IV
“It’s grand,” said Agnes, “to think you’re really here. I can’t get used to it.”
“I felt like a dog to leave them,” said Jane.
They were sitting out under the maple row in the bright October sunshine. The leaves overhead were incredibly golden. The October sky looked very high and hard and blue. A stiff west wind was blowing and the leaves were fluttering down all around them in the gale. Golden maple leaves twisting and twirling and drifting in every direction. The tops of the trees were already bare.
“That’s nonsense,” said Agnes. “You have to live your own life.”
You did, of course, but just the same Jane had felt it was almost impossible to take the train to Bryn Mawr the week after Isabel’s wedding. Her mother had been very sweet about that wedding and very sorry to lose Isabel. Her father had been very sorry, too. He had come out of Isabel’s bedroom, when he went up to say goodbye to her after the reception, choking and blowing his nose. He had squeezed Jane’s hand very hard on the staircase, where she stood watching Isabel throw her bouquet. Under the awning, a few minutes later, in the midst of the laughing, jostling crowd, waiting for Isabel and Robin to rush madly in a shower of rice from the front door to the shelter of the expectant brougham, Jane knew just how he had felt. Her own eyes were full of tears as she saw the brougham, absurdly festooned with bows of satin ribbon, disappear down Pine Street. Incredible to think that Isabel was married. That she had left home forever.
That very evening, over the haphazard supper, mainly compounded of leftover sandwiches and remnants of caterer’s cake, Mrs. Ward had begun on Bryn Mawr.
“How you can think of leaving your father and me at a moment like this—” she said.
“I thought it was decided, Lizzie,” Jane’s father interrupted.
Jane bit into an anchovy sandwich in silence, then discarded it in favour of a macaroon.
“How you can want to waste any more time in that ridiculous college,” said Mn. Ward, “instead of coming home and making a début with the girls your own age, friends you’ve had all your life—”
“Minnie,” said Mr. Ward, “do you think you could get me a cup of coffee? Lizzie—do we have to go over all this again?”
“Flora and Muriel will be grown up and married before you come home,” prophesied Mrs. Ward gloomily. “You’ll come out with a lot of girls you don’t know—years younger than yourself—”
“Flora and Muriel,” said Jane indifferently, “aren’t coming out this year, after all. They’re going back to Farmington.” Muriel had told her yesterday. She hadn’t thought to mention it at home.
“Flora and Muriel,” said her mother incredulously, “are going back to Farmington?”
Jane nodded and passed her father the cream.
“Why?” asked her mother.
“Muriel wants to be with Flora,” said Jane, “and Flora’s mother doesn’t feel up to a début this winter. You know she—she hasn’t been very well.”
Jane didn’t want to say quite all that Muriel had told her about Flora’s mother. In a moment, however, she observed that discretion was not necessary.
“I shouldn’t think she would be,” said her mother tartly. “I always knew how it would end. Lily Furness is a little fool and always has been.” She looked eagerly over at Jane’s father. “I don’t blame Bert Lancaster for getting tired of it.”
“He’s been dancing attendance, now, for four years and more, and what does he get out of it? I shouldn’t think she would feel very well, and I’m not at all surprised that she doesn’t want Flora on her hands. She’s got all she can do to hold Bert enough to keep up appearances. Why her husband didn’t put a stop to it long ago, before it got to this pass—”
“Lizzie!” said Jane’s father with a glance at Jane. “Minnie, I’d like another cup of coffee.”
Jane felt she had unconsciously dragged a very effective herring across the scent. Her mother had forgotten Bryn Mawr. Her thoughts were busily employed on more congenial topics.
“So Lily Furness doesn’t want Flora home this winter,” she said dreamily. “Well—I don’t wonder. A great girl of nineteen in the drawing-room doesn’t make it any easier to keep up the illusion.”
“Pass me a ladyfinger,” said Jane’s father.
There was a moment’s pause.
“Well,” said Jane’s mother at last, “if Flora and Muriel aren’t going to come out I suppose you might just as well be in Bryn Mawr as anywhere else for one more year.”
Jane could hardly believe her ears. She threw a startled glance at her father. He was draining his coffee cup with a slightly sardonic smile.
“But—leaving you and father,” began Jane conscientiously.
“You don’t think very much of your father and me,” said Mrs. Ward, with a sigh. She rose from the table. “This house is a sight,” she said. “Minnie, get the dead flowers out of the way tonight. The men will come to pack the wedding presents in the morning.” She moved toward the door. “If there’s any punch left, keep it on ice.” She paused on the threshold to look back at Jane’s father. Her face suddenly softened and looked a little wistful. “Didn’t Isabel look lovely?” she said.
“She did, indeed,” said Jane’s father, rising in his turn.
“Robin’s a sweet boy,” said Jane’s mother. “I hope—”
She paused inarticulately and looked up a little helplessly in her husband’s face.
“I hope it, too, Lizzie,” he said very tenderly. Incredibly, he kissed her. Jane, staring at them in amazement, felt her eyes fill suddenly with tears. That was when she had felt like a dog to leave them.
V
“My Gawd!” said Agnes. And Agnes never swore. She was staring at the letter held open in her hand. Jane had just brought it upstairs,
