Selwyn Grant sauntered in upon the assembled family at the homestead
as if he were returning from an hour's absence instead of a western
sojourn of ten years. Guided by the sound of voices on the still,
pungent autumnal air, he went around to the door of the dining room
which opened directly on the poppy walk in the garden.
Nobody noticed him for a moment and he stood in the doorway looking at
them with a smile, wondering what was the reason of the festal air
that hung about them all as visibly as a garment. His mother sat by
the table, industriously polishing the best silver spoons, which, as
he remembered, were only brought forth upon some great occasion. Her
eyes were as bright, her form as erect, her nose--the Carston
nose--as pronounced and aristocratic as of yore.
Selwyn saw little change in her. But was it possible that the tall,
handsome young lady with the sleek brown pompadour and a nose
unmistakably and plebeianly Grant, who sat by the window doing
something to a heap of lace and organdy in her lap, was the little
curly-headed, sunburned sister of thirteen whom he remembered? The
young man leaning against the sideboard must be Leo, of course; a
fine-looking, broad-shouldered young fellow who made Selwyn think
suddenly that he must be growing old. And there was the little, thin,
grey father in the corner, peering at his newspaper with nearsighted
eyes. Selwyn's heart gave a bound at the sight of him which not even
his mother had caused. Dear old Dad! The years had been kind to him.
Mrs. Grant held up a glistening spoon and surveyed it complacently.
"There, I think that is bright enough even to suit Margaret Graham. I
shall take over the whole two dozen teas and one dozen desserts. I
wish, Bertha, that you would tie a red cord around each of the handles
for me. The Carmody spoons are the same pattern and I shall always be
convinced that Mrs. Carmody carried off two of ours the time that
Jenny Graham was married. I don't mean to take any more risks. And,
Father----"
Something made the mother look around, and she saw her first-born!
When the commotion was over Selwyn asked why the family spoons were
being rubbed up.
"For the wedding, of course," said Mrs. Grant, polishing her
gold-bowed spectacles and deciding that there was no more time for
tears and sentiment just then. "And there, they're not half done--and
we'll have to dress in another hour. Bertha is no earthly use--she is
so taken up with her bridesmaid finery."
"Wedding? Whose wedding?" demanded Selwyn, in bewilderment.
"Why, Leo's, of course. Leo is to be married tonight. Didn't you get
your invitation? Wasn't that what brought you home?"
"Hand me a chair, quick," implored Selwyn. "Leo, are _you_ going to
commit matrimony in this headlong fashion? Are you sure you're grown
up?"
"Six feet is a pretty good imitation of it, isn't it?" grinned Leo.
"Brace up, old fellow. It's not so bad as it might be. She's quite a
respectable girl. We wrote you all about it three weeks ago and broke
the news as gently as possible."
"I left for the East a month ago and have been wandering around
preying on old college chums ever since. Haven't seen a letter. There,
I'm better now. No, you needn't fan me, Sis. Well, no family can get
through the world without its seasons of tribulations. Who is the
party of the second part, little brother?"
"Alice Graham," replied Mrs. Grant, who had a habit of speaking for
her children, none of whom had the Carston nose.
"Alice Graham! That child!" exclaimed Selwyn in astonishment.
Leo roared. "Come, come, Sel, perhaps we're not very progressive here
in Croyden, but we don't actually stand still. Girls are apt to
stretch out some between ten and twenty, you know. You old bachelors
think nobody ever grows up. Why, Sel, you're grey around your
temples."
"Too well I know it, but a man's own brother shouldn't be the first to
cast such things up to him. I'll admit, since I come to think of it,
that Alice has probably grown bigger. Is she any better-looking than
she used to be?"
"Alice is a charming girl," said Mrs. Grant impressively. "She is a
beauty and she is also sweet and sensible, which beauties are not
always. We are all very much pleased with Leo's choice. But we have
really no more time to spare just now. The wedding is at seven o'clock
and it is four already."
"Is there anybody you can send to the station for my luggage?" asked
Selwyn. "Luckily I have a new suit, otherwise I shouldn't have the
face to go."
"Well, I must be off," said Mrs. Grant. "Father, take Selwyn away so
that I shan't be tempted to waste time talking to him."
In the library father and son looked at each other affectionately.
"Dad, it's a blessing to see you just the same. I'm a little dizzy
with all these changes. Bertha grown up and Leo within an inch of
being married! To Alice Graham at that, whom I can't think of yet as
anything else than the long-legged, black-eyed imp of mischief she
was when a kiddy. To tell you the truth, Dad, I don't feel in a mood
for going to a wedding at Wish-ton-wish tonight. I'm sure you don't
either. You've always hated fusses. Can't we shirk it?"
They smiled at each other with chummy remembrance of many a family
festival they had "shirked" together in the old days. But Mr. Grant
shook his head. "Not this time, sonny. There are some things a decent
man can't shirk and one of them is his own boy's wedding. It's a
nuisance, but I must go through with it. You'll understand how it is
when you're a family man yourself. By the way, why aren't you a family
man by this time? Why haven't I been put to the bother and
inconvenience of attending your wedding before now, son?"
Selwyn laughed, with a little vibrant note of bitterness in the
laughter, which the father's quick ears detected. "I've been too busy
with law books, Dad, to find me a wife."
Mr. Grant shook his bushy grey head. "That's not the real reason, son.
The world has a wife for every man; if he hasn't found her by the time
he's thirty-five, there's some real reason for it. Well, I don't want
to pry into yours, but I hope it's a sound one and not a mean,
sneaking, selfish sort of reason. Perhaps you'll choose a Madam Selwyn
some day yet. In case you should I'm going to give you a small bit of
good advice. Your mother--now, she's a splendid woman, Selwyn, a
splendid woman. She can't be matched as a housekeeper and she has
improved my finances until I don't know them when I meet them. She's
been a good wife and a good mother. If I were a young man I'd court
her and marry her over again, that I would. But, son, when _you_ pick
a wife pick one with a nice little commonplace nose, not a family
nose. Never marry a woman with a family nose, son."
A woman with a family nose came into the library at this juncture and
beamed maternally upon them both. "There's a bite for you in the
dining room. After you've eaten it you must dress. Mind you brush your
hair well down, Father. The green room is ready for you, Selwyn.
Tomorrow I'll have a good talk with you, but tonight I'll be too busy
to remember you're around. How are we all going to get over to
Wish-ton-wish? Leo and Bertha are going in the pony carriage. It won't
hold a third passenger. You'll have to squeeze in with Father and me
in the buggy, Selwyn."
"By no means," replied Selwyn briskly. "I'll walk over to
Wish-ton-wish. Ifs only half a mile across lots. I suppose the old way
is still open?"
"It ought to be," answered Mr. Grant drily; "Leo has kept it well
trodden. If you've forgotten how it runs he can tell you."
"I haven't forgotten," said Selwyn, a little brusquely. He had his own
reasons for remembering the wood path. Leo had not been the first
Grant to go courting to Wish-ton-wish.
When he started, the moon was rising round and red and hazy in an
eastern hill-gap. The autumn air was mild and spicy. Long shadows
stretched across the fields on his right and silvery mosaics patterned
the floor of the old beechwood lane. Selwyn walked slowly. He was
thinking of Esme Graham or, rather, of the girl who had been Esme
Graham, and wondering if he would see her at the wedding. It was
probable, and he did not want to see her. In spite of ten years'
effort, he did not think he could yet look upon Tom St. Clair's wife
with the proper calm indifference. At the best, it would taint his own
memory of her; he would never again be able to think of her as Esme
Graham but only as Esme St. Clair.
The Grahams had come to Wish-ton-wish eleven years before. There was a
big family of girls of whom the tall, brown-haired Esme was the
oldest. There was one summer during which Selwyn Grant had haunted
Wish-ton-wish, the merry comrade of the younger girls, the boyishly,
silently devoted lover of Esme. Tom St. Clair had always been there
too, in his right as second cousin, Selwyn had supposed. One day he
found out that Tom and Esme had been engaged ever since she was
sixteen; one of her sisters told him. That had been all. He had gone
away soon after, and some time later a letter from home made casual
mention of Tom St. Clair's marriage.
He narrowly missed being late for the wedding ceremony. The bridal
party entered the parlour at Wish-ton-wish at the same moment as he
slipped in by another door. Selwyn almost whistled with amazement at
sight of the bride. _That_ Alice Graham, that tall, stately, blushing
young woman, with her masses of dead-black hair, frosted over by the
film of wedding veil! Could that be the scrawny little tomboy of ten
years ago? She looked not unlike Esme, with that subtle family
resemblance that is quite independent of feature and colouring.
Where was Esme? Selwyn cast his eyes furtively over the assembled
guests while the minister read the marriage ceremony. He recognized
several of the Graham girls but he did not see Esme, although Tom St.
Clair, stout and florid and prosperous-looking, was standing on a
chair in a faraway corner, peering over the heads of the women.
After the turmoil of handshakings and congratulations, Selwyn fled to
the cool, still outdoors, where the rosy glow of Chinese lanterns
mingled with the waves of moonshine to make fairyland. And there he
met her, as she came out of the house by a side door, a tall, slender
woman in some glistening, clinging garment, with white flowers shining
like stars in the coils of her brown hair. In the soft glow she looked
even more beautiful than in the days of her girlhood, and Selwyn's
heart throbbed dangerously at sight of her.
"Esme!" he said involuntarily.
She started, and he had an idea that she changed colour, although it
was too dim to be sure. "Selwyn!" she exclaimed, putting out her
hands. "Why, Selwyn Grant! Is it really you? Or are you such stuff as
dreams are made of? I did not know you were here. I did not know you
were home."
He caught her hands and held them tightly, drawing her a little closer
to him, forgetting that she was Tom St. Clair's wife, remembering only
that she was the woman to whom he had given all his love and life's
devotion, to the entire beggaring of his heart.
"I reached home only four hours ago, and was haled straightway here to
Leo's wedding. I'm dizzy, Esme. I can't adjust my old conceptions to
this new state of affairs all at once. It seems ridiculous to think
that Leo and Alice are married. I'm sure they can't be really grown
up."
Esme laughed as she drew away her hands. "We are all ten years older,"
she said lightly.
"Not you. You are more beautiful than ever, Esme. That sunflower
compliment is permissible in an old friend, isn't it?"
"This mellow glow is kinder to me than sunlight now. I am thirty, you
know, Selwyn."
"And I have some grey hairs," he confessed. "I knew I had them but I
had a sneaking hope that other folks didn't until Leo destroyed it
today. These young brothers and sisters who won't stay children are
nuisances. You'll be telling me next thing that 'Baby' is grown up."
"'Baby' is eighteen and has a beau," laughed Esme. "And I give you
fair warning that she insists on being called Laura now. Do you want
to come for a walk with me--down under the beeches to the old lane
gate? I came out to see if the fresh air would do my bit of a headache
good. I shall have to help with the supper later on."
They went slowly across the lawn and turned into a dim, moonlight lane
beyond, their old favourite ramble. Selwyn felt like a man in a dream,
a pleasant dream from which he dreads to awaken. The voices and
laughter echoing out from the house died away behind them and the
great silence of the night fell about them as they came to the old
gate, beyond which was a range of shining, moonlight-misted fields.
For a little while neither of them spoke. The woman looked out across
the white spaces and the man watched the glimmering curve of her neck
and the soft darkness of her rich hair. How virginal, how sacred, she
looked! The thought of Tom St. Clair was a sacrilege.
"It's nice to see you again, Selwyn," said Esme frankly at last.
"There are so few of our old set left, and so many of the babies grown
up. Sometimes I don't know my own world, it has changed so. It's an
uncomfortable feeling. You give me a pleasant sensation of really
belonging here. I'd be lonesome tonight if I dared. I'm going to miss
Alice so much. There will be only Mother and Baby and I left now. Our
family circle has dwindled woefully."
"Mother and Baby and you!" Selwyn felt his head whirling again. "Why,
where is Tom?"
He felt that it was an idiotic question, but it slipped from his
tongue before he could catch it. Esme turned her head and looked at
him wonderingly. He knew that in the sunlight her eyes were as mistily
blue as early meadow violets, but here they looked dark and
unfathomably tender.
"Tom?" she said perplexedly. "Do you mean Tom St. Clair? He is here,
of course, he and his wife. Didn't you see her? That pretty woman in
pale pink, Lil Meredith. Why, you used to know Lil, didn't you? One of
the Uxbridge Merediths?"
To the day of his death Selwyn Grant will firmly believe that if he
had not clutched fast hold of the top bar of the gate he would have
tumbled down on the moss under the beeches in speechless astonishment.
All the surprises of that surprising evening were as nothing to this.
He had a swift conviction that there were no words in the English
language that could fully express his feelings and that it would be a
waste of time to try to find any. Therefore he laid hold of the first
baldly commonplace ones that came handy and said tamely, "I thought
you were married to Tom."
"You--thought--I--was--married--to--Tom!" repeated Esme slowly. "And
have you thought _that_ all these years, Selwyn Grant?"
"Yes, I have. Is it any wonder? You were engaged to Tom when I went
away, Jenny told me you were. And a year later Bertha wrote me a
letter in which she made some reference to Tom's marriage. She didn't
say to _whom_, but hadn't I the right to suppose it was to you?"
"Oh!" The word was partly a sigh and partly a little cry of
long-concealed, long-denied pain. "It's been all a funny
misunderstanding. Tom and I _were_ engaged once--a boy-and-girl affair
in the beginning. Then we both found out that we had made a
mistake--that what we had thought was love was merely the affection of
good comrades. We broke our engagement shortly before you went away.
All the older girls knew it was broken but I suppose nobody mentioned
the matter to Jen. She was such a child, we never thought about her.
And you've thought I was Tom's wife all this time? It's--funny."
"Funny. You mean tragic! Look here, Esme, I'm not going to risk any
more misunderstanding. There's nothing for it but plain talk when
matters get to such a state as this. I love you--and I've loved you
ever since I met you. I went away because I could not stay here and
see you married to another man. I've stayed away for the same reason.
Esme, is it too late? Did you ever care anything for me?"
"Yes, I did," she said slowly.
"Do you care still?" he asked.
She hid her face against his shoulder. "Yes," she whispered.
"Then we'll go back to the house and be married," he said joyfully.