The sound of Muriel’s voice roused her from revery.
“I, Muriel, take thee, Albert, for my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward—”
“From this day forward”—solemn, irrevocable words. How could Muriel say them? Some marriages lasted for fifty years. How could anyone say them? How could she have been so sure, so very sure, with André? She hadn’t thought about the fifty years at all. Jane felt quite certain it was just because she had been seventeen. She hadn’t reflected. She hadn’t considered. She would never feel like that, thought Jane with a little shiver, about anyone ever again.
The ring was being slipped on Muriel’s finger. Mr. Lancaster’s firm voice rang out in those irrelevant words about his worldly goods. Jane had always considered them a blot on the wedding service. The clergyman was uttering his last solemn adjuration.
“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
The organ was tuning up with the first shrill pipes of the Mendelssohn wedding march. Muriel, her veil thrown back from her lovely flushed face, had turned, on Mr. Lancaster’s arm, to walk down the aisle. Rosalie and the best man had fallen in behind them. Jane and Flora turned smartly to move in their turn. The organ pealed joyously on. High up above their heads the chimes in the steeple were ringing. The march down the aisle was executed much more quickly. Jane kept recognizing the faces turned up to her, from the aisle seats of pews. She smiled and nodded gaily as she went. The recessional had taken on a very festal air. All sense of solemnity was lost.
Jane caught a glimpse of Stephen Carver, staring at her face from his seat beside Mr. Furness. She almost laughed, he looked so very serious. He smiled back, just as he passed from her field of vision. The church doors were open. The vestibule was a confusion of bridesmaids. Great crowds of people were pressing against the awning to see the wedding party come out. Jane jumped into a waiting hansom with Flora. They must hurry over to the reception. Jane wanted, awfully, to give Muriel a great hug for luck. She wanted to stand in line and laugh and be gay and talk to all the people. Weddings were fun, always, if you could just forget the ceremony. Jane felt she had forgotten it. And Flora was chattering gaily about the bridesmaids’ dresses. Flora was so glad they were blue. She was going to take out the yoke and turn hers into an evening gown. The cab drew up at Muriel’s door. There was another crowd around this second awning. Jane and Flora ran quickly, hand in hand, up over the red carpet.
Muriel and Mr. Lancaster were standing, side by side, under a great bell of smilax. No one had come, yet, but the ushers and bridesmaids. Jane flung her arms around Muriel in a great rush of feeling. Muriel looked perfectly lovely. Jane almost kissed Mr. Lancaster in the strength of her enthusiasm. But not quite.
II
Jane woke next morning a little weary from the festivities of the wedding. The reception had ended in a buffet supper for the nearest friends of the family. Later there had been dancing. Mr. and Mrs. Albert Lancaster had left about half-past nine in the evening. It had all been over by ten.
Isabel and Robin had strolled down Huron Street with Mr. and Mrs. Ward and Jane. The April night was pleasantly warm. They had parted from Mr. Furness and Flora under the awning.
“I really admire Mr. Furness,” Isabel had commented as soon as they were out of hearing, “for the way he stuck it out all evening.”
“He had to—for Flora,” Mrs. Ward had said.
“Just the same,” said Isabel, “he behaved beautifully with Bert.”
“He always has,” said Mrs. Ward; then added meditatively, “and you must remember that Bert Lancaster’s marriage may simplify things in the end.”
Jane had thought silently of Flora’s mother. She had thought of her more than once during the party. She couldn’t help wondering what Mrs. Furness was finding to do, all alone at home all evening with Folly, the pug, in that big brownstone house. She wondered again, as she was dressing for breakfast.
Jane sauntered downstairs, humming the first piping bars of the Mendelssohn wedding march. Muriel and Bert were well on their way to the Canadian Rockies, by now. As soon as she entered the dining-room, she saw that something dreadful had happened.
Her father was standing at the window, his back to the table, gazing out at the bright amber branches of the budding willow tree. Her mother was in her accustomed place behind the coffee urn, but her chair was pushed back, her napkin was on the table, and her eyes were fixed questioningly on her husband’s motionless figure. Her face had a curiously shocked expression. Jane paused a moment, fearfully, on the threshold.
“What’s—what’s the matter?” she asked.
Her mother turned slowly to look at her. The colour had quite gone out of her face.
“Lily Furness has killed herself,” she said.
“Wh—what?” said Jane. She couldn’t take it in, just at first. She leaned a little helplessly against the door jamb.
“She killed herself last night—after supper,” said Mrs. Ward excitedly. “She turned on the gas in the bathroom. Mr. Furness found her there when he came home.”
Jane walked weakly over to the breakfast table and sat down in her chair.
“Killed herself?” she asked stupidly. “Flora’s mother is dead?” It was the first death that Jane had ever known.
“They couldn’t bring her ’round,” said Mrs. Ward. “They had to break down the door. They worked over her for hours. They didn’t give her up until long after midnight. Stephen Carver telephoned this morning.”
“How—perfectly—terrible!” said Jane, through stiff lips. Words seemed dreadfully inadequate.
Mr. Ward turned suddenly from his contemplation of the willow tree.
“Eat
