Mrs. Trent was there, grown scarcely old in these past years, because of the greater ease and luxury of her life. Madam Dalrymple, in shimmering silk and coiffure quite as bewildering as when her young “second cousin twice removed” had first beheld her. She had made the long trans-continental journey—“I left my rheumatism behind me in that dry air of California”—to witness a scene which would bring back that one when Gabriella, beloved of her heart, had also graduated. She even “Poohs!” at that mother’s disappointment in that Jessica is not a world-famous scholar. “Why, what do you want, Gabriella? The child is a gentlewoman—one glance shows it—and the only ‘career’ to which she need aspire is to make our home a real home, back there at Sobrante. Leave the scholarship to Ned. That boy has reached the necktie stage of his existence and begins to think about his hair and finger nails. He has brains enough, else he’d never have been so mischievous. Don’t worry because Jessica isn’t a mannish woman, but be content. For my part, I never saw a more beautiful, wholly satisfactory girl. You couldn’t hold a candle to her even in your earliest youth; and now you see how good my judgment was. If I hadn’t fairly nagged you into sending her to me you’d never have seen such a picture as that yon,” finished the delighted dame, nodding her white pompadour stage-ward.
Ephraim was there, Mrs. Briggs and Sophy beside him; all in that same front row with Mrs. Dalrymple and Gabriella; also a young lad who is taking his first peep at life outside his home and whom the valedictorian can scarcely believe is the scampish little “tacker” she remembers, even Ned.
“Now, Jessie. Do us credit,” whispers Miss Montaigne, as the fateful moment arrives and the girl steps forward to repeat the speech she has so carefully memorised. She is a “dream of beauty,” as Madam Dalrymple has declared. Her movements are graceful and easy. She wears her exquisite graduation gown as unconsciously as if it were her ordinary school frock, and that Madame has, also, said is to be a mark of gentlehood. “Such people are clothed—they never wear their clothes.”
Jessica bows, very prettily, very low. She opens her lips and a word or two issues thence. Then, most unfortunately, she lifts her eyes toward a group of other girls, with whom she has joyed and sorrowed during the close intimacy of these past years and—disaster!
Her eyes fill, her face flushes, pales, is covered by her slim white hands—and Jessica Trent has ignominiously broken down. A fierce sob escapes her—is taken up and echoed by one, a half-dozen, all of those white throats of her beloved mates, and they are all weeping in concert. Even some of the audience, moved by a profound sympathy, shed a few tears in concert; and—Commencement is over!
“Well, there generally is some unusual happening to mark the close of our year together, but we’ve never had just this sort of thing before; and it’s all because we never before graduated a girl whose whole nature was just love!” said poor Miss Montaigne, whose own heart was heavy at this parting.
Sobrante?
Yes, at last. The special or private car, also the “Sobrante,” is slowly approaching the terminal of the railway—the Sobrante mines. It is also an observation car and its open spaces are crowded with such eager people as never before journeyed over that route. Old faces, young faces, but never a sad nor lonely face among them; and happiest of all is Jessica Trent’s.
With trembling lips she questions Ninian Sharp as she has used to do in the days before she was a “young lady”; and he who has met her and all the returning party at Los Angeles answers as swiftly as she asks: