"Graduation from high school" ranks second in importance only to a
wedding in rural New England families. For not only the "Graduating
Exercises" themselves, with their "Salutatory" and "Valedictory"
addresses, their "Class History" and "Class Prophecy," their essays and
songs, constitute a great occasion, but there is also the all-day
excursion of picnic character; the "Baccalaureate Sermon" in the largest
church; the "Prize Speaking" in the nearest "Opera House"; and last, but
not least, the "Graduation Ball" in the Town Hall. The boys suffer
agonies in patent-leather boots, high, stiff collars and blue serge
suits; the girls suffer torments of jealousy over the fortunate few whose
white organdie dresses come "ready-made" straight from Boston. The
Valedictorian, the winner at "Prize Speaking," the belle of the parties,
are great and glorious beings somewhat set apart from the rest of the
graduates; and long after housework and farming are peacefully resumed
again, the success of "our class" is a topic of enduring interest.
A wedding brings even more in its train. The bride's house, where the
marriage service, as well as the wedding reception, generally takes
place, must be swept and scoured from attic to cellar, and, if possible,
painted and papered as well. Guest-rooms must be set in order for
visiting members of the family, and the bridal feast prepared and served
without the help of caterers. The express office is haunted for incoming
wedding presents, and though the destination of "the trip"--generally to
Montreal or Niagara Falls if the happy pair can afford it--is a
well-guarded secret, the trousseau and the gifts, as they arrive, stand
in proud display for the neighbors to run in and admire, and the
prospective bride and groom, self-conscious and blushing, attend divine
service together in the face of a smiling and whispering congregation.
It was small wonder, then, that the Gray family, with the prospect of a
graduation and a wedding within a few days of each other before it, was
thrown into a ferment of excitement compared to which the hilarity of the
Christmas holidays was but a mild ripple. Molly had won a scholarship at
the Conservatory, and was beginning to show some talent for musical
composition; Katherine was the Valedictorian of her class; Edith had
every dance engaged for the ball; and though Thomas had not distinguished
himself in any special way, he had kept a good average all the year in
his studies, and managed to be very nearly self-supporting by the outside
"chores" he had done at college, and it was felt that he, too, deserved
much credit, and that his home-coming would be a joyful event. He was
trying out "practical experiments" with his class, and could promise only
to arrive "just in time"; but Molly, who headed her letters with the
notes of the wedding march, and said that she was practising it every
night, wrote that she would be home _plenty_ long enough beforehand to
help with _everything_, and that mother _simply mustn't_ get all worn out
working too hard with the house-cleaning; Sadie and James were coming
home for a week, to take in both festivities, though Sadie must be
"careful not to overdo just now." Katherine was entirely absorbed in her
determination to get "over ninety" in every one of her final
examinations; and Mr. and Mrs. Gray were both so busy and so preoccupied
that Edith and Peter were left to pursue the course of true love
unobserved and undisturbed.
The effect which Austin's letter to his mother, written the night after
he reached New York, produced in a household already pitched so high, may
readily be imagined. A thunderbolt casually exploding in their midst
could not have effected half such a shock of surprise, or the gift of all
the riches of the Orient so much joy. And when, a week later, he came
home bringing Sylvia with him--a new Sylvia, laughing, crying, blushing,
as shy as a girl surprised at her first tête-à-tête, Mr. and Mrs. Gray
welcomed the little lady they loved so well as their daughter.
Those were great days for Mrs. Elliott, who, as mother of the prospective
bridegroom, as well as Mrs. Gray's most intimate friend, enjoyed especial
privileges; and as she was not averse to sharing her information and
experiences, the entire village joyfully fell upon the morsels of choice
gossip with which she regaled them.
"I don't believe any house in the village ever held so many elegant
clothes at once," she declared. "For besides all Sally's things, which
are just too sweet for anything, there's Katherine's graduation dress an'
ball-dress, an' a third one, mind, to wear when she's bridesmaid--most
girls would think they was pretty lucky to have any one of the three!
Edith has a bridesmaid's dress just like hers, an' a bright yellow one
for the ball, an' Molly's maid-of-honor's outfit is handsomest of
all--pale pink silk, draped over kind of careless-like with chif_fon_,
an' shoes an' silk stockin's to match. An' Mis' Gray, besides that
pearl-colored satin Austin brought her from Europe, has a lavender
brocade! 'I didn't feel to need it at all,' she told me, 'but Sylvia just
insisted. "Two nice dresses aren't a bit too many for you to have," says
Sylvia; "the gray one will be lovely for church all summer, an' after
Sally's weddin', you can put away the lavender for--Austin's," she
finished up, blushin' like a rose.' 'Have you any idea when that's goin'
to be?' I couldn't help askin'. 'No,' says Mis' Gray, 'I wish I had.
Howard an' I tried to persuade her to be married the same night as Sally!
I've always admired a double-weddin'. But she wouldn't hear of it, an' I
must say I was surprised to see her so set against it, an' that Austin
didn't urge her a bit, either, for they just set their eyes by each
other, any one can see that, an' there ain't a thing to hinder 'em from
gettin' married to-morrow, that I know of, if they want to--unless
perhaps they think it's too soon,' she ended up, kinder meanin'-like."
"The presents are somethin' wonderful," Mrs. Elliott related on another
occasion. "Sally's uncle out in Seattle--widower of her that left Austin
all that money--has sent her a whole dinner-set, white with pink roses on
it--twelve dozen pieces in all, countin' vegetable dishes, bone-plates,
an' a soup-tureen. She's had sixteen pickle-forks, ten bon-bon spoons,
an' eight cut-glass whipped-cream bowls, but I dare say they'll all come
in handy, one way or another, an' it makes you feel good to have so many
generous friends. Austin's insisted on givin' her one of them Holst_een_
cows he fetched over from Holland, an' Fred says it's one of the most
valuable things she's got, though I should feel as if any good bossy,
raised right here in Hamstead, would probably do 'em just as well, an'
that he might have chosen somethin' a little more tasty. Ain't men queer?
Sylvia? Oh, she's given her a whackin' big check--enough so Sally can pay
all her 'personal expenses,' as she calls 'em all her life, an' never
touch the principal at that; an' a big box of knives an' forks an'
spoons--'a chest of flat silver' she calls it, an' a silver tea-set to
match--awful plain pattern they are, but Sally likes 'em. Yes, it's nice
of her, but it ain't any more than I expected. She's got plenty of
money--why shouldn't she spend it?"
Only once did Mrs. Elliott say anything unpleasant, and the village,
knowing her usually sharp tongue, thought she did remarkably well, and
took but little stock in this particular speech.
"I'm glad it's Sally Fred picked out, an' not one of the other girls,"
she declared; "she's twenty-nine years old now--a good, sensible
age--pleasant an' easy-goin', same's her mother is, an' yet real capable.
Ruth always was a silly, incompetent little thing--she has to hire help
most of the time, with nothin' in the world to do but cook for Frank,
look after that little tiny house, take care of them two babies, an' go
into the store off an' on when business is rushin'. Molly's head is full
of nothin' but music, an' Katherine's of books. As to that pretty little
fool, Edith, I'm glad she ain't my daughter, runnin' round all the time
with that Dutch boy, an' her parents both so possessed with the idea that
she ain't out of her cradle yet--she bein' the youngest--that they can't
see it. Peter ain't the only one she keeps company with either--if he
was, it wouldn't be so bad, for I guess he's a good enough boy, though I
can't understand a mortal word he says, an' them foreigners all have a
kinder vacant look, to me. But the other night I was took awful sudden
with one of them horrible attacks of indigestion I'm subject to--we'd had
rhubarb pie for supper, an' 'twas just elegant, but I guess I ate too
much of it, an' the telephone wouldn't work on account of the
thunderstorm we'd had that day--seems like that there'd been a lot of
them this season--so Joe had to hitch up an' go for the doctor. As he
went past the cemetery, he see Edith leanin' over the fence with that
no-count Jack Weston--an' it was past midnight, too!"
In the midst of such general satisfaction, it was perhaps inevitable that
at least one person should not be pleased. And that person, as will be
readily guessed, was Thomas. Sylvia, thinking the blow might fall more
bearably from his brother's hand than from hers, relegated the task of
writing him to Austin; and Austin, with a wicked twinkle in his eye,
wrote him in this wise:
DEAR THOMAS:
When you made that little break that I warned you against this spring,
Sylvia probably offered to be a sister to you. I believe that is usual on
such occasions. You have doubtless noticed that she is exceptionally
truthful for a girl, so--largely to keep her word to you, perhaps--she
decided a little while ago to marry me. Of course, I tried to dissuade
her from this plan, but you know she is also stubborn. There seems to be
nothing for me to do but to fall in with it. I don't know yet when the
execution is going to take place, and though, of course, it would be a
relief in a way if I did, I am not finding the death sentence without its
compensations. Why don't you come home over some Sunday, and see how well
I am bearing up? Sylvia told me to ask you, with her love, or I should
not bother, for I am naturally a little loath, even now, to have so
dangerous a rival, as you proved yourself in your spring vacation, too
much in evidence.
Your affectionate brother
AUSTIN
P.S. Have you taken any more ladies to Moving-Picture Palaces lately?
Needless to say, if Sylvia had seen this epistle, it would not have gone.
But she did not. Austin took good care of that. And Thomas did come
home--without waiting for Sunday. He rushed to the Dean's office, and
told him there had been a death in the family. It is probable that, at
the moment, he felt that this was true. At any rate, the Dean, looking at
the boy's flushed cheeks and heavy eyes, did not doubt it for an instant.
"Of course, you must go home at once," he said kindly; "wait a minute, my
Ford's at the door. I'll run you down to the station--you can just catch
the one o'clock. I'll tell one of the fellows to express a suit-case to
you this evening."
Travel on the Central Vermont Railroad is safe, but its best friend
cannot maintain that it is swift. To get from Lake Champlain to the
Connecticut River requires several changes, much patient waiting in small
and uninteresting stations for connections, and the consumption of
considerable time. It was a little after seven when Thomas, dinnerless
and supperless, reached Hamstead, and plodding doggedly up the road in a
heavy rain, met Mr. and Mrs. Elliott just starting out in their buggy for
Thursday evening prayer meeting.
"Pull up, Joe," the latter said excitedly, as she spied the boy advancing
towards them. "I do declare, there's Thomas Gray comin' up the road. I
wonder if he's been expelled, or only suspended. I must find out, so's I
can tell the folks about it after meetin', an' go down an' comfort Mary
the first thing in the mornin' after I get them tomato plants set out. I
always thought Thomas was some steadier than Austin, but Burlington's a
gay place, an' he's probably got in with wild companions up there. Do you
suppose it's some cheap little show girl, or gettin' in liquor by express
from over in New York State, or forgin' a check on account of gamblin'
debts? I know how boys spend their time while they're gettin' educated,
you can't tell me. Or maybe he hasn't passed some examination. He never
was extra bright. Failed everything, probably.--Good-evenin', Thomas,
it's nice to see you back, but quite a surprise, it not bein' vacation
time or nothin'. I suppose everything's goin' fine at college, ain't it?"
Thomas had never loved Mrs. Elliott, and lately he had come as near
hating her as he was capable of hating anybody. He longed inexpressibly
to cast a withering scowl in her direction, and pass on without
answering. But his inborn civility was greater than his aversion. He
pulled off his cap and stopped.
"Yes, everything's all right--I guess," he said, rather stupidly. Then a
brilliant inspiration struck him. "I've been doing so well in my studies
that they've given me a few days off to come home. That doesn't often
happen--they made an exception in my case."
It was seldom that the slow-witted Thomas was blessed with one of
these flights of fancy. For a minute he felt almost cheered. Mrs.
Elliott was baffled.
"Do tell," she exclaimed. "It must be a rare thing--I never hear the like
of it before. I'm most surprised you didn't take advantage of such a
chance to go down to Boston an' see Molly. Didn't feel's you could afford
it, I suppose. I guess she's kinder lonely down there. She don't seem to
get acquainted real fast. You'd think, with all the people there _are_ in
Boston, she wouldn't ha' had much trouble, but then Molly's manner ain't
in her favor, an' I suppose folks in the city is real busy--must be awful
hard to keep house, livin' the way they do. I don't think much of city
life. The last time Joe an' I went down on the excursion, we see the
Charles River, an' the Old Ladies' Home, an' the Chamber of Horrors down
on Washington Street, but we was real glad to come home. There was
somethin' the matter with the lock to our suit-case, an' we couldn't get
it undone all the time we was there, but fortunately it was real warm
weather, so we really didn't suffer none. I thought by this time Molly
might have a beau, but then, Molly's real plain. If the looks could ha'
ben divided up more even between her an' Edith, same's the brains between
you an' Austin, 'twould ha' ben a good thing, wouldn't it? But then you
say you're gettin' on well now, an' in time some man may marry her, so's
he can set an' listen to her play when he comes in tired from his chores
at night. I've heard of sech things. An' then there's quite a bunch of
love-affairs in the family already, ain't there?"
"Yes," said Thomas angrily, "there is."
Mrs. Elliott was quick to mark his tone. She nudged her husband.
"Well, well," she said playfully, "Austin's cut you out, ain't he? Mr.
Jessup was in the race for a while, too, an' I thought he was runnin'
pretty good, but you know we read in the Bible it don't always go to the
swift. An' Austin may not get her after all--I hear there's several in
New York as well an' she might change her mind. I never set much stock in
young men marryin' widows myself. Seems like there's plenty of nice girls
as ought to have a chance. An' Sylvia's awful high-toned, an' stubborn as
a mule--I dunno's she an' Austin will be able to stick it out, he's some
set himself. I shouldn't wonder if it all got broke off, an' I'm not
sayin' it mightn't be for the best if it was. But I don't deny Sylvia's
real pretty an' generous, an' I like her spunk. I was tellin' Joe only
yesterday--"
"I'm afraid I'm keeping you from meeting," said Thomas desperately, and
strode off down the road.
The barn--the beautiful new barn that Sylvia had made possible and that
had filled his heart with such joy and pride--was still lighted. He
walked straight to it, and met Peter coming out of the door. Peter
stared his surprise.
"Where's my brother?" asked Thomas roughly.
"Mr. Gray ben still in the barn vorking. It's too bad he haf so much to
do--he don't get much time mit de missus--den she tink he don't vant to
come. I'm glad you're back, Mr. Thomas. I vas yust gon in to get ve herd
book for him. I took it in to show Edit' someting I vant to explain to
her, and left it in ve house. Most dum."
"You needn't bring it back. I want to see him alone."
Peter nodded, his bewilderment growing, and disappeared. Thomas flung
himself down the long stable, without once glancing at the row of
beautiful cows, his footsteps echoing on the concrete, to the office at
the farther end. The door was open, and Austin sat at the roll-top desk,
which was littered with account books, transfer sheets, and pedigree
cards, typewriting vigorously. He sprang up in surprise.
"Why, Thomas!" he exclaimed cordially. "Where did you drop from? I'm
awfully glad to see you!"
"You damned mean deceitful skunk!" cried the boy, slamming the door
behind him, and ignoring his brother's outstretched hand. "I'd like to
smash every bone in your body until there wasn't a piece as big as a
toothpick left of you! You made me think you didn't care a rap about
her--you said I wasn't worthy of her--that I was an ignorant farmer and
she was a great lady. That's true enough--but I'm just as good as you
are, every bit! I know you've done all sorts of rotten things I never
have! But just the same this is the first time I ever thought that
you--or any Gray--wasn't _square_! And then you write me a letter about
her like that--as if she'd flung herself at your head--_Sylvia_!"
Austin's conscience smote him. He had never seen Thomas's side before;
and neither he nor any other member of the family had guessed how much
their incessant teasing had hurt, or how hard the younger brother had
been hit. In the extremely unsentimental way common in New England, these
two were very fond of each other, and he realized that Thomas's
affection, which was very precious to him, would be gone forever if he
did not set him right at once.
"Look here," he said, forcing Thomas into the swivel chair, and seating
himself on the desk, ignoring the papers that fell fluttering to the
floor, "you listen to me. You've got everything crooked, and it's my
fault, and I'm darned sorry. I never told you I cared for Sylvia, not
because I wanted to deceive you, but because I cared so everlasting
_much_, from the first moment I set eyes on her, that I couldn't talk
about it. No one else guessed either--you weren't the only one. The
funny part of it is, that _she_ didn't! She thought, because I steered
pretty clear of her, out of a sense of duty, that I didn't like her
especially. Imagine--not liking Sylvia! Ever hear of any one who didn't
like roses, Thomas? But I never dreamed that she'd have me--or even of
asking her to! As to throwing herself at my head--well, she put it that
way herself once, and I shut her up pretty quick--you'll find out how to
do it yourself some day, with some other girl, though, of course, it
doesn't look that way to you now--but I can't give you that treatment! I
guess I'll have to tell you--though I never expected to tell a living
soul--just how it did happen. It's--it's the sort of thing that is too
sacred to share with any one, even any one that I think as much of as I
do of you--but I've got to make you believe that, five minutes
beforehand, I had no idea it was going to occur." And as briefly and
honestly as he could, he told Thomas how Sylvia had come to him while he
was making his bonfire, and what had taken place afterwards. Then, with
still greater feeling in his voice, he went on: "There's something else I
haven't told any one else either, and that is, that I can't for a single
instant get away from the thought that, even now, I'm not going to get
her. I know I haven't any right to her and I don't feel sure that I can
make her happy--that she can respect me as much as a girl ought to respect
the man she's going to marry. I certainly don't think I'm any worthier of
her than you--or as worthy--never did for a minute. I _have_ done lots of
rotten things, and you've always been as straight as a string--and you'd
better thank the Lord you have! When you get engaged you won't have to go
through what I have! But you see the difference is, as far as Sylvia and
you and I are concerned"--he hesitated, his throat growing rough, his
ready eloquence checked--"Sylvia likes you ever so much; she thinks
you're a fine boy, and that by and by you'll want to marry a fine girl;
but I'm a man already, and young as she is, Sylvia's a woman--and God
knows why--she loves me!"
Austin glanced at Thomas. The anger was dying out of the boy's face, and
unashamed tears were standing in his eyes.
"A lot," added Austin huskily. Then, after a long pause: "Won't you have
a whiskey-and-soda with me--I've got some in the cupboard here for
emergencies, while we talk over some of this business I was deep in when
you came in? There are any number of things I've been anxious to get your
opinion on--you've got lots of practical ability and good judgment in
places where I'm weak, and I miss you no end when you're where I can't
get at you--I certainly shall be glad when you're through your course,
and home for good! And after we get this mess straightened out"--he bent
over to pick up the scattered sheets--"we'd better go in together and
find Sylvia, hadn't we?"