Oh—honestly!” said Mugsy.
“But they work very well,” said Agnes.
“Agnes’s do,” said Jane. “You know she’s got two scholarships. They’ll be announced tomorrow.”
Mugsy looked pleasantly impressed.
“Just the same,” she said, “it wouldn’t hurt you to get out and hustle for the class.”
“We never hustle,” said Jane. “We achieve our ends with quiet dignity—”
Mugsy arose in wrath.
“You make me sick,” she said, with perfect amity, and strolled off across the campus.
“This place is so nice,” said Jane, returning to the contemplation of the cherry blossoms. “You can insult your dearest friends with perfect impunity.”
“There’s Marion,” said Agnes.
Marion approached, Livy in hand. She waved two letters at Jane.
“Mail for me?” said Jane. Marion tossed the envelopes into Jane’s lap and passed on, toward Taylor Hall. The letters were from her mother and Isabel. Jane opened Isabel’s with a faint frown. Letters from home were not very inspiriting. Except her father’s. Her eyes ran down the closely written pages.
“Good gracious!” she said.
“What’s the matter?” asked Agnes.
“Great heavens!” said Jane.
“What’s happened?” asked Agnes.
“Isabel’s engaged!” said Jane, and turned the page. “Oh, mercy! It’s a secret! Don’t you write home about it, Aggie!”
“Who’s the man?” asked Agnes.
“I haven’t come to him yet, but I gather he’s a god.” Jane turned another page. “She’s awfully happy. He sounds perfectly wonderful.”
“Who is it?” asked Agnes.
Jane turned another page.
“Oh—for heaven’s sake!” she said. “It’s Robin Bridges.”
“Robin Bridges?” questioned Agnes. Agnes didn’t know many people.
“Oh, yes. You know. The fat boy. He’s been underfoot for years. Small eyes and spectacles. Too many teeth. Nice and jolly, though. He plays a good tennis game.”
“When are they going to be married?” asked Agnes.
“She doesn’t say, but she wants me to be maid of honour.” Jane’s eyes continued to peruse the letter. “Rosalie’s going to be bride’s matron. Just us two. A yellow wedding. Oh—here she says—this autumn. September. She does sound happy.” Jane’s voice was just a little wistful.
“How old is Isabel?” asked Agnes. Perhaps her thoughts were following Jane’s.
“Oh—awfully old,” said Jane. “Twenty-three, last January.” She opened her mother’s letter. “Let’s see how Mamma takes it.” She continued to read in silence.
“Well—how does she?” asked Agnes.
“She thinks it’s grand,” said Jane. “She says he’s a dear boy. Boy! Why, Agnes, he’s all of thirty! As if I didn’t know Robin! She says it’s very suitable. She says Papa went to Harvard with his father. She says Isabel has a beautiful sapphire. She says the engagement’s going to be announced May first. She says they’ve begun on the trousseau already and she’s going to take Isabel to New York to get her underclothes.”
“How romantic,” commented Agnes. “There’s a postscript on your lap.”
Jane picked up the second sheet. She read it very slowly.
“She says it’s going to be very hard to give up her dear daughter and she says—Oh, Agnes, she says—she says—that—that they want me home next winter because they’ll be all alone.”
“Don’t you listen to them!” cried Agnes excitedly.
Jane looked very much disturbed.
“It’s awfully hard not to listen to Mamma,” she said.
“Don’t you do it!” said Agnes. “You got here, now you just stay!”
“Papa got me here,” said Jane.
“Well, he’ll keep you here, if you put it up to him,” said Agnes.
Jane thought perhaps he would.
“Don’t you let them put it over on you!” said Agnes.
“It must be awfully hard,” said Jane, “to give up your children.”
“Don’t talk like that!” said Agnes. “Why do people have children?”
“I suppose,” said Jane soberly, “because they love each other.”
“Well—we don’t ask to be born, do we?” said Agnes. “Just you stand firm, Jane.”
Jane looked a little doubtful.
“You gave up André,” said Agnes. “I should hope that was enough.”
A little spasm of pain passed over Jane’s sober face.
“This—this isn’t like giving up André,” she said quietly.
“No,” said Agnes, “but it’s one more thing. You’ve got to do what you want to some of the time.”
Jane wondered if you ever really did. Life seemed terribly complicated. She rose to her feet.
“Come walk with me to the Pike,” she said. “I want to wire Isabel.”
Agnes rose in her turn.
“Jane,” she said, “don’t tell me you’ve given up already!”
“No,” said Jane very seriously. “No. I haven’t. But families are difficult. I never know—what to do.”
She didn’t know any better that night, as she lay wide awake in her little wooden bed. Miss Thomas would say—take your education. Her mother would say—honour your parents. Jane thought she honoured her parents and she knew she didn’t want an education, really. Not enough to fight for it. What she wanted was liberty. But was even liberty worth the fighting for? Jane hated to fight. But perhaps, her father? He was something to tie to. Jane honoured him. She honoured him more than anyone, really. Except André. Her father would see her through. He liked people to be free. Her father—Anyway there were two more months to this semester. Jane fell asleep at
