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 some breakfast, kid,” he said gently. He walked over to Jane and put his hand on her shoulder.
“What will Flora do?” cried Jane. Her eyes filled suddenly with tears.
“Lily Furness should have thought of that,” said Mrs. Ward.
Jane’s father looked at his wife very soberly.
“Will you give me a cup of coffee, Lizzie?” he said. He sat down quietly at his end of the table.
“I—I want to go over to Flora,” said Jane suddenly. “She’ll be all alone—with Muriel gone.” A sudden memory of whom Muriel had gone with froze the words on her lips.
“Eat your breakfast first, kid,” said her father. Her mother handed him his coffee cup. “Ring for Minnie, Lizzie,” he said.
Minnie came in very promptly with the steaming cereal. Her face looked shocked, too, but discreetly curious and very subtly, delicately pleased. Jane felt that Minnie was enjoying disaster. She choked down a few spoonfuls of oatmeal and bolted a cup of scalding coffee.
“I’m going, now,” she said. She rose as she spoke.
“Jane”—her mother’s voice was just a little doubtful—“I don’t quite like your going over there, so soon—all alone—”
“I want to go,” said Jane. “I want to be with Flora.”
“I think you had better wait,” said Mrs. Ward, “until I can go with you.”
Jane stood irresolutely beside her chair.
“Let her go, Lizzie,” said Mr. Ward. “She may be able to do something for that poor child.”
Jane’s mother’s face was still a little doubtful, but she made no further objection as Jane turned toward the door.
“How Lily Furness could do this to Muriel,” Jane heard her say, very solemnly. “It will kill Mrs. Lester.”
“I think the honours are still Muriel’s,” said Mr. Ward gravely. “She did a good deal to Lily Furness first.”
Jane walked very slowly and soberly down Pine Street in the brilliant April sunshine. The grass plots were already green and there was an emerald mist on the plume-like boughs of the elm trees. The streets were quite deserted, save for a milk wagon or two and an occasional bicycle. Jane saw the first robin, prospecting for worms, under Flora’s budding lilac bushes.
The shades were all drawn down in the big brownstone house. Halfway up the front steps, Jane stopped in dismay. She hadn’t expected to see the great bow of purple silk and the huge bunch of violets on the doorbell. She didn’t quite know whether to ring it or not. As she stood hesitantly in the vestibule, the door was opened silently. The Furnesses’ elderly butler stood gravely on the threshold. His face looked very old and grey and tired and his eyes were sunken. Jane suddenly realized that he had been crying. As she stepped into the silent hall she felt her own eyes fill quickly with tears.
The house was very dark, because of the drawn window shades. A great vase of Easter lilies stood on the hall table. Their pure, penetrating perfume suddenly recalled the church chancel of yesterday.
“May—may I see Miss Flora?” asked Jane.
Suddenly she heard a masculine step behind the drawing-room portieres. The tall, slim figure of Stephen Carver was framed in their green folds. His eager young face looked strangely serious. His manner was curiously hushed and formal. Nevertheless, his eyes lit up when he saw Jane.
“Jane!” he said softly. “How like you to come!” He walked quickly over to her side.
“How is Flora?” asked Jane. “Can I see her?”
“She’s in her room,” said Stephen. “I haven’t seen her, myself, since—last night.”
“Is—is she—terribly broken up?” asked Jane.
Stephen nodded gravely.
“And Mr. Furness?” questioned Jane. She hoped very much that she would not have to meet Mr. Furness.
“He’s with—Aunt Lily,” said Stephen. “He’s been there right along. I don’t think he’s slept at all.” There was a little pause. “I just came over to answer the telephone,” said Stephen.
“Do you think,” said Jane hesitantly, “that I could go upstairs?”
“I’ll take you up,” said Stephen.
Side by side they mounted the staircase in silence. In the upper hall Jane was vaguely conscious of a faint, penetrating odour. It was almost imperceptible, but Jane recognized it at once. The great round red gas tanks on Division Street smelled that way, sometimes, when you bicycled past them.
The door to Flora’s mother’s room was closed. As they went by, Jane stumbled over something in the darkness—something small and soft and living. Jane knew, instantly, before she looked, that it was Folly, the pug, lying on the hall carpet, his little wrinkled muzzle pressed tightly against the crack of the door.
“Oh—Stephen!” she said faintly. Folly seemed terribly pathetic. It was incredible to think that little, old, rheumatic Folly was living, when Flora’s mother—Flora’s brilliant, young, gay mother—was dead. Irrevocably dead.
Stephen pressed Jane’s hand in the darkness. Then she saw the bathroom door. There was a Chinese screen drawn around it, but Jane could see the splintered panels over the top. In the hushed order of that silent corridor, those broken, battered bits of wood assaulted the eye with the brutality of a blow.
Stephen paused before Flora’s door. Jane tapped lightly.
“Flora,” she said, “it’s Jane.”
“Come in, Jane,” said Flora’s tearful voice. Jane opened the door and closed it again upon Stephen Carver.
Flora was sitting up in her little brass bed, surrounded with pillows. She looked incredibly childlike and appealing, with her long yellow hair falling around her little tear-blanched face and the great tear-stained circles under her wide blue eyes. She held out her arms to Jane. Jane hugged her passionately.
“Flora,” she said, “do you know how I loved your mother?” Jane was a little shocked to observe how easily she had slipped into the past tense. Flora’s mother seemed dreadfully dead, already.
“Everyone loved her,” said Flora brokenly.
“Everyone,” thought Jane, “but one. And that one—”
Jane found herself wondering, with the horrible curiosity of Isabel, if Flora knew.
“She never came to, at all,” said Flora presently. “Her—her heart had stopped. I—I don’t see how it could have happened. She was locked in the bathroom. She—she must have fainted.”
Jane’s horrible curiosity was satisfied.
She sat quite still on the bed, holding Flora’s hand in hers. There did not seem to be much to say. The old heart-shaped picture frame had been moved from the dressing-table to the bed stand. Within its silver circumference Flora’s mother smiled radiantly over her feather fan. Alone on the dressing-table Mr. Furness stared solemnly from his silver heart. He looked as out of place there as ever. Jane’s mind wandered, uncontrollably, to Flora’s mother’s problem. She felt she understood perfectly. Flora’s mother’s heart was just another silver frame. Fat, puffy Mr. Furness, with his pale, popping eyes, and grey moustache, had never really belonged there. Life was dreadful, thought Jane.
There was a gentle tap on the door. The discreet voice of a maid was heard.
“Miss Flora—Mrs. Lester has called.”
Flora looked doubtfully at Jane.
“Shall I tell her to come up?” she asked.
Jane nodded. Mrs. Lester could always be counted on.
The maid departed with the message. Presently there was a second tap at the door. Jane rose as Mrs. Lester entered the room. Mrs. Lester’s enormous bulk was shimmering in dull black taffeta. Under her little black bonnet, her face looked terribly old and yellow and shocked and sad. Her kind dark eyes were weary and bloodshot. Their whites were ivory yellow. Jane realized, suddenly, how grey Mrs. Lester’s black hair had grown during this last year. In her arms she held a bunch of white roses and a big cardboard dress box.
“Flora, dear,” she said very gently, “I’ve come to do anything I can for you.” She laid the roses down on the bed. Flora picked them up and buried her face in them and suddenly began to cry.
“Flora, dear,” said Mrs. Lester again, “you’ll need help. You and your dear father are very much alone.” She sat down in an armchair that Jane had drawn forward and began to open the dress box. “I’ve brought you the little black frock, dear,” she said, her hands busy with the wrappings, “that Rosalie wore last year for Freddy’s father. I think it will just about fit you. You can wear it until your new things come home. You must let Rosalie shop for you, Flora. You must let everyone help you.”
Flora continued to cry, silently, into the roses. She didn’t look at the black frock at all. Jane had forgotten all about mourning.
“You’d better get up, dear,” continued Mrs. Lester steadily; “you’ll feel better if you’re doing something.”
“There’s—nothing—to do,” sobbed Flora.
“There’s lots to do for your poor father,” said Mrs. Lester sadly.
“Papa doesn’t—want me!” faltered Flora. “He—he’s with Mamma. He’s locked the door. He doesn’t want me at all.”
A sudden spasm of pain seemed to pass over Mrs. Lester’s face. The absurd little mouth above its double chins quivered, uncontrollably. Mrs. Lester took her handkerchief out of her little silver chatelaine. She wiped her eyes, quite frankly.
“He will want you, Flora,” she said. “Come, dear, get up now. The thing to do is always to keep busy.”
Flora obediently slipped from beneath the bedclothes. She looked very slim and frail in her long white nightgown.
“We’ll stay with you, dear,” said Mrs. Lester kindly, “while you dress.”
Flora moved silently about the room, collecting her underclothes. The blue muslin bridesmaid’s dress still lay in a heap on a chair. Jane rose to pick it up. She smoothed its crumpled folds and hung it up, very carefully, in Flora’s closet. Flora sat down before her mirror to comb her yellow hair. She was looking much better already. Mrs. Lester was right. The thing to do was to keep busy.
“I—I somehow forgot about Muriel,” said Flora presently, with a wan little smile. “Of course you haven’t heard from them yet, Mrs. Lester?”
Mrs. Lester had risen and was shaking out Rosalie’s black gown. She looked a little startled.
“No, dear,” she said. “No—I haven’t.”
“Of course,” said Flora, “they’re still on the train.”
A forgotten fragment of something rose up in Jane’s mind. Something very far away and almost forgotten. What was it? Oh—of course! “In the meantime Aeneas unwaveringly pursued his way across the waters.” Faithless Aeneas! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? It was just like Dido. Dido, who had loved and lost and died a gallant lady. Why did books seem so different from life?
When Flora’s curls were coiled in place she rose and took the black dress from Mrs. Lester’s hands. Mrs. Lester hooked it up the back for her.
“It fits you beautifully,” she said.
Flora looked very white and thin in the sepulchral folds. And strangely older. She moved to the bed to pick up the white roses. As she did so another discreet tap sounded at the door.
“Mrs. Ward, Miss Flora,” said the voice of the maid.
“I—I’ll come down,” said Flora. They moved silently together out of the room. Jane didn’t look at the bathroom door again. Folly was still keeping his vigil. They stepped around him and went down the staircase.
Mrs. Ward was waiting in the green-and-gold drawing-room. She was standing up in the centre of the room, under the crystal chandelier. Stephen Carver was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Ward took Flora in her arms and kissed her very kindly. She smiled then, gravely, at Mrs. Lester. Jane caught the faint glint of appraisal in her eye. Mrs. Lester looked terribly sad and broken and somehow unprotected. Jane was sorry she did.
“Flora, dear,” began Mrs. Ward, taking a little package from under her arm, “I’ve brought you the crepe veil I wore for my own dear mother. A young girl like you will only need crepe for the funeral—” Mrs. Ward drew the veil from its wrappings. It was very long and black and crinkly and it smelled faintly of dye. Mrs. Ward sat down on a little gold sofa. The veil trailed over the skirt of her light grey street dress. Flora looked at it in silence. Mrs. Lester sank wearily down in a gilt bergère. Mrs. Ward looked up at Flora as if she didn’t know just what to say to her. Then she patted the sofa seat beside her.
“Come and sit down, dear,” said Mrs. Ward. “I want to talk to you about your dear mother.”
Flora sank obediently on the green brocade cushions. She turned her big blue eyes silently on Mrs. Ward.
“Flora,” said Mrs. Ward very solemnly, “this is a very terrible thing. I don’t know what you’ve been thinking, but I just want to tell you that I have always felt that we should never judge others. We must keep our charity. You must remember always only the best in your mother. You must try to forget everything else. You may be very sure that everyone else will forget it too—”
A sudden noise in the hall made Jane turn suddenly to stare at the door. Mr. Furness stood there, between the green brocade portieres. His puffy face was livid and swollen and his pale blue eyes looked very, very angry. His mouth was trembling under his grey moustache. He was positively glaring at Mrs. Ward and Mrs. Lester and Jane.
“Stop talking about my wife!” he said suddenly. His angry voice rang out in the silent room. “Stop talking about her at least until you are out of this house!”
Mrs. Ward rose slowly to her feet, staring at Mr. Furness’s distorted face.
“I want to speak to my daughter,” said Mr. Furness. “I want to speak to her alone.” He advanced belligerently into the room. Mrs. Ward began to move with dignity toward the door. The black crepe veil fell at her feet. Mr. Furness pointed to it contemptuously.
“Take those trappings with you,” he said.
Mrs. Ward stooped, without a word, and picked up the veil. Two little spots of colour were flaming in her cheeks. She walked with composure from the room, however, her head held high. She never even glanced at Mr. Furness or at Flora. Flora, who was standing in terrified silence by the sofa, a little black streak in the gold-and-green splendour of the room.
Mrs. Lester rose hesitatingly, and moved unsteadily to Mr. Furness’s elbow. He glared at her in silence. He might never have seen her before. Mrs. Lester put out her hand and gently touched his arm. Her face was working strangely. Jane saw her try to speak, then shake her head, and stand staring at Mr. Furness while great tears gathered in her dark eyes and rolled, unheeded, down her fat, sagging cheeks. Mr. Furness just kept on glaring, like a crazy man. Mrs. Lester dropped his arm, after a minute, and followed Jane’s mother out into the hall. She hadn’t uttered a word. Jane scurried after them. She suddenly realized that she was crying. Jane’s mother was standing beside Mrs. Lester and Stephen Carver near the front door. Stephen looked awfully concerned. Mrs. Ward was talking very excitedly.
“I don’t blame him,” she was saying, “I don’t blame him a particle. He was like one distraught. And I don’t wonder—with all the disgrace!”
Jane suddenly realized that Stephen Carver had seen her tears. He was looking down at her very tenderly. Mrs. Lester was getting her mother to the door.
“Jane—don’t!” said Stephen. His arm was half around her. He looked very understanding.
“It’s just that Mamma—” faltered Jane, “Mamma shouldn’t talk so.”
“It is a disgrace,” said Stephen solemnly.
Jane felt terribly shocked. He didn’t understand at all, after all.
“Oh—no!” she said faintly. “It’s just—tragedy.” Stephen still stared at her, quite uncomprehending. “Never—disgrace,” said Jane. “She loved him.”
Stephen was looking at her as if he found her words quite unintelligible. Jane slipped through the front door. Her mother, on the steps, was still talking volubly to Mrs. Lester.
“I don’t think he knew what he was saying or to whom he was speaking,” she said eagerly. “But how he’ll explain it to Flora—”
Jane silently followed them down to the sidewalk. She felt strangely calmed and exalted. A finished life was a very solemn, very splendid thing. She didn’t care what her mother said, now. Death had an unassailable dignity.
“And it’s not only the disgrace,” her mother was murmuring earnestly. “The whole thing seems so terribly sordid—turning on the gas like that—in a bathroom—like any woman of the streets. Lily Furness had always so much pride.”
“I have lived and accomplished the task that Destiny gave me,” thought Jane very solemnly, “and now I shall pass beneath the earth no common shade.”