Years of Grace · Part I · II · Chapter 1 2 2 (2/2)

Flora was leaning a little wearily against the parapet beside her father. Isabel and Robin and Rosalie and Freddy and Muriel and the two other boys were laughing together, facing the band stand, a few feet away. The Strauss waltz was over, but Sousa was still leading his band. Suddenly he raised his arm. The high, shrill notes of a comet solo rose above the orchestral accompaniment. The sweet, sentimental strains soared over the heads of the restless, moving crowd. Freddy Waters began very softly to sing. His eyes were fixed a little mockingly on Rosalie’s pretty, laughing face. It was De Koven’s love song.

“Oh, promise me that some day you and I

Will take our love together to some sky⁠—”

Jane was looking at André’s stern young profile. He was still quite intent on the fountain. Freddy Waters continued to sing:

“Where we can be alone and faith renew⁠—”

Suddenly Flora gave a little startled cry.

“Why, there’s Mamma!” She pointed in the direction from which they had come. Jane turned quickly, in surprise, to look.

There, gliding from the darkness into light, beneath the little bridge across the lagoon, was a single gondola. The romantic figure of the gondolier stood stark in the moonlight. The light from a lamp on the parapet fell clearly on the faces of his passengers. Jane recognized them in an instant. They were Mr. Bert Lancaster and Flora’s mother. Flora’s mother, looking more beautiful than Jane had ever seen her, with a long black lace veil about her head, hiding her golden hair, framing the oval of her lovely face. A veil of mystery and romance.

It was over in a moment. The gondola turned, on a deft stroke of the oar, and the hood hid its passengers. Mrs. Lester had risen to her feet at Flora’s cry. She stood there, now, at Mr. Furness’s side, still staring at the unconscious back of the gondolier. Suddenly she threw a quick glance at Mr. Furness. Jane’s eyes followed hers. Flora’s father was looking after the gondola, too, and his great pale eyes were almost starting out of his head. His lips were trembling under his grey moustache and his face looked queer and wooden, as if all expression had been wiped out of it. Mrs. Lester looked quickly at Flora, Jane, and André. André’s eyes had never left the fountain. Mrs. Lester put her arm around Flora.

“It did look like your mother, didn’t it, dear?” said Mrs. Lester kindly. “But of course it couldn’t have been, as she’s in Galena.”

Mr. Furness stirred at that.

“We⁠—we’d best be going home,” he muttered thickly.

Mrs. Lester threw him a strangely admiring glance.

“Yes. That’s best,” she said simply. None of the others had seen it. They moved slowly off toward the entrance gates.

Jane thought it was all very funny. Mrs. Lester and Mr. Furness looked so very queer. And of course that was Flora’s mother. She had seen her quite distinctly. Suddenly she realized that Mrs. Lester was beside her.

“Wait a minute, Jane,” she said kindly. “Your frock’s unbuttoned.”

Jane paused, blushing, and Mrs. Lester’s fat friendly fingers fumbled up and down her back.

“That wasn’t Flora’s mother, Jane,” she said, as she stood behind her. “It did look very like her. But it wasn’t. Flora was mistaken.”

Jane didn’t reply. This was funnier and funnier. Why did Mrs. Lester care so much? People often saw Flora’s mother out with Mr. Bert Lancaster. Freddy Waters had seen them last week, lunching at the Richelieu.

“Jane⁠—” said Mrs. Lester, and stopped.

“Yes,” said Jane, twisting about to look at her.

“I don’t like to tell a little girl not to⁠—to tell her mother anything,” said Mrs. Lester hesitatingly, “but I wouldn’t⁠—I wouldn’t mention Flora’s mistake at home. Not even to Isabel.”

Jane looked at her wonderingly.

“It⁠—it might make trouble,” said Mrs. Lester falteringly.

Jane understood that, though she didn’t understand why. Jane knew all about things that made trouble. Things that were never forgotten and always discussed. Funny little things. Like André’s Paris studio.

“I won’t mention it, Mrs. Lester,” she said firmly.

Mrs. Lester looked incredibly grateful.

“Good little Jane,” she said; “I don’t like to give you a secret.”

Jane privately thought that it wasn’t her first. She couldn’t remember a time when there weren’t things she knew it was wiser not to say to her mother and Isabel. She smiled brightly at Mrs. Lester.

“I don’t mind,” she said.

The drive home was just a little cold and very strange and silent. Jane found herself, rather unexpectedly, on the box seat with Mr. Furness. Mrs. Lester had André in the row behind. The others sat back of them, singing a little just at first, reminiscent strains of “Oh, Promise Me,” then lapsing into silence. Mr. Furness never spoke once, all the way home. He drove very fast, flicking his horses with his whip, until they broke their trot and cantered for a step or two, then pulling them in again, with a great tug of the reins. The leaders reared once, near the Rush Street Bridge, and Jane very nearly screamed.

“I had a lovely time, Mr. Furness,” she said, as they drew up in front of the house on Pine Street. He didn’t seem to hear her.

“Good night, Mrs. Lester,” said Jane politely. “I had a lovely time.”

Mrs. Lester held her hand a moment and patted it.

“You’re a good little girl, Jane. I’m sure you can be trusted.”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Lester,” said Jane. And then, “Good night, André.”

“Good night,” said André. “I’ll call you up in the morning.”

“Why does Mrs. Lester think you can be trusted?” said Isabel curiously, as she was fishing in her bag for the door-key.

“I don’t know,” said Jane. “I can’t imagine.”

Isabel opened the door. As they walked down the hall their mother called over the bannisters.

“Was it fun, girls?” She was sitting up for them in her lavender wrapper. She followed Isabel into her bedroom to talk it all over. Isabel seemed to have lots to say.

“I never saw Freddy so gone on anyone as he is on Rosalie. I think he’s really in love with her. Of course, I don’t say he would be if she didn’t have money, but⁠—” Jane’s mother closed Isabel’s door.

Jane went into her own room alone. She could hear their whispering voices, broken by low laughter, long after her light was out. It was funny, Jane thought, but it was perfectly true. Telling lies made you trustworthy.