Years of Grace

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 “I admit you to the degree of Bachelor of Arts of Bryn 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, with 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 little later. Her last glimpse of the campus would be in the rain.

Part II

Stephen

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 bottle 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 likes it,” said Jane. “I’d like 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 Kinzie flats and watch her bathe and dress him.

Isabel’s voice floated up the stairs.

“Aren’t you ready?” she asked.

“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 window, 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, “Honestly⁠—Mother gets on 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 was very pretty. Jane recognized it at once. The blue and yellow stripe made over from the trousseau.

“It’s just as 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,”