He heard her sigh, he felt her lean against him and the fan dropped to the ground. It seemed to him suddenly that he loved her with all the love he ought to have.
Over the grass, in moonlight and lantern light mingled, a quickened waltz floated upon waves of music and Candace pulled herself away. “Let’s go back and dance!”
“But are we engaged, Candy?” he urged.
She stood up but he would not let her go, his arms about her waist. He wanted to be sure she was his before she went back into the rooms crowded with young men.
“I–I suppose so,” she said, half unwillingly, half shyly.
“We are!”
He stood up and seized her again and kissed her long and hard. When he released her she gave a little cry.
“Ah, you’ve broken my fan!”
He had indeed. When he picked up the fan it lay in his hand like a broken flower. He had crushed the filigree with his heel, and the scent was strong in his nostrils.
“Never mind, I’ll send to Peking for another, ivory instead of sandalwood, and set with kingfishers’ feathers instead of silk.”
“Ivory has no scent,” she complained. “Give me the pieces, William. I shan’t ever like a fan so well again.”
He gave them to her, half resentfully, and they walked into the house and began to dance together in silence. He was angry with himself and then with her. The moment that he had wanted to be perfect had ended badly. He had been awkward, perhaps, but she had been unforgiving. Nevertheless he had proposed and had been accepted. They went on dancing.
On commencement day William rose and breakfasted before Jeremy woke, and from the dining hall he went out and across the Yard to the big elm under which he had agreed to meet his sisters and grandparents. They had reached town early, had taken a hack to a small second-class hotel and there had breakfasted.
He saw them waiting for him now, and for a moment they were as detached, as isolated, as a photograph in a family album.
Henrietta was plainer than ever and his grandparents were more middle class than he had thought possible. Ruth had grown up pretty and gentle and he felt a sudden renewal of affection for her. He need not be ashamed of her. But no distaste showed on his resolute young face. He smiled and shook hands properly with his elders.
“How are you, Grandfather? Grandmother, it’s awfully good of you, really — I hope the trip wasn’t hard.” He kissed Henrietta’s cheek and squeezed Ruth’s slender shoulders in his arms. “Come along. We’ll get good seats.”
The Yard was coming to life. Seniors in cap and gown were hastening here and there.
He led his guests into the wide-open doors of the hall where a few people were already gathering, and he took pains to find seats where they could see him receive his honors.
“Ruth shall sit on the aisle, so she can see me when we come marching in,” he said, and caught her smile.
Henrietta had said nothing since they met. She wore a plain dark blue linen suit and a stiff sailor hat that emphasized the angles of her face. Her eyes were brown like their father’s, but they were deep-set and intense, while his were shallowly set and pleasant. This William saw but he did not notice her silence. He was in haste to be off on his own business, to leave them.
“Let’s meet again under the elm after this is over.”
He met their solemn, dazed eyes, tried to smile, and hurried away. His rooms were empty. Jeremy was gone. He snatched his cap and gown and put them on, glanced at himself in the mirror, and joined the thickening crowd. He felt them looking at him as he strode toward the Yard but he pretended he did not. Confidence, excitement, the assurance of success, were hid behind his set and handsome face. The honor the day would bring him was only the first step to all that lay ahead, and he knew it. He took his place among his classmates, and the important day began, the end and purpose of four long and sometimes tedious years.
Then suddenly he lost it as he was to lose so many days from his life. Everything became unreal to him. His mind seemed to leave his body. It raced ahead into the years, planning, fighting, conquering, gaining all that he wanted. When would he have enough? When would he know and what would be satisfaction? He tried to bring himself back to this hour, which now that he had it seemed no more an end but only a beginning. He even felt vaguely that he was losing it and he wanted to keep it. It was a part of satisfaction, the first step at least toward fulfillment, a fragment of his life completed. He tried to think of Candace as he sat among his fellows; he tried to value the sound of his name upon the list of honor men.
“William Lane, summa cum laude—”
But he had ceased already to value what he had, so immense was his desire for what was yet to come.
When the long morning was over he went at once to his grandparents and his sisters. They were waiting for him under the big elm, and his grandmother murmured affection as he come to them.
“Your mother will be so proud.” Her eyes misted with the easy tears of the old.
“My father got the same honors,” William said modestly. “It was harder in his day, I daresay. He took much more Greek than I did.”
Ruth held out a small package, and he took it with affected surprise. “A chain for your watch,” she murmured. “It’s nothing much.”
“I brought you a book,” Henrietta said, producing a package. “I wrapped it in red because it’s what they do in China.”
“And Grandma and I just have a little check,” his grandfather said, giving him an envelope.
“It is all too much,” William said gracefully.
Ruth cried out softly, “Let’s go and see if there are letters from Mother and Father! I know Mother was going to try to have a letter here on this very day.”
“We’ll go by my rooms on our way to the hotel,” William said.
When he looked in his box there was no letter from China. A few bills were there, still to be paid, and one letter addressed in a hand he did not recognize. It was a tight scrawl, crude and yet formed in some curious personal fashion. He saw on the envelope the address of a town in Ohio that he did not know, and above it was the name of Clem Miller.
“No letter,” he told his sisters. “None from them, I mean. Here’s a strange one.”
He tore open the envelope. Within it was a single sheet of lined paper, upon which was the same cramped, clear handwriting.
Dear William,
You may not remember me. Once you told me to stop fighting a Chinese fellow in Peking. I never saw you after that. I am here at a grocery store. Got a fair job. Wish, though, I had a chance at your education. Am fighting my way up though. I got your address from your father. Wrote to some friends of mine named Fong in Peking but had forgot a good deal of my Chinese and wrote English thinking maybe their son, Yusan, would be able to read print. He showed the letter to your father, and I got a letter that way telling me you were finishing college. I haven’t had the chance. Your father told me to get in touch, and I am doing so in memory of old days.
Yours sincerely,
Clem Miller.
“Who is it from?” Ruth asked, as they walked toward the street.
William was looking up and down for a hack. The sun was getting hot. “You remember that Faith Mission family in Peking?”
Ruth shook her head. “I can’t remember very much about Peking.”
“I remember them,” Henrietta said suddenly. “Let me read the letter.”
“You may keep it if you like,” William said carelessly. “There is no reason for me to answer it.”
He saw a hack, called it, and they climbed in, he taking the small and uncomfortable seat although Ruth offered to sit there. “You are my guests,” he said with his best smile.
The day went on, he living each hour of it grimly and correctly. He showed his family about the college and his grandmother suggested seeing his rooms. He put this off until Henrietta was suddenly cross. “I think you don’t want us to see them,” she declared.