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His Sombre Rivals

by Edward Payson Roe · English · Gutenberg #6128 · 696,509 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: His Sombre Rivals

Author: Edward Payson Roe


        
Release date: July 1, 2004 [eBook #6128]
                Most recently updated: September 8, 2012

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HIS SOMBRE RIVALS ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.










[Illustration: THE OLD MAJOR.]



The Works of E.P. Roe

VOLUME THIRTEEN

HIS SOMBRE RIVALS

ILLUSTRATED

1883




PREFACE


The following story has been taking form in my mind for several years,
and at last I have been able to write it out. With a regret akin to
sadness, I take my leave, this August day, of people who have become
very real to me, whose joys and sorrows I have made my own. Although a
Northern man, I think my Southern readers will feel that I have sought
to do justice to their motives. At this distance from the late Civil
War, it is time that passion and prejudice sank below the horizon, and
among the surviving soldiers who were arrayed against each other I
think they have practically disappeared. Stern and prolonged conflict
taught mutual respect. The men of the Northern armies were convinced,
beyond the shadow of a doubt, that they had fought men and
Americans--men whose patriotism and devotion to a cause sacred to them
was as pure and lofty as their own. It is time that sane men and women
should be large-minded enough to recognize that, whatever may have been
the original motives of political leaders, the people on both sides
were sincere and honest; that around the camp-fires at their hearths
and in their places of worship they looked for God's blessing on their
efforts with equal freedom from hypocrisy.

I have endeavored to portray the battle of Bull Run as it could appear
to a civilian spectator: to give a suggestive picture and not a general
description. The following war-scenes are imaginary, and colored by
personal reminiscence. I was in the service nearly four years, two of
which were spent with the cavalry. Nevertheless, justly distrustful of
my knowledge of military affairs, I have submitted my proofs to my
friend Colonel H. C. Hasbrouck, Commandant of Cadets at West Point, and
therefore have confidence that as mere sketches of battles and
skirmishes they are not technically defective.

The title of the story will naturally lead the reader to expect that
deep shadows rest upon many of its pages. I know it is scarcely the
fashion of the present time to portray men and women who feel very
deeply about anything, but there certainly was deep feeling at the time
of which I write, as, in truth, there is to-day. The heart of humanity
is like the ocean. There are depths to be stirred when the causes are
adequate. E. P. R.

CORNWALL-ON-THE-HUDSON, _August_ 21, 1883.




CONTENTS

CHAPTER I AN EMBODIMENT OF MAY

CHAPTER II MERE FANCIES

CHAPTER III THE VERDICT OF A SAGE

CHAPTER IV WARNING OR INCENTIVE

CHAPTER V IMPRESSIONS

CHAPTER VI PHILOSOPHY AT FAULT

CHAPTER VII WARREN HILLAND

CHAPTER VIII SUPREME MOMENTS

CHAPTER IX THE REVELATION

CHAPTER X THE KINSHIP OF SUFFERING

CHAPTER XI THE ORDEAL

CHAPTER XII FLIGHT TO NATURE

CHAPTER XIII THE FRIENDS

CHAPTER XIV NOBLE DECEPTION

CHAPTER XV "I WISH HE HAD KNOWN"

CHAPTER XVI THE CLOUD IN THE SOUTH

CHAPTER XVII PREPARATION

CHAPTER XVIII THE CALL TO ARMS

CHAPTER XIX THE BLOOD-RED SKY

CHAPTER XX TWO BATTLES

CHAPTER XXI THE LOGIC OF EVENTS

CHAPTER XXII SELF-SENTENCED

CHAPTER XXIII AN EARLY DREAM FULFILLED

CHAPTER XXIV UNCHRONICLED CONFLICTS

CHAPTER XXV A PRESENTIMENT

CHAPTER XXVI AN IMPROVISED PICTURE GALLERY

CHAPTER XXVII A DREAM

CHAPTER XXVIII ITS FULFILMENT

CHAPTER XXIX A SOUTHERN GIRL

CHAPTER XXX GUERILLAS

CHAPTER XXXI JUST IN TIME

CHAPTER XXXII A WOUNDED SPIRIT

CHAPTER XXXIII THE WHITE-HAIRED NURSE

CHAPTER XXXIV RITA'S BROTHER

CHAPTER XXXV HIS SOMBRE RIVALS

CHAPTER XXXVI ALL MATERIALISTS

CHAPTER XXXVII THE EFFORT TO LIVE

CHAPTER XXXVIII GRAHAM'S LAST SACRIFICE

CHAPTER XXXIX MARRIED UNCONSCIOUSLY

CHAPTER XL RITA ANDERSON

CHAPTER XLI A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM




CHAPTER I

AN EMBODIMENT OF MAY

"Beyond that revolving light lies my home. And yet why should I use
such a term when the best I can say is that a continent is my home?
Home suggests a loved familiar nook in the great world. There is no
such niche for me, nor can I recall any place around which my memory
lingers with especial pleasure."

In a gloomy and somewhat bitter mood, Alford Graham thus soliloquized
as he paced the deck of an in-coming steamer. In explanation it may be
briefly said that he had been orphaned early in life, and that the
residences of his guardians had never been made homelike to him. While
scarcely more than a child he had been placed at boarding-schools where
the system and routine made the youth's life little better than that of
a soldier in his barrack. Many boys would have grown hardy, aggressive,
callous, and very possibly vicious from being thrown out on the world
so early. Young Graham became reticent and to superficial observers
shy. Those who cared to observe him closely, however, discovered that
it was not diffidence, but indifference toward others that
characterized his manner. In the most impressible period of his life he
had received instruction, advice and discipline in abundance, but love
and sympathy had been denied. Unconsciously his heart had become
chilled, benumbed and overshadowed by his intellect. The actual world
gave him little and seemed to promise less, and, as a result not at all
unnatural, he became something of a recluse and bookworm even before he
had left behind him the years of boyhood.

Both comrades and teachers eventually learned that the retiring and
solitary youth was not to be trifled with. He looked his instructor
steadily in the eye when he recited, and while his manner was
respectful, it was never deferential, nor could he be induced to yield
a point, when believing himself in the right, to mere arbitrary
assertion; and sometimes he brought confusion to his teacher by quoting
in support of his own view some unimpeachable authority.

At the beginning of each school term there were usually rough fellows
who thought the quiet boy could be made the subject of practical jokes
and petty annoyances without much danger of retaliation. Graham would
usually remain patient up to a certain point, and then, in dismay and
astonishment, the offender would suddenly find himself receiving a
punishment which he seemed powerless to resist. Blows would fall like
hail, or if the combatants closed in the struggle, the aggressor
appeared to find in Graham's slight form sinew and fury only. It seemed
as if the lad's spirit broke forth in such a flame of indignation that
no one could withstand him. It was also remembered that while he was
not noted for prowess on the playground, few could surpass him in the
gymnasium, and that he took long solitary rambles. Such of his
classmates, therefore, as were inclined to quarrel with him because of
his unpopular ways soon learned that he kept up his muscle with the
best of them, and that, when at last roused, his anger struck like
lightning from a cloud.

During the latter part of his college course he gradually formed a
strong friendship for a young man of a different type, an ardent
sunny-natured youth, who proved an antidote to his morbid tendencies.
They went abroad together and studied for two years at a German
university, and then Warren Hilland, Graham's friend, having inherited
large wealth, returned to his home. Graham, left to himself, delved
more and more deeply in certain phases of sceptical philosophy. It
appeared to him that in the past men had believed almost everything,
and that the heavier the drafts made on credulity the more largely had
they been honored. The two friends had long since resolved that the
actual and the proved should be the base from which they would advance
into the unknown, and they discarded with equal indifference
unsubstantiated theories of science and what they were pleased to term
the illusions of faith. "From the verge of the known explore the
unknown," was their motto, and it had been their hope to spend their
lives in extending the outposts of accurate knowledge, in some one or
two directions, a little beyond the points already reached. Since the
scalpel and microscope revealed no soul in the human mechanism they
regarded all theories and beliefs concerning a separate spiritual
existence as mere assumption. They accepted the materialistic view. To
them each generation was a link in an endless chain, and man himself
wholly the product of an evolution which had no relations to a creative
mind, for they had no belief in the existence of such a mind. They held
that one had only to live wisely and well, and thus transmit the
principle of life, not only unvitiated, but strengthened and enlarged.
Sins against body and mind were sins against the race, and it was their
creed that the stronger, fuller and more nearly complete they made
their lives the richer and fuller would be the life that succeeded
them. They scouted as utterly unproved and irrational the idea that
they could live after death, excepting as the plant lives by adding to
the material life and well-being of other plants. But at that time the
spring and vigor of youth were in their heart and brain, and it seemed
to them a glorious thing to live and do their part in the advancement
of the race toward a stage of perfection not dreamed of by the
unthinking masses.

Alas for their visions of future achievement! An avalanche of wealth
had overwhelmed Hilland. His letters to his friend had grown more and
more infrequent, and they contained many traces of the business cares
and the distractions inseparable from his possessions and new
relations. And now for causes just the reverse Graham also was
forsaking his studies. His modest inheritance, invested chiefly in real
estate, had so far depreciated that apparently it could not much longer
provide for even his frugal life abroad.

"I must give up my chosen career for a life of bread-winning," he had
concluded sadly, and he was ready to avail himself of any good opening
that offered. Therefore he knew not where his lot would be cast on the
broad continent beyond the revolving light that loomed every moment
more distinctly in the west.

A few days later found him at the residence of Mrs. Mayburn, a pretty
cottage in a suburb of an eastern city. This lady was his aunt by
marriage, and had long been a widow. She had never manifested much
interest in her nephew, but since she was his nearest relative he felt
that he could not do less than call upon her. To his agreeable surprise
he found that time had mellowed her spirit and softened her
angularities. After the death of her husband she had developed unusual
ability to take care of herself, and had shown little disposition to
take care of any one else. Her thrift and economy had greatly enhanced
her resources, and her investments had been profitable, while the sense
of increasing abundance had had a happy effect on her character. Within
the past year she had purchased the dwelling in which she now resided,
and to which she welcomed Graham with unexpected warmth. So far from
permitting him to make simply a formal call, she insisted on an
extended visit, and he, divorced from his studies and therefore feeling
his isolation more keenly than ever before, assented.

"My home is accessible," she said, "and from this point you can make
inquiries and look around for business opportunities quite as well as
from a city hotel."

She was so cordial, so perfectly sincere, that for the first time in
his life he felt what it was to have kindred and a place in the world
that was not purchased.

He had found his financial affairs in a much better condition than he
had expected. Some improvements were on foot which promised to advance
the value of his real estate so largely as to make him independent, and
he was much inclined to return to Germany and resume his studies.

"I will rest and vegetate for a time," he concluded. "I will wait till
my friend Hilland returns from the West, and then, when the impulse of
work takes possession of me again, I will decide upon my course."

He had come over the ocean to meet his fate, and not the faintest
shadow of a presentiment of this truth crossed his mind as he looked
tranquilly from his aunt's parlor window at the beautiful May sunset.
The cherry blossoms were on the wane, and the light puffs of wind
brought the white petals down like flurries of snow; the plum-trees
looked as if the snow had clung to every branch and spray, and they
were as white as they could have been after some breathless,
large-flaked December storm; but the great apple-tree that stood well
down the path was the crowning product of May. A more exquisite bloom
of pink and white against an emerald foil of tender young leaves could
not have existed even in Eden, nor could the breath of Eve have been
more sweet than the fragrance exhaled. The air was soft with
summer-like mildness, and the breeze that fanned Graham's cheek brought
no sense of chilliness. The sunset hour, with its spring beauty, the
song of innumerable birds, and especially the strains of a wood-thrush,
that, like a _prima donna_, trilled her melody, clear, sweet and
distinct above the feathered chorus, penetrated his soul with subtle
and delicious influences. A vague longing for something he had never
known or felt, for something that books had never taught, or
experimental science revealed, throbbed in his heart. He felt that his
life was incomplete, and a deeper sense of isolation came over him than
he had ever experienced in foreign cities where every face was strange.
Unconsciously he was passing under the most subtle and powerful of all
spells, that of spring, when the impulse to mate comes not to the birds
alone.

It so happened that he was in just the condition to succumb to this
influence. His mental tension was relaxed. He had sat down by the
wayside of life to rest awhile. He had found that there was no need
that he should bestir himself in money-getting, and his mind refused to
return immediately to the deep abstractions of science. It pleaded
weariness of the world and of the pros and cons of conflicting theories
and questions. He admitted the plea and said:--

"My mind _shall_ rest, and for a few days, possibly weeks, it shall be
passively receptive of just such influences as nature and circumstances
chance to bring to it. Who knows but that I may gain a deeper insight
into the hidden mysteries than if I were delving among the dusty tomes
of a university library? For some reason I feel to-night as if I could
look at that radiant, fragrant apple-tree and listen to the lullaby of
the birds forever. And yet their songs suggest a thought that awakens
an odd pain and dissatisfaction. Each one is singing to his mate. Each
one is giving expression to an overflowing fulness and completeness of
life; and never before have I felt my life so incomplete and isolated.

"I wish Hilland was here. He is such a true friend that his silence is
companionship, and his words never jar discordantly. It seems to me
that I miss him more to-night than I did during the first days after
his departure. It's odd that I should. I wonder if the friendship, the
love of a woman could be more to me than that of Hilland. What was that
paragraph from Emerson that once struck me so forcibly? My aunt is a
woman of solid reading; she must have Emerson. Yes, here in her
bookcase, meagre only in the number of volumes it contains, is what I
want," and he turned the leaves rapidly until his eyes lighted on the
following passage:--

"No man ever forgot the visitations of that power to his heart and
brain which created all things new; which was the dawn in him of music,
poetry, and art; which made the face of nature radiant with purple
light, the morning and the night varied enchantments; when a single
tone of one voice could make the heart bound, and the most trivial
circumstance associated with one form was put in the amber of memory;
when he became all eye when one was present, and all memory when one
was gone."

"Emerson never learned that at a university, German or otherwise. He
writes as if it were a common human experience, and yet I know no more
about it than of the sensations of a man who has lost an arm. I suppose
losing one's heart is much the same. As long as a man's limbs are
intact he is scarcely conscious of them, but when one is gone it
troubles him all the time, although it isn't there. Now when Hilland
left me I felt guilty at the ease with which I could forget him in the
library and laboratory. I did not become all memory. I knew he was my
best, my only friend; he is still; but he is not essential to my life.
Clearly, according to Emerson, I am as ignorant as a child of one of
the deepest experiences of life, and very probably had better remain
so, and yet the hour is playing strange tricks with my fancy."

Thus it may be perceived that Alford Graham was peculiarly open on this
deceitful May evening, which promised peace and security, to the
impending stroke of fate. Its harbinger first appeared in the form of a
white Spitz dog, barking vivaciously under the apple-tree, where a path
from a neighboring residence intersected the walk leading from Mrs.
Mayburn's cottage to the street. Evidently some one was playing with
the little creature, and was pretending to be kept at bay by its
belligerent attitude. Suddenly there was a rush and a flutter of white
draperies, and the dog retreated toward Graham, barking with still
greater excitement. Then the young man saw coming up the path with
quick, lithe tread, sudden pauses, and little impetuous dashes at her
canine playmate, a being that might have been an emanation from the
radiant apple-tree, or, rather, the human embodiment of the blossoming
period of the year. Her low wide brow and her neck were snowy white,
and no pink petal on the trees above her could surpass the bloom on her
cheeks. Her large, dark, lustrous eyes were brimming over with fun, and
unconscious of observation, she moved with the natural, unstudied grace
of a child.

Graham thought, "No scene of nature is complete without the human
element, and now the very genius of the hour and season has appeared;"
and he hastily concealed himself behind the curtains, unwilling to lose
one glimpse of a picture that made every nerve tingle with pleasure.
His first glance had revealed that the fair vision was not a child, but
a tall, graceful girl, who happily had not yet passed beyond the
sportive impulses of childhood.

Every moment she came nearer, until at last she stood opposite the
window. He could see the blue veins branching across her temples, the
quick rise and fall of her bosom, caused by rather violent exertion,
the wavy outlines of light brown hair that was gathered in a Greek coil
at the back of the shapely head. She had the rare combination of dark
eyes and light hair which made the lustre of her eyes all the more
striking. He never forgot that moment as she stood panting before him
on the gravel walk, her girlhood's grace blending so harmoniously with
her budding womanhood. For a moment the thought crossed his mind that
under the spell of the spring evening his own fancy had created her,
and that if he looked away and turned again he would see nothing but
the pink and white blossoms, and hear only the jubilant song of the
birds.

The Spitz dog, however, could not possibly have any such unsubstantial
origin, and this small Cerberus had now entered the room, and was
barking furiously at him as an unrecognized stranger. A moment later
his vision under the window stood in the doorway. The sportive girl was
transformed at once into a well-bred young woman who remarked quietly,
"I beg your pardon. I expected to find Mrs. Mayburn here;" and she
departed to search for that lady through the house with a prompt
freedom which suggested relations of the most friendly intimacy.



CHAPTER II

MERE FANCIES

Graham's disposition to make his aunt a visit was not at all chilled by
the discovery that she had so fair a neighbor. He was conscious of
little more than an impulse to form the acquaintance of one who might
give a peculiar charm and piquancy to his May-day vacation, and enrich
him with an experience that had been wholly wanting in his secluded and
studious life. With a smile he permitted the fancy--for he was in a
mood for all sorts of fancies on this evening--that if this girl could
teach him to interpret Emerson's words, he would make no crabbed
resistance. And yet the remote possibility of such an event gave him a
sense of security, and prompted him all the more to yield himself for
the first time to whatever impressions a young and pretty woman might
be able to make upon him. His very disposition toward experiment and
analysis inclined him to experiment with himself. Thus it would seem
that even the perfect evening, and the vision that had emerged from
under the apple-boughs, could not wholly banish a tendency to give a
scientific cast to the mood and fancies of the hour.

His aunt now summoned him to the supper-room, where he was formally
introduced to Miss Grace St. John, with whom his first meal under his
relative's roof was destined to be taken.

As may naturally be supposed, Graham was not well furnished with small
talk, and while he had not the proverbial shyness and awkwardness of
the student, he was somewhat silent because he knew not what to say.
The young guest was entirely at her ease, and her familiarity with the
hostess enabled her to chat freely and naturally on topics of mutual
interest, thus giving Graham time for those observations to which all
are inclined when meeting one who has taken a sudden and strong hold
upon the attention.

He speedily concluded that she could not be less than nineteen or
twenty years of age, and that she was not what he would term a society
girl--a type that he had learned to recognize from not a few
representatives of his countrywomen whom he had seen abroad, rather
than from much personal acquaintance. It should not be understood that
he had shunned society altogether, and his position had ever entitled
him to enter the best; but the young women whom it had been his fortune
to meet had failed to interest him as completely as he had proved
himself a bore to them. Their worlds were too widely separated for
mutual sympathy; and after brief excursions among the drawing-rooms to
which Hilland had usually dragged him, he returned to his books with a
deeper satisfaction and content. Would his acquaintance with Miss St.
John lead to a like result? He was watching and waiting to see, and she
had the advantage--if it was an advantage--of making a good first
impression.

Every moment increased this predisposition in her favor. She must have
known that she was very attractive, for few girls reach her age without
attaining such knowledge; but her observer, and in a certain sense her
critic, could not detect the faintest trace of affectation or
self-consciousness. Her manner, her words, and even their accent seemed
unstudied, unpracticed, and unmodelled after any received type. Her
glance was peculiarly open and direct, and from the first she gave
Graham the feeling that she was one who might be trusted absolutely.
That she had tact and kindliness also was evidenced by the fact that
she did not misunderstand or resent his comparative silence. At first,
after learning that he had lived much abroad, her manner toward him had
been a little shy and wary, indicating that she may have surmised that
his reticence was the result of a certain kind of superiority which
travelled men--especially young men--often assume when meeting those
whose lives are supposed to have a narrow horizon; but she quickly
discovered that Graham had no foreign-bred pre-eminence to parade--that
he wanted to talk with her if he could only find some common subject of
interest. This she supplied by taking him to ground with which he was
perfectly familiar, for she asked him to tell her something about
university life in Germany. On such a theme he could converse well, and
before long a fire of eager questions proved that he had not only a
deeply interested listener but also a very intelligent one.

Mrs. Mayburn smiled complacently, for she had some natural desire that
her nephew should make a favorable impression. In regard to Miss St.
John she had long ceased to have any misgivings, and the approval that
she saw in Graham's eyes was expected as a matter of course. This
approval she soon developed into positive admiration by leading her
favorite to speak of her own past.

"Grace, you must know, Alford, is the daughter of an army officer, and
has seen some odd phases of life at the various military stations where
her father has been on duty."

These words piqued Graham's curiosity at once, and he became the
questioner. His own frank effort to entertain was now rewarded, and the
young girl, possessing easy and natural powers of description, gave
sketches of life at military posts which to Graham had more than the
charm of novelty. Unconsciously she was accounting for herself. In the
refined yet unconventional society of officers and their wives she had
acquired the frank manner so peculiarly her own. But the characteristic
which won Graham's interest most strongly was her abounding
mirthfulness. It ran through all her words like a golden thread. The
instinctive craving of every nature is for that which supplements
itself, and Graham found something so genial in Miss St. John's ready
smile and laughing eyes, which suggested an over-full fountain of
joyousness within, that his heart, chilled and repressed from
childhood, began to give signs of its existence, even during the first
hour of their acquaintance. It is true, as we have seen, that he was in
a very receptive condition, but then a smile, a glance that is like
warm sunshine, is never devoid of power.

The long May twilight had faded, and they were still lingering over the
supper-table, when a middle-aged colored woman in a flaming red turban
appeared in the doorway and said, "Pardon, Mis' Mayburn; I'se a-hopin'
you'll 'scuse me. I jes step over to tell Miss Grace dat de major's
po'ful oneasy,--'spected you back afo'."

The girl arose with alacrity, saying, "Mr. Graham, you have brought me
into danger, and must now extricate me. Papa is an inveterate
whist-player, and you have put my errand here quite out of my mind. I
didn't come for the sake of your delicious muffins altogether"--with a
nod at her hostess; "our game has been broken up, you know, Mrs.
Mayburn, by the departure of Mrs. Weeks and her daughter. You have
often played a good hand with us, and papa thought you would come over
this evening, and that you, from your better acquaintance with our
neighbors, might know of some one who enjoyed the game sufficiently to
join us quite often. Mr. Graham, you must be the one I am seeking. A
gentleman versed in the lore of two continents certainly understands
whist, or, at least, can penetrate its mysteries at a single sitting."

"Suppose I punish the irony of your concluding words," Graham replied,
"by saying that I know just enough about the game to be aware how much
skill is required to play with such a veteran as your father?"

"If you did you would punish papa also, who is innocent."

"That cannot be thought of, although, in truth, I play but an
indifferent game. If you will make amends by teaching me I will try to
perpetrate as few blunders as possible."

"Indeed, sir, you forget. You are to make amends for keeping me talking
here, forgetful of filial duty, by giving me a chance to teach you. You
are to be led meekly in as a trophy by which I am to propitiate my
stern parent, who has military ideas of promptness and obedience."

"What if he should place me under arrest?"

"Then Mrs. Mayburn and I will become your jailers, and we shall keep
you here until you are one of the most accomplished whist-players in
the land."

"If you will promise to stand guard over me some of the time I will
submit to any conditions."

"You are already making one condition, and may think of a dozen more.
It will be better to parole you with the understanding that you are to
put in an appearance at the hour for whist;" and with similar light
talk they went down the walk under the apple-boughs, whence in Graham's
fancy the fair girl had had her origin. As they passed under the shadow
he saw the dusky outline of a rustic seat leaning against the bole of
the tree, and he wondered if he should ever induce his present guide
through the darkened paths to come there some moonlight evening, and
listen to the fancies which her unexpected appearance had occasioned.
The possibility of such an event in contrast with its far greater
improbability caused him to sigh, and then he smiled broadly at himself
in the darkness.

When they had passed a clump of evergreens, a lighted cottage presented
itself, and Miss St. John sprang lightly up the steps, pushed open the
hall door, and cried through the open entrance to a cosey apartment,
"No occasion for hostilities, papa. I have made a capture that gives
the promise of whist not only this evening but also for several more to
come."

As Graham and Mrs. Mayburn entered, a tall, white-haired man lifted his
foot from off a cushion, and rose with some little difficulty, but
having gained his feet, his bearing was erect and soldier-like, and his
courtesy perfect, although toward Mrs. Mayburn it was tinged with the
gallantry of a former generation. Some brief explanations followed, and
then Major St. John turned upon Graham the dark eyes which his daughter
had inherited, and which seemed all the more brilliant in contrast with
his frosty eyebrows, and said genially, "It is very kind of you to be
willing to aid in beguiling an old man's tedium." Turning to his
daughter he added a little querulously, "There must be a storm brewing,
Grace," and he drew in his breath as if in pain.

"Does your wound trouble you to-night, papa?" she asked gently.

"Yes, just as it always does before a storm."

"It is perfectly clear without," she resumed. "Perhaps the room has
become a little cold. The evenings are still damp and chilly;" and she
threw two or three billets of wood on the open fire, kindling a blaze
that sprang cheerily up the chimney.

The room seemed to be a combination of parlor and library, and it
satisfied Graham's ideal of a living apartment. Easy-chairs of various
patterns stood here and there and looked as if constructed by the very
genius of comfort. A secretary in the corner near a window was open,
suggesting absent friends and the pleasure of writing to them amid such
agreeable surroundings. Again Graham queried, prompted by the peculiar
influences that had gained the mastery on this tranquil but eventful
evening, "Will Miss St. John ever sit there penning words straight from
her heart to me?"

He was brought back to prose and reality by the major. Mrs. Mayburn had
been condoling with him, and he now turned and said, "I hope, my dear
sir, that you may never carry around such a barometer as I am afflicted
with. A man with an infirmity grows a little egotistical, if not worse."

"You have much consolation, sir, in remembering how you came by your
infirmity," Graham replied. "Men bearing such proofs of service to
their country are not plentiful in our money-getting land."

His daughter's laugh rang out musically as she cried, "That was meant
to be a fine stroke of diplomacy. Papa, you will now have to pardon a
score of blunders."

"I have as yet no proof that any will be made," the major remarked, and
in fact Graham had underrated his acquaintance with the game. He was
quite equal to his aunt in proficiency, and with Miss St. John for his
partner he was on his mettle. He found her skilful indeed, quick,
penetrating, and possessed of an excellent memory. They held their own
so well that the major's spirits rose hourly. He forgot his wound in
the complete absorption of his favorite recreation.

As opportunity occurred Graham could not keep his eyes from wandering
here and there about the apartment that had so taken his fancy,
especially toward the large, well-filled bookcase and the pictures,
which, if not very expensive, had evidently been the choice of a
cultivated taste.

They were brought to a consciousness of the flight of time by a clock
chiming out the hour of eleven, and the old soldier with a sigh of
regret saw Mrs. Mayburn rise. Miss St. John touched a silver bell, and
a moment later the same negress who had reminded her of her father's
impatience early in the evening entered with a tray bearing a decanter
of wine, glasses, and some wafer-like cakes.

"Have I earned the indulgence of a glance at your books?" Graham asked.

"Yes, indeed," Miss St. John replied; "your martyr-like submission
shall be further rewarded by permission to borrow any of them while in
town. I doubt, however, if you will find them profound enough for your
taste."

"I shall take all point from your irony by asking if you think one can
relish nothing but intellectual roast beef. I am enjoying one of your
delicate cakes. You must have an excellent cook."

"Papa says he has, in the line of cake and pastry; but then he is
partial."

"What! did you make them?"

"Why not?"

"Oh, I'm not objecting. Did my manners permit, I'd empty the plate.
Still, I was under the impression that young ladies were not adepts in
this sort of thing."

"You have been abroad so long that you may have to revise many of your
impressions. Of course retired army officers are naturally in a
condition to import _chefs de cuisine_, but then we like to keep up the
idea of republican simplicity."

"Could you be so very kind as to induce your father to ask me to make
one of your evening quartette as often as possible?"

"The relevancy of that request is striking. Was it suggested by the
flavor of the cakes? I sometimes forget to make them."

"Their absence would not prevent my taste from being gratified if you
will permit me to come. Here is a marked volume of Emerson's works. May
I take it for a day or two?"

She blushed slightly, hesitated perceptibly, and then said, "Yes."

"Alford," broke in his aunt, "you students have the name of being great
owls, but for an old woman of my regular habits it's getting late."

"My daughter informs me," the major remarked to Graham in parting,
"that we may be able to induce you to take a hand with us quite often.
If you should ever become as old and crippled as I am you will know how
to appreciate such kindness.'"

"Indeed, sir, Miss St. John must testify that I asked to share your
game as a privilege. I can scarcely remember to have passed so pleasant
an evening."

"Mrs. Mayburn, do try to keep him in this amiable frame of mind," cried
the girl.

"I think I shall need your aid," said that lady, with a smile. "Come,
Alford, it is next to impossible to get you away."

"Papa's unfortunate barometer will prove correct, I fear," said Miss
St. John, following them out on the piazza, for a thin scud was already
veiling the stars, and there was an ominous moan of the wind.

"To-morrow will be a stormy day," remarked Mrs. Mayburn, who prided
herself on her weather wisdom.

"I'm sorry," Miss St. John continued, "for it will spoil our fairy
world of blossoms, and I am still more sorry for papa's sake."

"Should the day prove a long, dismal, rainy one," Graham ventured, "may
I not come over and help entertain your father?"

"Yes," said the girl, earnestly. "It cannot seem strange to you that
time should often hang heavily on his hands, and I am grateful to any
one who helps me to enliven his hours."

Before Graham repassed under the apple-tree boughs he had fully decided
to win at least Miss St. John's gratitude.



CHAPTER III

THE VERDICT OF A SAGE

When Graham reached his room he was in no mood for sleep. At first he
lapsed into a long revery over the events of the evening, trivial in
themselves, and yet for some reason holding a controlling influence
over his thoughts. Miss St. John was a new revelation of womanhood to
him, and for the first time in his life his heart had been stirred by a
woman's tones and glances. A deep chord in his nature vibrated when she
spoke and smiled. What did it mean? He had followed his impulse to
permit this stranger to make any impression within her power, and he
found that she had decidedly interested him. As he tried to analyze her
power he concluded that it lay chiefly in the mirthfulness, the
joyousness of her spirit. She quickened his cool, deliberate pulse. Her
smile was not an affair of facial muscles, but had a vivifying warmth.
It made him suspect that his life was becoming cold and self-centred,
that he was missing the deepest and best experiences of an existence
that was brief indeed at best, and, as he believed, soon ceased
forever. The love of study and ambition had sufficed thus far, but
actuated by his own materialistic creed he was bound to make the most
of life while it lasted. According to Emerson he was as yet but in the
earlier stages of evolution, and his highest manhood wholly
undeveloped. Had not "music, poetry, and art" dawned in his mind? Was
nature but a mechanism after whose laws he had been groping like an
anatomist who finds in the godlike form bone and tissue merely? As he
had sat watching the sunset a few hours previous, the element of beauty
had been present to him as never before. Could this sense of beauty
become so enlarged that the world would be transfigured, "radiant with
purple light"? Morning had often brought to him weariness from
sleepless hours during which he had racked his brain over problems too
deep for him, and evening had found him still baffled, disappointed,
and disposed to ask in view of his toil, _Cui bono_? What ground had
Emerson for saying that these same mornings and evenings might be
filled with "varied enchantments"? The reason, the cause of these
unknown conditions of life, was given unmistakably. The Concord sage
had virtually asserted that he, Alford Graham, would never truly exist
until his one-sided masculine nature had been supplemented by the
feminine soul which alone could give to his being completeness and the
power to attain his full development.

"Well," he soliloquized, laughing, "I have not been aware that hitherto
I have been only a mollusk, a polyp of a man. I am inclined to think
that Emerson's 'Pegasus' took the bit--got the better of him on one
occasion; but if there is any truth in what he writes it might not be a
bad idea to try a little of the kind of evolution that he suggests and
see what comes of it. I am already confident that I could see
infinitely more than I do if I could look at the world through Miss St.
John's eyes as well as my own, but I run no slight risk in obtaining
that vision. Her eyes are stars that must have drawn worshippers, not
only from the east, but from every point of the compass. I should be in
a sorry plight if I should become 'all memory,' and from my fair
divinity receive as sole response, 'Please forget.' If the philosopher
could guarantee that she also would be 'all eye and all memory,' one
might indeed covet Miss St. John as the teacher of the higher
mysteries. Life is not very exhilarating at best, but for a man to set
his heart on such a woman as this girl promises to be, and then be
denied--why, he had better remain a polyp. Come, come, Alford Graham,
you have had your hour of sentiment--out of deference to Mr. Emerson I
won't call it weakness--and it's time you remembered that you are a
comparatively poor man, that Miss St. John has already been the choice
of a score at least, and probably has made her own choice. I shall
therefore permit no delusions and the growth of no false hopes."

Having reached this prudent conclusion, Graham yawned, smiled at the
unwonted mood in which he had indulged, and with the philosophic
purpose of finding an opiate in the pages that had contained one
paragraph rather too exciting, he took up the copy of Emerson that he
had borrowed. The book fell open, indicating that some one had often
turned to the pages before him. One passage was strongly marked on
either side and underscored. With a laugh he saw that it was the one he
had been dwelling upon--"No man ever forgot," etc.

"Now I know why she blushed slightly and hesitated to lend me this
volume," he thought. "I suppose I may read in this instance, 'No woman
ever forgot.' Of course, it would be strange if she had not learned to
understand these words. What else has she marked?"

Here and there were many delicate marginal lines indicating approval
and interest, but they were so delicate as to suggest that the strong
scoring of the significant passage was not the work of Miss St. John,
but rather of some heavy masculine hand. This seemed to restore the
original reading, "No _man_ ever forgot," and some man had apparently
tried to inform her by his emphatic lines that he did not intend to
forget.

"Well, suppose he does not and cannot," Graham mused. "That fact places
her under no obligations to be 'all eye and memory' for him. And yet
her blush and hesitancy and the way the book falls open at this passage
look favorable for him. I can win her gratitude by amusing the old
major, and with that, no doubt, I shall have to be content."

This limitation of his chances caused Graham so little solicitude that
he was soon sleeping soundly.



CHAPTER IV

WARNING OR INCENTIVE?

The next morning proved that the wound which Major St. John had
received in the Mexican War was a correct barometer. From a leaden,
lowering sky the rain fell steadily, and a chilly wind was fast
dismantling the trees of their blossoms. The birds had suspended their
nest-building, and but few had the heart to sing.

"You seem to take a very complacent view of the dreary prospect
without," Mrs. Mayburn remarked, as Graham came smilingly into the
breakfast-room and greeted her with a cheerful note in his tones. "Such
a day as this means rheumatism for me and an aching leg for Major St.
John."

"I am very sorry, aunt," he replied, "but I cannot help remembering
also that it is not altogether an ill wind, for it will blow me over
into a cosey parlor and very charming society--that is, if Miss St.
John will give me a little aid in entertaining her father."

"So we old people don't count for anything."

"That doesn't follow at all. I would do anything in my power to banish
your rheumatism and the major's twinges, but how was it with you both
at my age? I can answer for the major. If at that time he knew another
major with such a daughter as blesses his home, his devotion to the
preceding veteran was a little mixed."

"Are you so taken by Miss St. John?"

"I have not the slightest hope of being taken by her."

"You know what I mean?"

"Yes, but I wished to suggest my modest hopes and expectations so that
you may have no anxieties if I avail myself, during my visit, of the
chance of seeing what I can of an unusually fine girl. Acquaintance
with such society is the part of my education most sadly neglected.
Nevertheless, you will find me devotedly at your service whenever you
will express your wishes."

"Do not imagine that I am disposed to find fault. Grace is a great
favorite of mine. She is a good old-fashioned girl, not one of your
vain, heartless, selfish creatures with only a veneer of good breeding.
I see her almost every day, either here or in her own home, and I know
her well. You have seen that she is fitted to shine anywhere, but it is
for her home qualities that I love and admire her most. Her father is
crippled and querulous; indeed he is often exceedingly irritable.
Everything must please him or else he is inclined to storm as he did in
his regiment, and occasionally he emphasizes his words without much
regard to the third commandment. But his gusts of anger are over
quickly, and a kinder-hearted and more upright man never lived. Of
course American servants won't stand harsh words. They want to do all
the fault-finding, and the poor old gentleman would have a hard time of
it were it not for Grace. She knows how to manage both him and them,
and that colored woman you saw wouldn't leave him if he beat and swore
at her every day. She was a slave in the family of Grace's mother, who
was a Southern lady, and the major gave the poor creature her liberty
when he brought his wife to the North. Grace is sunshine embodied. She
makes her old, irritable, and sometimes gouty father happy in spite of
himself. It was just like her to accept of your offer last evening, for
to banish all dullness from her father's life seems her constant
thought. So if you wish to grow in the young lady's favor don't be so
attentive to her as to neglect the old gentleman."

Graham listened to this good-natured gossip with decided interest,
feeling that it contained valuable suggestions. The response seemed
scarcely relevant. "When is she to be married?" he asked.

"Married!"

"Yes. It is a wonder that such a paragon has escaped thus long."

"You have lived abroad too much," said his aunt satirically. "American
girls are not married out of hand at a certain age. They marry when
they please or not at all if they please. Grace easily escapes
marriage."

"Not from want of suitors, I'm sure."

"You are right there."

"How then?"

"By saying, 'No, I thank you.' You can easily learn how very effectual
such a quiet negative is, if you choose."

"Indeed! Am I such a very undesirable party?" said Graham, laughing,
for he heartily enjoyed his aunt's brusque way of talking, having
learned already the kindliness it masked.

"Not in my eyes. I can't speak for Grace. She'd marry you if she loved
you, and were you the Czar of all the Russias you wouldn't have the
ghost of a chance unless she did. I know that she has refused more than
one fortune. She seems perfectly content to live with her father, until
the one prince having the power to awaken her appears. When he comes
rest assured she'll follow him, and also be assured that she'll take
her father with her, and to a selfish, exacting Turk of a husband he
might prove an old man of the sea. And yet I doubt it. Grace would
manage any one. Not that she has much management either. She simply
laughs, smiles, and talks every one into good humor. Her mirthfulness,
her own happiness, is so genuine that it is contagious. Suppose you
exchange duties and ask her to come over and enliven me while you
entertain her father," concluded the old lady mischievously.

"I would not dare to face such a fiery veteran as you have described
alone."

"I knew you would have some excuse. Well, be on your guard. Grace will
make no effort to capture you, and therefore you will be in all the
more danger of being captured. If you lose your heart in vain to her
you will need more than German philosophy to sustain you."

"I have already made to myself in substance your last remark."

"I know you are not a lady's man, and perhaps for that very reason you
are all the more liable to an acute attack."

Graham laughed as he rose from the table, and asked, "Should I ever
venture to lay siege to Miss St. John, would I not have your blessing?"

"Yes, and more than my blessing."

"What do you mean by more than your blessing?"

"I shall not commit myself until you commit yourself, and I do not wish
you to take even the first step without appreciating the risk of the
venture."

"Why, bless you, aunt," said Graham, now laughing heartily, "how
seriously you take it! I have spent but one evening with the girl."

The old lady nodded her head significantly as she replied, "I have not
lived to my time of life without learning a thing or two. My memory
also has not failed as yet. There were young men who looked at me once
just as you looked at Grace last evening, and I know what came of it in
more than one instance. You are safe now, and you may be invulnerable,
although it does not look like it; but if you can see much of Grace St.
John and remain untouched you are unlike most men."

"I have always had the name of being that, you know. But as the peril
is so great had I not better fly at once?"

"Yes, I think we both have had the name of being a little peculiar, and
my brusque, direct way of coming right to the point is one of my
peculiarities. I am very intimate with the St. Johns, and am almost as
fond of Grace as if she were my own child. So of course you can see a
great deal of her if you wish, and this arrangement about whist will
add to your opportunities. I know what young men are, and I know too
what often happens when their faces express as much admiration and
interest as yours did last night. What's more," continued the energetic
old lady with an emphatic tap on the floor with her foot, and a decided
nod of her head, "if I were a young man, Grace would have to marry some
one else to get rid of me. Now I've had my say, and my conscience is
clear, whatever happens. As to flight, why, you must settle that
question, but I am sincere and cordial in my request that you make your
home with me until you decide upon your future course."

Graham was touched, and he took his aunt's hand as he said, "I thank
you for your kindness, and more than all for your downright sincerity.
When I came here it was to make but a formal call. With the exception
of one friend, I believed that I stood utterly alone in the world--that
no one cared about what I did or what became of me. I was accustomed to
isolation and thought I was content with it, but I find it more
pleasant than I can make you understand to know there is one place in
the world to which I can come, not as a stranger to an inn, but as one
that is received for other than business considerations. Since you have
been so frank with me I will be equally outspoken;" and he told her
just how he was situated, and what were his plans and hopes. "Now that
I know there is no necessity of earning my livelihood," he concluded,
"I shall yield to my impulse to rest awhile, and then quite probably
resume my studies here or abroad until I can obtain a position suited
to my plans and taste. I thank you for your note of alarm in regard to
Miss St. John, although I must say that to my mind there is more of
incentive than of warning in your words. I think I can at least venture
on a few reconnoissances, as the major might say, before I beat a
retreat. Is it too early to make one now?"

Mrs. Mayburn smiled. "No," she said, laconically,

"I see that you think my reconnoissance will lead to a siege," Graham
added. "Well, I can at least promise that there shall be no rash
movements."



CHAPTER V

IMPRESSIONS

Graham, smiling at his aunt and still more amused at himself, started
to pay his morning visit. "Yesterday afternoon," he thought, "I
expected to make but a brief call on an aunt who was almost a stranger
to me, and now I am domiciled under her roof indefinitely. She has
introduced me to a charming girl, and in an ostensible warning shrewdly
inserted the strongest incentives to venture everything, hinting at the
same time that if I succeeded she would give me more than her blessing.
What a vista of possibilities has opened since I crossed her threshold!
A brief time since I was buried in German libraries, unaware of the
existence of Miss St. John, and forgetting that of my aunt. Apparently
I have crossed the ocean to meet them both, for had I remained abroad a
few days longer, letters on the way would have prevented my returning.
Of course it is all chance, but a curious chance. I don't wonder that
people are often superstitious; and yet a moment's reasoning proves the
absurdity of this sort of thing. Nothing truly strange often happens,
and only our egotism invests events of personal interest with a trace
of the marvellous. My business man neglected to advise me of my
improved finances as soon as he might have done. My aunt receives me,
not as I expected, but as one would naturally hope to be met by a
relative. She has a fair young neighbor with whom she is intimate, and
whom I meet as a matter of course, and as a matter of course I can
continue to meet her as long as I choose without becoming 'all eye and
all memory.' Surely a man can enjoy the society of any woman without
the danger my aunt suggests and--as I half believe--would like to bring
about. What signify my fancies of last evening? We often enjoy
imagining what might be without ever intending it shall be. At any
rate, I shall not sigh for Miss St. John or any other woman until
satisfied that I should not sigh in vain. The probabilities are
therefore that I shall never sigh at all."

As he approached Major St. John's dwelling he saw the object of his
thoughts standing by the window and reading a letter. A syringa shrub
partially concealed him and his umbrella, and he could not forbear
pausing a moment to note what a pretty picture she made. A sprig of
white flowers was in her light wavy hair, and another fastened by her
breastpin drooped over her bosom. Her morning wrapper was of the hue of
the sky that lay back of the leaden clouds. A heightened color mantled
her cheeks, her lips were parted with a smile, and her whole face was
full of delighted interest.

"By Jove!" muttered Graham. "Aunt Mayburn is half right, I believe. A
man must have the pulse of an anchorite to look often at such a vision
as that and remain untouched. One might easily create a divinity out of
such a creature, and then find it difficult not to worship. I could go
away now and make her my ideal, endowing her with all impossible
attributes of perfection. Very probably fuller acquaintance will prove
that she is made of clay not differing materially from that of other
womankind. I envy her correspondent, however, and would be glad if I
could write a letter that would bring such an expression to her face.
Well, I am reconnoitring true enough, and had better not be detected in
the act;" and he stepped rapidly forward.

She recognized him with a piquant little nod and smile. The letter was
folded instantly, and a moment later she opened the door for him
herself, saying, "Since I have seen you and you have come on so kind an
errand I have dispensed with the formality of sending a servant to
admit you."

"Won't you shake hands as a further reward?" he asked. "You will find
me very mercenary."

"Oh, certainly. Pardon the oversight. I should have done so without
prompting since it is so long since we have met."

"And having known each other so long also," he added in the same light
vein, conscious meantime that he held a hand that was as full of
vitality as it was shapely and white.

"Indeed," she replied; "did last evening seem an age to you?"

"I tried to prolong it, for you must remember that my aunt said that
she could not get me away; and this morning I was indiscreet enough to
welcome the rain, at which she reminded me of her rheumatism and your
father's wound."

"And at which I also hope you had a twinge or two of conscience. Papa,"
she added, leading the way into the parlor, "here is Mr. Graham. It was
his fascinating talk about life in Germany that so delayed me last
evening."

The old gentleman started out of a doze, and his manner proved that he
welcomed any break in the monotony of the day. "You will pardon my not
rising," he said; "this confounded weather is playing the deuce with my
leg."

Graham was observant as he joined in a general condemnation of the
weather; and the manner in which Miss St. John rearranged the cushion
on which her father's foot rested, coaxed the fire into a more cheerful
blaze, and bestowed other little attentions, proved beyond a doubt that
all effort in behalf of the suffering veteran would be appreciated. Nor
was he so devoid of a kindly good-nature himself as to anticipate an
irksome task, and he did his utmost to discover the best methods of
entertaining his host. The effort soon became remunerative, for the
major had seen much of life, and enjoyed reference to his experiences.
Graham found that he could be induced to fight his battles over again,
but always with very modest allusion to himself. In the course of their
talk it also became evident that he was a man of somewhat extensive
reading, and the daily paper must have been almost literally devoured
to account for his acquaintance with contemporary affairs. The daughter
was often not a little amused at Graham's blank looks as her father
broached topics of American interest which to the student from abroad
were as little known or understood as the questions which might have
been agitating the inhabitants of Jupiter. Most ladies would have been
politely oblivious of her guest's blunders and infelicitous remarks,
but Miss St. John had a frank, merry way of recognizing them, and yet
malice and ridicule were so entirely absent from her words and ways
that Graham soon positively enjoyed being laughed at, and much
preferred her delicate open raillery, which gave him a chance to defend
himself, to a smiling mask that would leave him in uncertainty as to
the fitness of his replies. There was a subtle flattery also in this
course, for she treated him as one capable of holding his own, and not
in need of social charity and protection. With pleasure he recognized
that she was adopting toward him something of the same sportive manner
which characterized her relations with his aunt, and which also
indicated that as Mrs. Mayburn's nephew he had met with a reception
which would not have been accorded to one less favorably introduced.

How vividly in after years Graham remembered that rainy May morning! He
could always call up before him, like a vivid picture, the old major
with his bushy white eyebrows and piercing black eyes, the smoke from
his meerschaum creating a sort of halo around his gray head, the fine,
venerable face often drawn by pain which led to half-muttered
imprecations that courtesy to his guest and daughter could not wholly
suppress. How often he saw again the fire curling softly from the
hearth with a contented crackle, as if pleased to be once more an
essential to the home from which the advancing summer would soon banish
it! He could recall every article of the furniture with which he
afterward became so familiar. But that which was engraven on his memory
forever was a fair young girl sitting by the window with a background
of early spring greenery swaying to and fro in the storm. Long
afterward, when watching on the perilous picket line or standing in his
place on the battlefield, he would close his eyes that he might recall
more vividly the little white hands deftly crocheting on some feminine
mystery, and the mirthful eyes that often glanced from it to him as the
quiet flow of their talk rippled on. A rill, had it conscious life,
would never forget the pebble that deflected its course from one ocean
to another; human life as it flows onward cannot fail to recognize
events, trivial in themselves, which nevertheless gave direction to all
the future.

Graham admitted to himself that he had found a charm at this fireside
which he had never enjoyed elsewhere in society--the pleasure of being
perfectly at ease. There was a genial frankness and simplicity in his
entertainers which banished restraint, and gave him a sense of
security. He felt instinctively that there were no adverse currents of
mental criticism and detraction, that they were loyal to him as their
invited guest, notwithstanding jest, banter, and good-natured satire.

The hours had vanished so swiftly that he was at a loss to account for
them. Miss St. John was a natural foe to dulness of all kinds, and this
too without any apparent effort. Indeed, we are rarely entertained by
evident and deliberate exertion. Pleasurable exhilaration in society is
obtained from those who impart, like warmth, their own spontaneous
vivacity. Miss St. John's smile was an antidote for a rainy day, and he
was loath to pass from its genial power out under the dripping clouds.
Following an impulse, he said to the girl, "You are more than a match
for the weather."

These words were spoken in the hall after he had bidden adieu to the
major.

"If you meant a compliment it is a very doubtful one," she replied,
laughing. "Do you mean that I am worse than the weather which gives
papa the horrors, and Mrs. Mayburn the rheumatism?"

"And me one of the most delightful mornings I ever enjoyed," he added,
interrupting her. "You were in league with your wood fire. The garish
sunshine of a warm day robs a house of all cosiness and snugness.
Instead of being depressed by the storm and permitting others to be
dull, you have the art of making the clouds your foil."

"Possibly I may appear to some advantage against such a dismal
background," she admitted.

"My meaning is interpreted by my unconscionably long visit. I now must
reluctantly retreat into the dismal background."

"A rather well-covered retreat, as papa might say, but you will need
your umbrella all the same;" for he, in looking back at the archly
smiling girl, had neglected to open it.

"I am glad it is not a final retreat," he called back. "I shall return
this evening reinforced by my aunt."

"Well," exclaimed that lady when he appeared before her, "lunch has
been waiting ten minutes or more."

"I feared as much," he replied, shaking his head ruefully.

"What kept you?"

"Miss St. John."

"Not the major? I thought you went to entertain him?"

"So I did, but man proposes--"

"Oh, not yet, I hope," cried the old lady with assumed dismay. "I
thought you promised to do nothing rash."

"You are more precipitate than I have been. All that I propose is to
enjoy my vacation and the society of your charming friend."

"The major?" she suggested.

"A natural error on your part, for I perceived he was very gallant to
you. After your remarks, however, you cannot think it strange that I
found the daughter more interesting--so interesting indeed that I have
kept you waiting for lunch. I'll not repeat the offence any oftener
than I can help. At the same time I find that I have not lost my
appetite, or anything else that I am aware of."

"How did Grace appear?" his aunt asked as they sat down to lunch.

"Like myself."

"Then not like any one else you know?"

"We agree here perfectly."

"You have no fear?"

"No, nor any hopes that I am conscious of. Can I not admire your
paragon to your heart's content without insisting that she bestow upon
me the treasures of her life? Miss St. John has a frank, cordial manner
all her own, and I think also that for your sake she has received me
rather graciously, but I should be blind indeed did I not recognize
that it would require a siege to win her; and that would be useless, as
you said, unless her own heart prompted the surrender. I have heard and
read that many women are capable of passing fancies of which adroit
suitors can take advantage, and they are engaged or married before
fully comprehending what it all means. Were Miss St. John of this class
I should still hesitate to venture, for nothing in my training has
fitted me to take an advantage of a lady's mood. I don't think your
favorite is given to fancies. She is too well poised. Her serene,
laughing confidence, her more than content, comes either from a heart
already happily given, or else from a nature so sound and healthful
that life in itself is an unalloyed joy. She impresses me as the
happiest being I ever met, and as such it is a delight to be in her
presence; but if I should approach her as a lover, something tells me
that I should find her like a snowy peak, warm and rose-tinted in the
sunlight, as seen in the distance, but growing cold as you draw near.
There may be subterranean fires, but they would manifest themselves
from some inward impulse. At least I do not feel conscious of any power
to awaken them."

Mrs. Mayburn shook her head ominously.

"You are growing very fanciful," she said, "which is a sign, if not a
bad one. Your metaphors, too, are so farfetched and extravagant as to
indicate the earliest stages of the divine madness. Do you mean to
suggest that Grace will break forth like a volcano on some fortuitous
man? If that be your theory you would stand as good a chance as any
one. She might break forth on you."

"I have indeed been unfortunate in my illustration, since you can so
twist my words even in jest. Here's plain enough prose for you. No
amount of wooing would make the slightest difference unless by some law
or impulse of her own nature Miss St. John was compelled to respond."

"Isn't that true of every woman?"

"I don't think it is."

"How is it that you are so versed in the mysteries of the feminine
soul?"

"I have not lived altogether the life of a monk, and the history of the
world is the history of women as well as of men. I am merely giving the
impression that has been made upon me."



CHAPTER VI

PHILOSOPHY AT FAULT

If Mrs. Mayburn had fears that her nephew's peace would be affected by
his exposure to the fascinations of Miss St. John, they were quite
allayed by his course for the next two or three weeks. If she had
indulged the hope that he would speedily be carried away by the charms
which seemed to her irresistible, and so give the chance of a closer
relationship with her favorite, she saw little to encourage such a hope
beyond Graham's evident enjoyment in the young girl's society, and his
readiness to seek it on all fitting occasions. He played whist
assiduously, and appeared to enjoy the game. He often spent two or
three hours with the major during the day, and occasionally beguiled
the time by reading aloud to him, but the element of gallantry toward
the daughter seemed wanting, and the aunt concluded, "No woman can
rival a book in Alford's heart--that is, if he has one--and he is
simply studying Grace as if she were a book. There is one symptom,
however, that needs explanation--he is not so ready to talk about her
as at first, and I don't believe that indifference is the cause."

She was right: indifference was not the cause. Graham's interest in
Miss St. John was growing deeper every day, but the stronger the hold
she gained upon his thoughts, the less inclined was he to speak of her.
He was the last man in the world to be carried away by a Romeo-like
gust of passion, and no amount of beauty could hold his attention an
hour, did not the mind ray through it with a sparkle and power
essentially its own.

Miss St. John had soon convinced him that she could do more than look
sweetly and chatter. She could not only talk to a university-bred man,
but also tell him much that was new. He found his peer, not in his
lines of thought, but in her own, and he was so little of an egotist
that he admired her all the more because she knew what he did not, and
could never become an echo of himself. In her world she had been an
intelligent observer and thinker, and she interpreted that world to him
as naturally and unassumingly as a flower blooms and exhales its
fragrance. For the first time in his life he gave himself up to the
charm of a cultivated woman's society, and to do this in his present
leisure seemed the most sensible thing possible.

"One can see a rare flower," he had reasoned, "without wishing to pluck
it, or hear a wood-thrush sing without straightway thinking of a cage.
Miss St. John's affections may be already engaged, or I may be the last
person in the world to secure them. Idle fancies of what she might
become to me are harmless enough. Any man is prone to indulge in these
when seeing a woman who pleases his taste and kindles his imagination.
When it comes to practical action one may expect and desire nothing
more than the brightening of one's wits and the securing of agreeable
pastime. I do not see why I should not be entirely content with these
motives, until my brief visit is over, notwithstanding my aunt's
ominous warnings;" and so without any misgivings he had at first
yielded himself to all the spells that Miss St. John might
unconsciously weave.

As time passed, however, he began to doubt whether he could maintain
his cool, philosophic attitude of enjoyment. He found himself growing
more and more eager for the hours to return when he could seek her
society, and the intervening time was becoming dull and heavy-paced.
The impulse to go back to Germany and to resume his studies was slow in
coming. Indeed, he was at last obliged to admit to himself that a game
of whist with the old major had more attractions than the latest
scientific treatise. Not that he doted on the irascible veteran, but
because he thus secured a fair partner whose dark eyes were beaming
with mirth and intelligence, whose ever-springing fountain of happiness
was so full that even in the solemnity of the game it found expression
in little piquant gestures, brief words, and smiles that were like
glints of sunshine. Her very presence lifted him to a higher plane, and
gave a greater capacity for enjoyment, and sometimes simply an arch
smile or an unexpected tone set his nerves vibrating in a manner as
delightful as it was unexplainable by any past experience that he could
recall. She was a good walker and horsewoman, and as their acquaintance
ripened he began to ask permission to join her in her rides and
rambles. She assented without the slightest hesitancy, but he soon
found that she gave him no exclusive monopoly of these excursions, and
that he must share them with other young men. Her absences from home
were always comparatively brief, however, and that which charmed him
most was her sunny devotion to her invalid and often very irritable
father. She was the antidote to his age and to his infirmities of body
and temper. While she was away the world in general, and his own little
sphere in particular, tended toward a hopeless snarl. Jinny, the
colored servant, was subserviency itself, but her very obsequiousness
irritated him, although her drollery was at times diverting. It was
usually true, however, that but one touch and one voice could soothe
the jangling nerves. As Graham saw this womanly magic, which apparently
cost no more effort than the wood fire put forth in banishing
chilliness and discomfort, the thought would come, "Blessed will be the
man who can win her as the light and life of his home!"

When days passed, and no one seemed to have a greater place in her
thoughts and interest than himself, was it unnatural that the hope
should dawn that she might create a home for him? If she had a favored
suitor his aunt would be apt to know of it. She did not seem ambitious,
or disposed to invest her heart so that it might bring fortune and
social eminence. Never by word or sign had she appeared to chafe at her
father's modest competency, but with tact and skill, taught undoubtedly
by army experience, she made their slender income yield the essentials
of comfort and refinement, and seemed quite indifferent to
non-essentials. Graham could never hope to possess wealth, but he found
in Miss St. John a woman who could impart to his home the crowning
grace of wealth--simple, unostentatious elegance. His aunt had said
that the young girl had already refused more than one fortune, and the
accompanying assurance that she would marry the man she loved, whatever
might be his circumstances, seemed verified by his own observation.
Therefore why might he not hope? Few men are so modest as not to
indulge the hope to which their heart prompts them. Graham was slow to
recognize the existence of this hope, and then he watched its growth
warily. Not for the world would he lose control of himself, not for the
world would he reveal it to any one, least of all to his aunt or to her
who had inspired it, unless he had some reason to believe she would not
disappoint it. He was prompted to concealment, not only by his pride,
which was great, but more by a characteristic trait, an instinctive
desire to hide his deeper feelings, his inner personality from all
others. He would not admit that he had fallen in love. The very phrase
was excessively distasteful. To his friend Hilland he might have given
his confidence, and he would have accounted for himself in some such
way as this:--

"I have found a child and a woman; a child in frankness and joyousness,
a woman in beauty, strength, mental maturity, and unselfishness. She
interested me from the first, and every day I know better the reason
why--because she _is_ interesting. My reason has kept pace with my
fancy and my deeper feeling, and impels me to seek this girl quite as
much as does my heart. I do not think a man meets such a woman or such
a chance for happiness twice in a lifetime. I did not believe there was
such a woman in the world. You may laugh and say that is the way all
lovers talk. I answer emphatically, No. I have not yet lost my poise,
and I never was a predestined lover. I might easily have gone through
life and never given to these subjects an hour's thought. Even now I
could quietly decide to go away and take up my old life as I left it.
But why should I? Here is an opportunity to enrich existence
immeasurably, and to add to all my chances of success and power. So far
from being a drag upon one, a woman like Miss St. John would incite and
inspire a man to his best efforts. She would sympathize with him
because she could understand his aims and keep pace with his mental
advance. Granted that my prospects of winning her are doubtful indeed,
still as far as I can see there _is_ a chance. I would not care a straw
for a woman that I could have for the asking--who would take me as a
_dernier ressort_. Any woman that I would marry, many others would
gladly marry also, and I must take my chance of winning her from them.
Such would be my lot under any circumstances, and if I give way to a
faint heart now I may as well give up altogether and content myself
with a library as a bride."

Since he felt that he might have taken Hilland into his confidence, he
had, in terms substantially the same as those given, imagined his
explanation, and he smiled as he portrayed to himself his friend's
jocular response, which would have nevertheless its substratum of true
sympathy. "Hilland would say," he thought, "'That is just like you,
Graham. You can't smoke a cigar or make love to a girl without
analyzing and philosophizing and arranging all the wisdom of Solomon in
favor of your course. Now I would make love to a girl because I loved
her, and that would be the end on't.'"

Graham was mistaken in this case. Not in laughing sympathy, but in pale
dismay, would Hilland have received this revelation, for _he_ was
making love to Grace St. John because he loved her with all his heart
and soul. There had been a time when Graham might have obtained a hint
of this had circumstances been different, and it had occurred quite
early in his acquaintance with Miss St. John. After a day that had been
unusually delightful and satisfactory he was accompanying the young
girl home from his aunt's cottage in the twilight. Out of the
complacency of his heart he remarked, half to himself, "If Hilland were
only here, my vacation would be complete."

In the obscurity he could not see her sudden burning flush, and since
her hand was not on his arm he had no knowledge of her startled tremor.
All that he knew was that she was silent for a moment or two, and then
she asked quietly, "Is Mr. Warren Hilland an acquaintance of yours?"

"Indeed he is not," was the emphatic and hearty response. "He is the
best friend I have in the world, and the best fellow in the world."

Oh, fatal obscurity of the deepening twilight! Miss St. John's face was
crimson and radiant with pleasure, and could Graham have seen her at
that moment he could not have failed to surmise the truth.

The young girl was as jealous of her secret as Graham soon became of
his, and she only remarked demurely, "I have met Mr. Hilland in
society," and then she changed the subject, for they were approaching
the piazza steps, and she felt that if Hilland should continue the
theme of conversation under the light of the chandelier, a telltale
face and manner would betray her, in spite of all effort at control. A
fragrant blossom from the shrubbery bordering the walk brushed against
Graham's face, and he plucked it, saying, "Beyond that it is fragrant I
don't know what this flower is. Will you take it from me?"

"Yes," she said, hesitatingly, for at that moment her absent lover had
been brought so vividly to her consciousness that her heart recoiled
from even the slightest hint of gallantry from another. A moment later
the thought occurred, "Mr. Graham is _his_ dearest friend; therefore he
is my friend, although I cannot yet be as frank with him as I would
like to be."

She paused a few moments on the piazza, to cool her hot face and quiet
her fluttering nerves, and Graham saw with much pleasure that she
fastened the flower to her breastpin. When at last she entered she
puzzled him a little by leaving him rather abruptly at the parlor door
and hastening up the stairs.

She found that his words had stirred such deep, full fountains that she
could not yet trust herself under his observant eyes. It is a woman's
delight to hear her lover praised by other men, and Graham's words had
been so hearty that they had set her pulses bounding, for they assured
her that she had not been deceived by love's partial eyes.

"It's true, it's true," she murmured, softly, standing with dewy eyes
before her mirror. "He is the best fellow in the world, and I was blind
that I did not see it from the first. But all will yet be well;" and
she drew a letter from her bosom and kissed it.

Happy would Hilland have been had he seen the vision reflected by that
mirror--beauty, rich and rare in itself, but enhanced, illumined, and
made divine by the deepest, strongest, purest emotions of the soul.



CHAPTER VII

WARREN HILLAND

The closing scenes of the preceding chapter demand some explanation.
Major St. John had spent part of the preceding summer at a seaside
resort, and his daughter had inevitably attracted not a little
attention. Among those that sought her favor was Warren Hilland, and in
accordance with his nature he had been rather precipitate. He was
ardent, impulsive, and, indulged from earliest childhood, he had been
spoiled in only one respect--when he wanted anything he wanted it with
all his heart and immediately. Miss St. John had seemed to him from the
first a pearl among women. As with Graham, circumstances gave him the
opportunity of seeing her daily, and he speedily succumbed to the
"visitation of that power" to which the strongest must yield. Almost
before the young girl suspected the existence of his passion, he
declared it. She refused him, but he would take no refusal. Having won
from her the admission that he had no favored rival, he lifted his
handsome head with a resolution which she secretly admired, and
declared that only when convinced that he had become hateful to her
would he give up his suit.

He was not a man to become hateful to any woman. His frank nature was
so in accord with hers that she responded in somewhat the same spirit,
and said, half laughingly and half tearfully, "Well, if you will, you
will, but I can offer no encouragement."

And yet his downright earnestness had agitated her deeply, disturbing
her maiden serenity, and awaking for the first time the woman within
her heart. Hitherto her girlhood's fancies had been like summer
zephyrs, disturbing but briefly the still, clear waters of her soul;
but now she became an enigma to herself as she slowly grew conscious of
her own heart and the law of her woman's nature to love and give
herself to another. But she had too much of the doughty old major's
fire and spirit, and was too fond of her freedom, to surrender easily.
Both Graham and Mrs. Mayburn were right in their estimate--she would
never yield her heart unless compelled to by influences unexpected, at
first unwelcomed, but in the end overmastering.

The first and chief effect of Hilland's impetuous wooing was, as we
have seen, to destroy her sense of maidenly security, and to bring her
face to face with her destiny. Then his openly avowed siege speedily
compelled her to withdraw her thoughts from man in the abstract to
himself. She could not brush him aside by a quiet negative, as she had
already done in the case of several others. Clinging to her old life,
however, and fearing to embark on this unknown sea of new experiences,
she hesitated, and would not commit herself until the force that
impelled was greater than that which restrained. He at last had the
tact to understand her and to recognize that he had spoken to a girl,
indeed almost a child, and that he must wait for the woman to develop.
Hopeful, almost confident, for success and prosperity had seemingly
made a league with him in all things, he was content to wait. The major
had sanctioned his addresses from the first, and he sought to attain
his object by careful and skilful approaches. He had shown himself such
an impetuous wooer that she might well doubt his persistence; now he
would prove himself so patient and considerate that she could not doubt
him.

When they parted at the seaside Hilland was called to the far West by
important business interests. In response to his earnest pleas, in
which he movingly portrayed his loneliness in a rude mining village,
she said he might write to her occasionally, and he had written so
quietly and sensibly, so nearly as a friend might address a friend,
that she felt there could be no harm in a correspondence of this
character. During the winter season their letters had grown more
frequent, and he with consummate skill had gradually tinged his words
with a warmer hue. She smiled at his artifice. There was no longer any
need of it, for by the wood fire, when all the house was still and
wrapped in sleep, she had become fully revealed unto herself. She found
that she had a woman's heart, and that she had given it irrevocably to
Warren Hilland.

She did not tell him so--far from it. The secret seemed so strange, so
wonderful, so exquisite in its blending of pain and pleasure, that she
did not tell any one. Hers was not the nature that could babble of the
heart's deepest mysteries to half a score of confidants. To him first
she would make the supreme avowal that she had become his by a sweet
compulsion that had at last proved irresistible, and even he must again
seek that acknowledgment directly, earnestly. He was left to gather
what hope he could from the fact that she did not resent his warmer
expressions, and this leniency from a girl like Grace St. John meant so
much to him that he did gather hope daily. Her letters were not nearly
so frequent as his, but when they did come he fairly gloated over them.
They were so fresh, crisp and inspiring that they reminded him of the
seaside breezes that had quickened his pulses with health and pleasure
during the past summer. She wrote in an easy, gossiping style of the
books she was reading; of the good things in the art and literary
journals, and of such questions of the day as would naturally interest
her, and he so gratefully assured her that by this course she kept him
within the pale of civilization, that she was induced to write oftener.
In her effort to gather material that would interest him, life gained a
new and richer zest, and she learned how the kindling flame within her
heart could illumine even common things. Each day brought such a wealth
of joy that it was like a new and glad surprise. The page she read had
not only the interest imparted to it by the author, but also the far
greater charm of suggesting thoughts of him or for him; and so began an
interchange of books and periodicals, with pencillings, queries, marks
of approval and disapproval. "I will show him," she had resolved, "that
I am not a doll to be petted, but a woman who can be his friend and
companion."

And she proved this quite as truly by her questions, her intelligent
interest in his mining pursuits and the wild region of his sojourn, as
by her words concerning that with which she was familiar.

It was hard for Hilland to maintain his reticence or submit to the
necessity of his long absence. She had revealed the rich jewel of her
mind so fully that his love had increased with time and separation, and
he longed to obtain the complete assurance of his happiness. And yet
not for the world would he again endanger his hopes by rashness. He
ventured, however, to send the copy of Emerson with the quotation
already given strongly underscored. Since she made no allusion to this
in her subsequent letter, he again grew more wary, but as spring
advanced the tide of feeling became too strong to be wholly repressed,
and words indicating his passion would slip into his letters in spite
of himself. She saw what was coming as truly as she saw all around her
the increasing evidences of the approach of summer, and no bird sang
with a fuller or more joyous note than did her heart at the prospect.

Graham witnessed this culminating happiness, and it would have been
well for him had he known its source. Her joyousness had seemed to him
a characteristic trait, and so it was, but he could not know how
greatly it was enhanced by a cause that would have led to very
different action on his part.

Hilland had decided that he would not write to his friend concerning
his suit until his fate was decided in one way or the other. In fact,
his letters had grown rather infrequent, not from waning friendship,
but rather because their mutual interests had drifted apart. Their
relations were too firmly established to need the aid of
correspondence, and each knew that when they met again they would
resume their old ways. In the sympathetic magnetism of personal
presence confidences would be given that they would naturally hesitate
to write out in cool blood.

Thus Graham was left to drift and philosophize at first. But his aunt
was right: he could not daily see one who so fully satisfied the
cravings of his nature and coolly consider the pros and cons. He was
one who would kindle slowly, but it would be an anthracite flame that
would burn on while life lasted.

He felt that he had no reason for discouragement, for she seemed to
grow more kind and friendly every day. This was true of her manner,
for, looking upon him as Hilland's best friend, she gave him a genuine
regard, but it was an esteem which, like reflected light, was devoid of
the warmth of affection that comes direct from the heart.

She did not suspect the feeling that at last began to deepen rapidly,
nor had he any adequate idea of its strength. When a grain of corn is
planted it is the hidden root that first develops, and the controlling
influence of his life was taking root in Graham's heart. If he did not
fully comprehend this at an early day it is not strange that she did
not. She had no disposition to fall in love with every interesting man
she met, and it seemed equally absurd to credit the gentlemen of her
acquaintance with any such tendency. Her manner, therefore, toward the
other sex was characterized by a frank, pleasant friendliness which
could be mistaken for coquetry by only the most obtuse or the most
conceited of men. With all his faults Graham was neither stupid nor
vain. He understood her regard, and doubted whether he could ever
change its character. He only hoped that he might, and until he saw a
better chance for this he determined not to reveal himself, fearing
that if he did so it might terminate their acquaintance.

"My best course," he reasoned, "is to see her as often as possible, and
thus give her the opportunity to know me well. If I shall ever have any
power to win her love, she, by something in her manner or tone, will
unconsciously reveal the truth to me. Then I will not be slow to act.
Why should I lose the pleasure of these golden hours by seeking openly
that which as yet she has not the slightest disposition to give?"

This appeared to him a safe and judicious policy, and yet it may well
be doubted whether it would ever have been successful with Grace St.
John, even had she been as fancy free as when Hilland first met her.
She was a soldier's daughter, and could best be won by Hilland's
soldier-like wooing. Not that she could have been won any more readily
by direct and impetuous advances had not her heart been touched, but
the probabilities are that her heart never would have been touched by
Graham's army-of-observation tactics. It would scarcely have occurred
to her to think seriously of a man who did not follow her with an eager
quest.

On the other hand, as his aunt had suggested from the first, poor
Graham was greatly endangering his peace by this close study of a woman
lovely in herself, and, as he fully believed, peculiarly adapted to
satisfy every requirement of his nature. A man who knows nothing of a
hidden treasure goes unconcernedly on his way; if he discovers it and
then loses it he feels impoverished.



CHAPTER VIII

SUPREME MOMENTS

Graham's visit was at last lengthened to a month, and yet the impulse
of work or of departure had not seized him. Indeed, there seemed less
prospect of anything of the kind than ever. A strong mutual attachment
was growing between himself and his aunt. The brusque, quick-witted old
lady interested him, while her genuine kindness and hearty welcome gave
to him, for the first time in his life, the sense of being at home. She
was a woman of strong likes and dislikes. She had taken a fancy to
Graham from the first, and this interest fast deepened into affection.
She did not know how lonely she was in her isolated life, and she found
it so pleasant to have some one to look after and think about that she
would have been glad to have kept him with her always.

Moreover, she had a lurking hope, daily gaining confirmation, that her
nephew was not so indifferent to her favorite as he seemed. In her old
age she was beginning to long for kindred and closer ties, and she felt
that she could in effect adopt Grace, and could even endure the invalid
major for the sake of one who was so congenial. She thought it politic
however to let matters take their own course, for her strong good sense
led her to believe that meddling rarely accomplishes anything except
mischief. She was not averse to a little indirect diplomacy, however,
and did all in her power to make it easy and natural for Graham to see
the young girl as often as possible, and one lovely day, early in June,
she planned a little excursion, which, according to the experience of
her early days, promised well for her aims.

One breathless June morning that was warm, but not sultry, she went
over to the St. Johns', and suggested a drive to the brow of a hill
from which there was a superb view of the surrounding country. The plan
struck the major pleasantly, and Grace was delighted. She had the
craving for out-of-door life common to all healthful natures, but there
was another reason why she longed for a day under the open sky with her
thoughts partially and pleasantly distracted from one great truth to
which she felt she must grow accustomed by degrees. It was arranged
that they should take their lunch and spend the larger part of the
afternoon, thus giving the affair something of the aspect of a quiet
little picnic.

Although Graham tried to take the proposition quietly, he could not
repress a flush of pleasure and a certain alacrity of movement
eminently satisfactory to his aunt. Indeed, his spirits rose to a
degree that made him a marvel to himself, and he wonderingly queried,
"Can I be the same man who but a few weeks since watched the dark line
of my native country loom up in the night, and with prospects as vague
and dark as that outline?"

Miss St. John seemed perfectly radiant that morning, her eyes vying
with the June sunlight, and her cheeks emulating the roses everywhere
in bloom. What was the cause of her unaffected delight? Was it merely
the prospect of a day of pleasure in the woods? Could he hope that his
presence added to her zest for the occasion? Such were the questions
with which Graham's mind was busy as he aided the ladies in their
preparations. She certainly was more kind and friendly than usual--yes,
more familiar. He was compelled to admit, however, that her manner was
such as would be natural toward an old and trusted friend, but he
hoped--never before had he realized how dear this hope was
becoming--that some day she would awaken to the consciousness that he
might be more than a friend. In the meantime he would be patient, and,
with the best skill he could master, endeavor to win her favor, instead
of putting her on the defensive by seeking her love.

"Two elements cannot pass into combination until there is mutual
readiness," reasoned the scientist. "Contact is not combination. My
province is to watch until in some unguarded moment she gives the hope
that she would listen with her heart. To speak before that, either by
word or action, would be pain to her and humiliation to me."

The gulf between them was wide indeed, although she smiled so genially
upon him. In tying up a bundle their hands touched. He felt an electric
thrill in all his nerves; she only noticed the circumstance by saying,
"Who is it that is so awkward, you or I?"

"You are Grace," he replied. "It was I."

"I should be graceless indeed were I to find fault with anything
to-day," she said impulsively, and raising her head she looked away
into the west as if her thoughts had followed her eyes.

"It certainly is a very fine day," Graham remarked sententiously.

She turned suddenly, and saw that he was watching her keenly. Conscious
of her secret she blushed under his detected scrutiny, but laughed
lightly, saying, "You are a happy man, Mr. Graham, for you suggest that
perfect weather leaves nothing else to be desired."

"Many have to be content with little else," he replied, "and days like
this are few and far between."

"Not few and far between for me," she murmured to herself as she moved
away.

She was kinder and more friendly to Graham than ever before, but the
cause was a letter received that morning, against which her heart now
throbbed. She had written to Hilland of Graham, and of her enjoyment of
his society, dwelling slightly on his disposition to make himself
agreeable without tendencies toward sentiment and gallantry.

Love is quick to take alarm, and although Graham was his nearest
friend, Hilland could not endure the thought of leaving the field open
to him or to any one a day longer. He knew that Graham was deliberate
and by no means susceptible. And yet, to him, the fact conveyed by the
letter, that his recluse friend had found the society of Grace so
satisfactory that he had lingered on week after week, spoke volumes. It
was not like his studious and solitary companion of old. Moreover, he
understood Graham sufficiently well to know that Grace would have
peculiar attractions for him, and that upon a girl of her mind he would
make an impression very different from that which had led society
butterflies to shun him as a bore. Her letter already indicated this
truth. The natural uneasiness that he had felt all along lest some
master spirit should appear was intensified. Although Graham was so
quiet and undemonstrative, Hilland knew him to be possessed of an
indomitable energy of will when once it was aroused and directed toward
an object. Thus far from Grace's letter he believed that his friend was
only interested in the girl of his heart, and he determined to
forestall trouble, if possible, and secure the fruits of his patient
waiting and wooing, if any were to be gathered. At the same time he
resolved to be loyal to his friend, as far as he could admit his
claims, and he wrote a glowing eulogy of Graham, unmarred by a phrase
or word of detraction. Then, as frankly, he admitted his fears, in
regard not only to Graham, but to others, and followed these words with
a strong and impassioned plea in his own behalf, assuring her that time
and absence, so far from diminishing her mastery over him, had rendered
it complete. He entreated for permission to come to her, saying that
his business interests, vast as they were, counted as less than nothing
compared with the possession of her love--that he would have pressed
his suit by personal presence long before had not obligations to others
detained him. These obligations he now could and would delegate, for
all the wealth of the mines on the continent would only be a burden
unless she could share it with him. He also informed her that a ring
made of gold, which he himself had mined deep in the mountain's heart,
was on the way to her--that his own hands had helped to fashion the
rude circlet-and that it was significant of the truth that he sought
her not from the vantage ground of wealth, but because of a manly
devotion that would lead him to delve in a mine or work in a shop for
her, rather than live a life of luxury with any one else in the world.

For the loving girl what a treasure was such a letter! The joy it
brought was so overwhelming that she was glad of the distractions which
Mrs. Mayburn's little excursion promised. She wished to quiet the
tumult at her heart, so that she could write as an earnest woman to an
earnest man, which she could not do on this bright June morning, with
her heart keeping tune with every bird that sang. Such a response as
she then might have made would have been the one he would have welcomed
most, but she did not think so. "I would not for the world have him
know how my head is turned," she had laughingly assured herself, not
dreaming that such an admission would disturb his equilibrium to a far
greater degree.

"After a day," she thought, "out of doors with Mrs. Mayburn's genial
common-sense and Mr. Graham's cool, half-cynical philosophy to steady
me, I shall be sane enough to answer."

They were soon bowling away in a strong, three-seated rockaway, well
suited to country roads, Graham driving, with the object of his
thoughts and hopes beside him. Mrs. Mayburn and the major occupied the
back seat, while Jinny, with a capacious hamper, was in the middle
seat, and in the estimation of the diplomatic aunt made a good screen
and division.

All seemed to promise well for her schemes, for the young people
appeared to be getting on wonderfully together. There was a constant
succession of jest and repartee. Grace was cordiality itself; and in
Graham's eyes that morning there was coming an expression of which he
may not have been fully aware, or which at last he would permit to be
seen. Indeed, he was yielding rapidly to the spell of her beauty and
the charm of her mind and manner. He was conscious of a strange,
exquisite exhilaration. Every nerve in his body seemed alive to her
presence, while the refined and delicate curves of her cheek and throat
gave a pleasure which no statue in the galleries of Europe had ever
imparted.

He wondered at all this, for to him it was indeed a new experience. His
past with its hopes and ambitions seemed to have floated away to an
indefinite distance, and he to have awakened to a new life--a new phase
of existence. In the exaltation of the hour he felt that, whatever
might be the result, he had received a revelation of capabilities in
his nature of which he had not dreamed, and which at the time promised
to compensate for any consequent reaction. He exulted in his human
organism as a master in music might rejoice over the discovery of an
instrument fitted to respond perfectly to his genius. Indeed, the
thought crossed his mind more than once that day that the marvel of
marvels was that mere clay could be so highly organized. It was not his
thrilling nerves alone which suggested this thought, or the pure mobile
face of the young girl, so far removed from any suggestion of
earthliness, but a new feeling, developing in his heart, that seemed so
deep and strong as to be deathless.

They reached their destination in safety. The June sunlight would have
made any place attractive, but the brow of the swelling hill with its
wide outlook, its background of grove and intervening vistas, left
nothing to be desired. The horses were soon contentedly munching their
oats, and yet their stamping feet and switching tails indicated that
even for the brute creation there is ever some alloy. Graham, however,
thought that fortune had at last given him one perfect day. There was
no perceptible cloud. The present was so eminently satisfactory that it
banished the past, or, if remembered, it served as a foil. The future
promised a chance for happiness that seemed immeasurable, although the
horizon of his brief existence was so near; for he felt that with her
as his own, human life with all its limitations was a richer gift than
he had ever imagined possible. And yet, like a slight and scarcely
heard discord, the thought would come occasionally, "Since so much is
possible, more ought to be possible. With such immense capability for
life as I am conscious of to-day, how is it that this life is but a
passing and perishing manifestation?"

Such impressions took no definite form, however, but merely passed
through the dim background of his consciousness, while he gave his
whole soul to the effort to make the day one that from its unalloyed
pleasure could not fail to recall him to the memory of Miss St. John.
He believed himself to be successful, for he felt as if inspired. He
was ready with a quick reply to all her mirthful sallies, and he had
the tact to veil his delicate flattery under a manner and mode of
speech that suggested rather than revealed his admiration. She was
honestly delighted with him and his regard, as she understood it, and
she congratulated herself again and again that Hilland's friend was a
man that she also would find unusually agreeable. His kindness to her
father had warmed her heart toward him, and now his kindness and
interest were genuine, although at first somewhat hollow and assumed.

Graham had become a decided favorite with the old gentleman, for he had
proved the most efficient ally that Grace had ever gained in quickening
the pace of heavy-footed Time. Even the veteran's chilled blood seemed
to feel the influences of the day, and his gallantry toward Mrs.
Mayburn was more pronounced than usual. "We, too, will be young people
once more," he remarked, "for the opportunity may not come to us again."

They discussed their lunch with zest, they smiled into one another's
face, and indulged in little pleasantries that were as light and
passing as the zephyrs that occasionally fluttered the leaves above
their heads; but deep in each heart were memories, tides of thought,
hopes, fears, joys, that form the tragic background of all human life.
The old major gave some reminiscences of his youthful campaigning. In
his cheerful mood his presentation of them was in harmony with the
sunny afternoon. The bright sides of his experiences were toward his
auditors, but what dark shadows of wounds, agony, and death were on the
further side! And of these he could never be quite unconscious, even
while awakening laughter at the comic episodes of war.

Mrs. Mayburn seemed her plain-spoken, cheery self, intent only on
making the most of this genial hour in the autumn of her life, and yet
she was watching over a hope that she felt might make her last days her
best days. She was almost praying that the fair girl whom she had so
learned to love might become the solace of her age, and fill, in her
childless heart, a place that had ever been an aching void. Miss St.
John was too preoccupied to see any lover but one, and he was ever
present, though thousands of miles away. But she saw in Graham his
friend, and had already accepted him also as her most agreeable friend,
liking him all the better for his apparent disposition to appeal only
to her fancy and reason, instead of her heart. She saw well enough that
he liked her exceedingly, but Hilland's impetuous wooing and
impassioned words had made her feel that there was an infinite
difference between liking and loving; and she pictured to herself the
pleasure they would both enjoy when finding that their seemingly chance
acquaintance was but preparation for the closer ties which their
several relations to Hilland could not fail to occasion.

The object of this kindly but most temperate regard smiled into her
eyes, chatted easily on any topic suggested, and appeared entirely
satisfied; but was all the while conscious of a growing need which,
denied, would impoverish his life, making it, brief even as he deemed
it to be, an intolerable burden. But on this summer afternoon hope was
in the ascendant, and he saw no reason why the craving of all that was
best and noblest in his nature should not be met. When a supreme
affection first masters the heart it often carries with it a certain
assurance that there must be a response, that when so much is given by
a subtle, irresistible, unexpected impulse, the one receiving should,
sooner or later, by some law of correspondence, be inclined to return a
similar regard. All living things in nature, when not interfered with,
at the right time and in the right way, sought and found what was
essential to the completion of their life, and he was a part of nature.
According to the law of his own individuality he had yielded to Miss
St. John's power. His reason had kept pace with his heart. He had
advanced to his present attitude toward her like a man, and had not
been driven to it by the passion of an animal. Therefore he was
hopeful, self-complacent, and resolute. He not only proposed to win the
girl he loved, cost what it might in time and effort, but in the
exalted mood of the hour felt that he could and must win her.

She, all unconscious, smiled genially, and indeed seemed the very
embodiment of mirth. Her talk was brilliant, yet interspersed with
strange lapses that began to puzzle him. Meanwhile she scarcely saw
him, gave him but the passing attention with which one looks up from an
absorbing story, and all the time the letter against which her heart
pressed seemed alive and endowed with the power to make each throb more
glad and full of deep content.

How isolated and inscrutable is the mystery of each human life! Here
were four people strongly interested in each other and most friendly,
between whom was a constant interchange of word and glance, and yet
their thought and feeling were flowing in strong diverse currents,
unseen and unsuspected.

As the day declined they all grew more silent and abstracted. Deeper
shadows crept into the vistas of memory with the old, and those who had
become but memories were with them again as they had been on like June
days half a century before. With the young the future, outlined by
hope, took forms so absorbing that the present was forgotten.
Ostensibly they were looking off at the wide and diversified landscape;
in reality they were contemplating the more varied experiences, actual
and possible, of life.

At last the major complained querulously that he was growing chilly.
The shadow in which he shivered was not caused by the sinking sun.

The hint was taken at once, and in a few moments they were on their way
homeward. The old sportive humor of the morning did not return. The
major was the aged invalid again. Mrs. Mayburn and Graham were
perplexed, for Grace had seemingly become remote from them all. She was
as kind as ever; indeed her manner was characterized by an unusual
gentleness; but they could not but see that her thoughts were not with
them. The first tumultuous torrent of her joy had passed, and with it
her girlhood. Now, as an earnest woman, she was approaching the hour of
her betrothal, when she would write words that would bind her to
another and give direction to all her destiny. Her form was at Graham's
side; the woman was not there. Whither and to whom had she gone? The
question caused him to turn pale with fear.

"Miss Grace," he said at last, and there was a tinge of reproach in his
voice, "where are you? You left us some time since," and he turned and
tried to look searchingly into her eyes.

She met his without confusion or rise in color. Her feelings had become
so deep and earnest, so truly those of a woman standing on the assured
ground of fealty to another, that she was beyond her former girlish
sensitiveness and its quick, involuntary manifestations. She said
gently, "Pardon me, Mr. Graham, for my unsocial abstraction. You
deserve better treatment for all your efforts for our enjoyment to-day."

"Please do not come back on compulsion," he said. "I do not think I am
a natural Paul Pry, but I would like to know where you have been."

"I will tell you some day," she said, with a smile that was so friendly
that his heart sprang up in renewed hope. Then, as if remembering what
was due to him and the others, she buried her thoughts deep in her
heart until she could be alone with them and their object. And yet her
secret joy, like a hidden fire, tinged all her words with a kindly
warmth. Graham and his aunt were not only pleased but also perplexed,
for both were conscious of something in Grace's manner which they could
not understand. Mrs. Mayburn was sanguine that her June-day strategy
was bringing forth the much-desired results; her nephew only hoped.
They all parted with cordial words, which gave slight hint of that
which was supreme in each mind.



CHAPTER IX

THE REVELATION

Graham found letters which required his absence for a day or two, and
it seemed to him eminently fitting that he should go over in the
evening and say good-by to Miss St. John. Indeed he was disposed to say
more, if the opportunity offered. His hopes sank as he saw that the
first floor was darkened, and in answer to his summons Jinny informed
him that the major and Miss Grace were "po'ful tired" and had withdrawn
to their rooms. He trembled to find how deep was his disappointment,
and understood as never before that his old self had ceased to exist. A
month since no one was essential to him; now his being had become
complex. Then he could have crossed the ocean with a few easily spoken
farewells; now he could not go away for a few hours without feeling
that he must see one who was then a stranger. The meaning of this was
all too plain, and as he walked away in the June starlight he admitted
it fully. Another life had become essential to his own. And still he
clung to his old philosophy, muttering, "If this be true, why will not
my life become as needful to her?" His theory, like many another, was a
product of wishes rather than an induction from facts.

When he returned after a long ramble, the light still burning in Miss
St. John's window did not harmonize with the story of the young girl's
fatigue. The faint rays, however, could reveal nothing, although they
had illumined page after page traced full of words of such vital import
to him.

Mrs. Mayburn shared his early breakfast, and before he took his leave
he tried to say in an easy, natural manner:

"Please make my adieus to Miss St. John, and say I called to present
them in person, but it seemed she had retired with the birds. The
colored divinity informed me that she was 'po'ful tired,' and I hope
you will express my regret that the day proved so exceedingly
wearisome." Mrs. Mayburn lifted her keen gray eyes to her nephew's
face, and a slow rising flush appeared under her scrutiny. Then she
said gently, "That's a long speech, Alford, but I don't think it
expresses your meaning. If I give your cordial good-by to Grace and
tell her that you hope soon to see her again, shall I not better carry
out your wishes?"

"Yes," was the grave and candid reply.

"I believe you are in earnest now."

"I am, indeed," he replied, almost solemnly, and with these vague yet
significant words they came to an understanding.

Three days elapsed, and still Graham's business was not completed. In
his impatience he left it unfinished and returned. How his heart
bounded as he saw the familiar cottage! With hasty steps he passed up
the path from the street. It was just such another evening as that
which had smiled upon his first coming to his aunt's residence, only
now there was summer warmth in the air, and the richer, fuller promise
of the year. The fragrance that filled the air, if less delicate, was
more penetrating, and came from flowers that had absorbed the sun's
strengthening rays. If there was less of spring's ecstasy in the song
of the birds, there was now in their notes that which was in truer
accord with Graham's mood.

At a turn of the path he stopped short, for on the rustic seat beneath
the apple-tree he saw Miss St. John reading a letter; then he went
forward to greet her, almost impetuously, with a glow in his face and a
light in his eyes which no one had ever seen before. She rose to meet
him, and there was an answering gladness in her face which made her
seem divine to him.

"You are welcome," she said cordially. "We have all missed you more
than we dare tell you;" and she gave his hand a warm, strong pressure.

The cool, even-pulsed man, who as a boy had learned to hide his
feelings, was for a moment unable to speak. His own intense emotion,
his all-absorbing hope, blinded him to the character of her greeting,
and led him to give it a meaning it did not possess. She, equally
preoccupied with her one thought, looked at him for a moment in
surprise, and then cried, "He has told you--has written?"

"He! who?" Graham exclaimed with a blanching face.

"Why, Warren Hilland, your friend. I told you I would tell you, but I
could not before I told him," she faltered.

He took an uncertain step or two to the tree, and leaned against it for
support.

The young girl dropped the letter and clasped her hands in her
distress. "It was on the drive--our return, you remember," she began
incoherently. "You asked where my thoughts were, and I said I would
tell you soon. Oh! we have both been blind. I am so--so sorry."

Graham's face and manner had indeed been an unmistakable revelation,
and the frank, generous girl waited for no conventional acknowledgment
before uttering what was uppermost in her heart.

By an effort which evidently taxed every atom of his manhood, Graham
gained self-control, and said quietly, "Miss St. John, I think better
of myself for having loved you. If I had known! But you are not to
blame. It is I who have been blind, for you have never shown other than
the kindly regard which was most natural, knowing that I was Hilland's
friend. I have not been frank either, or I should have learned the
truth long ago. I disguised the growing interest I felt in you from the
first, fearing I should lose my chance if you understood me too early.
I am Hilland's friend. No one living now knows him better than I do,
and from the depths of my heart I congratulate you. He is the best and
truest man that ever lived."

"Will you not be my friend, also?" she faltered.

He looked at her earnestly as he replied, "Yes, for life."

"You will feel differently soon," said the young girl, trying to smile
reassuringly. "You will see that it has all been a mistake, a
misunderstanding; and when your friend returns we will have the
merriest, happiest times together."

"Could you soon feel differently?" he asked.

"Oh! why did you say that?" she moaned, burying her face in her hands.
"If you will suffer even in a small degree as I should!"

Her distress was so evident and deep that he stood erect and stepped
toward her. "Why are you so moved, Miss St. John?" he asked. "I have
merely paid you the highest compliment within my power."

Her hands dropped from her face, and she turned away, but not so
quickly as to hide the tears that dimmed her lustrous eyes. His lip
quivered for a moment at the sight of them, but she did not see this.

"You have merely paid me a compliment," she repeated in a low tone.

The lines of his mouth were firm now, his face grave and composed, and
in his gray eyes only a close observer might have seen that an
indomitable will was resuming sway. "Certainly," he continued, "and
such compliments you have received before and would often again were
you free to receive them. I cannot help remembering that there is
nothing unique in this episode."

She turned and looked at him doubtingly, as she said with hesitation,
"You then regard your--your--"

"My vacation experience," he supplied.

Her eyes widened in what resembled indignant surprise, and her tones
grew a little cold and constrained as she again repeated his words.

"You then regard your experience as a vacation episode."

"Do not for a moment think I have been insincere," he said, with strong
emphasis, "or that I should not have esteemed it the chief honor of my
life had I been successful--"

"As to that," she interrupted, "there are so many other honors that a
man can win."

"Assuredly. Pardon me, Miss St. John, but I am sure you have had to
inflict similar disappointments before. Did not the men survive?"

The girl broke out into a laugh in which there was a trace of
bitterness. "Survive!" she cried. "Indeed they did. One is already
married, and another I happen to know is engaged. I'm sure I'm glad,
however. Your logic is plain and forcible, Mr. Graham, and you relieve
my mind greatly. Men must be different from women."

"Undoubtedly."

"What did you mean by asking me, 'Could you soon feel differently?'"

He hesitated a moment and flushed slightly, then queried with a smile,
"What did you mean by saying that I should soon learn to feel
differently, and that when Hilland returned we should have the merriest
times together?"

It was her turn now to be confused now; and she saw that her words were
hollow, though spoken from a kindly impulse.

He relieved her by continuing: "You probably spoke from an instinctive
estimate of me. You remembered what a cool and wary suitor I had been.
Your father would say that I had adopted an-army-of-observation
tactics, and I might have remembered that such armies rarely accomplish
much. I waited for you to show some sign of weakness, and now you see
that I am deservedly punished. It is ever best to face the facts as
they are."

"You appear frank, Mr. Graham, and you certainly have not studied
philosophy in vain."

"Why should I not take a philosophical view of the affair? In my
policy, which I thought so safe and astute, I blundered. If from the
first I had manifested the feeling"--the young girl smiled slightly at
the word--"which you inspired, you would soon have taught me the wisdom
of repressing its growth. Thus you see that you have not the slightest
reason for self-censure; and I can go on my way, at least a wiser man."

She bowed gracefully, as she said with a laugh, "I am now beginning to
understand that Mr. Graham can scarcely regret anything which adds to
his stores of wisdom, and certainly not so slight an 'affair' as a
'vacation episode.' Now that we have talked over this little
misunderstanding so frankly and rationally, will you not join us at
whist to-night?"

"Certainly. My aunt and I will come over as usual."

Her brow contracted in perplexity as she looked searchingly at him for
a moment; but his face was simply calm, grave, and kindly in its
expression, and yet there was something about the man which impressed
her and even awed her--something unseen, but felt by her woman's
intuition. It must be admitted that it was felt but vaguely at the
time; for Grace after all was a woman, and Graham's apparent philosophy
was not altogether satisfactory. It had seemed to her as the interview
progressed that she had been surprised into showing a distress and
sympathy for which there was no occasion--that she had interpreted a
cool, self-poised man by her own passionate heart and boundless love.
In brief, she feared she had been sentimental over an occasion which
Graham, as he had suggested, was able to view philosophically. She had
put a higher estimate on his disappointment than he, apparently; and
she had too much of her father's spirit, and too much womanly pride not
to resent this, even though she was partially disarmed by this very
disappointment, and still more so by his self-accusation and his
tribute to Hilland. But that which impressed her most was something of
which she saw no trace in the calm, self-controlled man before her. As
a rule, the soul's life is hidden, except as it chooses to reveal
itself; but there are times when the excess of joy or suffering cannot
be wholly concealed, even though every muscle is rigid and the face
marble. Therefore, although there were no outward signals of distress,
Graham's agony was not without its influence on the woman before him,
and it led her to say, gently and hesitatingly, "But you promised to be
my friend, Mr. Graham."

His iron will almost failed him, for he saw how far removed she was
from those women who see and know nothing save that which strikes their
senses. He had meant to pique her pride as far as he could without
offence, even though he sank low in her estimation; but such was the
delicacy of her perceptions that she half divined the trouble he
sedulously strove to hide. He felt as if he could sit down and cry like
a child over his immeasurable loss, and for a second feared he would
give way. There was in his eyes a flash of anger at his weakness, but
it passed so quickly that she could scarcely note, much less interpret
it.

Then he stepped forward in a friendly, hearty way, and took her hand as
he said: "Yes, Miss St. John, and I will keep my promise. I will be
your friend for life. If you knew my relations to Hilland, you could
not think otherwise. I shall tell him when we meet of my first and
characteristic siege of a woman's heart, of the extreme and prudent
caution with which I opened my distant parallels, and how, at last,
when I came within telescopic sight of the prize, I found that he had
already captured it. My course has been so perfectly absurd that I must
laugh in spite of myself;" and he did laugh so naturally and genially
that Grace was constrained to join him, although the trouble and
perplexity did not wholly vanish from her eyes.

"And now," he concluded, "that I have experienced my first natural
surprise, I will do more than sensibly accept the situation. I
congratulate you upon it as no one else can. Had I a sister I would
rather that she married Hilland than any other man in the world. We
thus start on the right basis for friendship, and there need be no
awkward restraint on either side. I must now pay my respects to my
aunt, or I shall lose not only her good graces but my supper also;" and
with a smiling bow he turned and walked rapidly up the path, and
disappeared within Mrs. Mayburn's open door.

Grace looked after him, and the perplexed contraction of her brow
deepened. She picked up Hilland's letter, and slowly and musingly
folded it. Suddenly she pressed a fervent kiss upon it, and murmured:
"Thank God, the writer of this has blood in his veins; and yet--and
yet--he looked at first as if he had received a mortal wound,
and--and--all the time I felt that he suffered. But very possibly I am
crediting him with that which would be inevitable were my case his."

With bowed head she returned slowly and thoughtfully through the
twilight to her home.



CHAPTER X

THE KINSHIP OF SUFFERING

When Graham felt that he had reached the refuge of his aunt's cottage,
his self-control failed him, and he almost staggered into the dusky
parlor and sank into a chair. Burying his face in his hands, he
muttered: "Fool, fool, fool!" and a long, shuddering sigh swept through
his frame.

How long he remained in this attitude he did not know, so overwhelmed
was he by his sense of loss. At last he felt a hand laid upon his
shoulder; he looked up and saw that the lamp was lighted and that his
aunt was standing beside him. His face was so altered and haggard that
she uttered an exclamation of distress.

Graham hastily arose and turned down the light. "I cannot bear that you
should look upon my weakness," he said, hoarsely.

"I should not be ashamed of having loved Grace St. John," said the old
lady, quietly.

"Nor am I. As I told her, I think far better of myself for having done
so. A man who has seen her as I have would be less than a man had he
not loved her. But oh, the future, the future! How am I to support the
truth that my love is useless, hopeless?"

"Alford, I scarcely need tell you that my disappointment is bitter
also. I had set my heart on this thing."

"You know all, then?"

"Yes, I know she is engaged to your friend, Warren Hilland. She came
over in the dusk of last evening, and, sitting just where you are, told
me all. I kept up. It was not for me to reveal your secret. I let the
happy girl talk on, kissed her, and wished her all the happiness she
deserves. Grace is unlike other girls, or I should have known about it
long ago. I don't think she even told her father until she had first
written to him her full acknowledgment. Your friend, however, had
gained her father's consent to his addresses long since. She told me
that."

"Oh, my awful future!" he groaned. "Alford," Mrs. Mayburn said, gently
but firmly, "think of _her_ future. Grace is so good and kind that she
would be very unhappy if she saw and heard you now. I hope you did not
give way thus in her presence."

He sprang to his feet and paced the room rapidly at first, then more
and more slowly. Soon he turned up the light, and Mrs. Mayburn was
surprised at the change in his appearance.

"You are a strong, sensible woman," he began.

"Well, I will admit the premise for the sake of learning what is to
follow."

"Miss St. John must never know of my sense of loss--my present
despair," he said, in low, rapid speech. "Some zest in life may come
back to me in time; but, be that as it may, I shall meet my trouble
like a man. To make her suffer now--to cloud her well-merited happiness
and that of my friend--would be to add a bitterness beyond that of
death. Aunt, you first thought me cold and incapable of strong
attachments, and a few weeks since I could not have said that your
estimate was far astray, although I'm sure my friendship for Hilland
was as strong as the love of most men. Until I met you and Grace it was
the only evidence I possessed that I had a heart. Can you wonder? He
was the first one that ever showed me any real kindness. I was orphaned
in bitter truth, and from childhood my nature was chilled and benumbed
by neglect and isolation. Growth and change are not so much questions
of time as of conditions. From the first moment that I saw Grace St.
John, she interested me deeply; and, self-complacent, self-confident
fool that I was, I thought I could deal with the supreme question of
life as I had dealt with those which half the world never think about
at all. I remember your warning, aunt; and yet, as I said to myself at
the time, there was more of incentive than warning in your words, flow
self-confidently I smiled over them! How perfectly sure I was that I
could enjoy this rare girl's society as I would look at a painting or
listen to a symphony! Almost before I was aware, I found a craving in
my heart which I now know all the world cannot satisfy. That June day
which you arranged so kindly in my behalf made all as clear as the
cloudless sun that shone upon us. That day I was revealed fully unto
myself, but my hope was strong, for I felt that by the very law and
correspondence of nature I could not have such an immeasurable need
without having that need supplied. In my impatience I left my business
unfinished and returned this evening, for I could not endure another
hour of delay. She seemed to answer my glad looks when we met; she gave
her hand in cordial welcome. I, blinded by feeling, and thinking that
its very intensity must awaken a like return, stood speechless, almost
overwhelmed by my transcendent hope. She interpreted my manner
naturally by what was uppermost in her mind, and exclaimed: 'He has
told you--he has written.' In a moment I knew the truth, and I scarcely
think that a knife piercing my heart could inflict a deeper pang. I
could not rally for a moment or two. When shall I forget the
sympathy--the tears that dimmed her dear eyes! I have a religion at
last, and I worship the divine nature of that complete woman. The
thought that I made her suffer aroused my manhood; and from that moment
I strove to make light of the affair--to give the impression that she
was taking it more seriously than I did. I even tried to pique her
pride--I could not wound her vanity, for she has none--and I partially
succeeded. My task, however, was and will be a difficult one, for her
organization is so delicate and fine that she feels what she cannot
see. But I made her laugh in spite of herself at my prudent, wary
wooing. I removed, I think, all constraint, and we can meet as if
nothing had happened. Not that we can meet often--that would tax me
beyond my strength--but often enough to banish solicitude from her mind
and from Hilland's. Now you know the facts sufficiently to become a
shrewd and efficient ally. By all your regard for me--what is far more,
by all your love for her--I entreat you let me bring no cloud across
her bright sky. We are going over to whist as usual to-night. Let all
be as usual."

"Heaven bless you, Alford!" faltered his aunt, with tearful eyes.

"Heaven! what a mockery! Even the lichen, the insect, lives a complete
life, while we, with all our reason, so often blunder, fail, and miss
that which is essential to existence."

Mrs. Mayburn shook her head slowly and thoughtfully, and then said:
"This very fact should teach us that our philosophy of life is false.
We are both materialists--I from the habit of living for this world
only; you, I suppose, from mistaken reasoning; but in hours like these
the mist is swept aside, and I feel, I know, that this life cannot,
must not, be all in all."

"Oh, hush!" cried Graham, desperately. "To cease to exist and therefore
to suffer, may become the best one can hope for. Were it not cowardly,
I would soon end it all."

"You may well use the word 'cowardly,'" said his aunt in strong
emphasis; "and brave Grace St. John would revolt at and despise such
cowardice by every law of her nature."

"Do not fear. I hope never to do anything to forfeit her respect,
except it is for the sake of her own happiness, as when to-day I tried
to make her think my veins were filled with ice-water instead of blood.
Come, I have kept you far too long. Let us go through the formality of
supper; and then I will prove to you that if I have been weak here I
can be strong for her sake. I do not remember my mother; but nature is
strong, and I suppose there comes a time in every one's life when he
must speak to some one as he would to a mother. You have been very
kind, dear aunt, and I shall never forget that you have wished and
schemed for my happiness."

The old lady came and put her arm around the young man's neck and
looked into his face with a strange wistfulness as she said, slowly:
"There is no blood relationship between us, Alford, but we are nearer
akin than such ties could make us. You do not remember your mother; I
never had a child. But, as you say, nature is strong; and although I
have tried to satisfy myself with a hundred things, the mother in my
heart has never been content. I hoped, I prayed, that you and Grace
might become my children. Alford, I have been learning of late that I
am a lonely, unhappy old woman. Will you not be my boy? I would rather
share your sorrow than be alone in the world again."

Graham was deeply touched. He bowed his head upon her shoulder as if he
were her son, and a few hot tears fell from his eyes. "Yes, aunt," he
said, in a low tone, "you have won the right to ask anything that I can
give. Fate, in denying us both what our hearts most craved, has indeed
made us near akin; and there can be an unspoken sympathy between us
that may have a sustaining power that we cannot now know. You have
already taken the bitterness, the despair out of my sorrow; and should
I go to the ends of the earth I shall be the better for having you to
think of and care for."

"And you feel that you cannot remain here, Alford?"

"No, aunt, that is now impossible; that is, for the present."

"Yes, I suppose it is," she admitted, sadly.

"Come, aunty dear, I promised Miss St. John that we would go over as
usual to-night, and I would not for the world break my word."

"Then we shall go at once. We shall have a nice little supper on our
return. Neither of us is in the mood for it now."

After a hasty toilet Graham joined his aunt. She looked at him, and had
no fears.



CHAPTER XI

THE ORDEAL

Grace met them at the door. "It is very kind of you," she said, "to
come over this evening after a fatiguing journey."

"Very," he replied, laughingly; "a ride of fifty miles in the cars
should entitle one to a week's rest."

"I hope you are going to take it."

"Oh, no; my business man in New York has at last aroused me to heroic
action. With only the respite of a few hours' sleep I shall venture
upon the cars again and plunge into all the perils and excitements of a
real estate speculation. My property is going up, and 'there's a tide,'
you know, 'which, taken at its flood--'"

"Leads away from your friends. I see that it is useless for us to
protest, for when did a man ever give up a chance for speculation?"

"Then it is not the fault of man: we merely obey a general law."

"That is the way with you scientists," she said with a piquant nod and
smile. "You do just as you please, but you are always obeying some
profound law that we poor mortals know nothing about. We don't fall
back upon the arrangements of the universe for our motives, do we, Mrs.
Mayburn?"

"Indeed we don't," was the brusque response. "'When she will, she will,
and when she won't, she won't,' answers for us."

"Grace! Mrs. Mayburn!" called the major from the parlor; "if you don't
come soon I'll order out the guard and have you brought in. Mr.
Graham," he continued, as the young man hastened to greet him, "you are
as welcome as a leave of absence. We have had no whist since you left
us, and we are nearly an hour behind time to-night. Mrs. Mayburn, your
humble servant. Excuse me for not rising. Why the deuce my gout should
trouble me again just now I can't see. I've not seen you since that
juvenile picnic which seemed to break up all our regular habits. I
never thought that you would desert me. I suppose Mr. Graham carries a
roving commission and can't be disciplined. I propose, however, that we
set to at once and put the hour we've lost at the other end of the
evening."

It was evident that the major was in high spirits, in spite of his
catalogue of ills; and in fact his daughter's engagement had been
extremely satisfactory to him. Conscious of increasing age and
infirmity, he was delighted that Grace had chosen one so abundantly
able to take care of her and of him also. For the last few days he had
been in an amiable mood, for he felt that fortune had dealt kindly by
him. His love for his only child was the supreme affection of his
heart, and she by her choice had fulfilled his best hopes. Her future
was provided for and safe. Then from the force of long habit he thought
next of himself. If his tastes were not luxurious, he had at least a
strong liking for certain luxuries, and to these he would gladly add a
few more did his means permit. He was a connoisseur in wines and the
pleasures of the table--not that he had any tendencies toward excess,
but he delighted to sip the great wines of the world, to expatiate on
their age, character, and origin. Sometimes he would laughingly say,
"Never dilate on the treasures bequeathed to us by the old poets,
sages, and artists, but for inspiration and consolation give me a
bottle of old, old wine--wine made from grapes that ripened before I
was born."

He was too upright a man, however, to gratify these tastes beyond his
means; but Grace was an indulgent and skilful housekeeper, and made
their slender income minister to her father's pleasure in a way that
surprised even her practical friend, Mrs. Mayburn. In explanation she
would laughingly say, "I regard housekeeping as a fine art. The more
limited your materials the greater the genius required for producing
certain results. Now, I'm a genius, Mrs. Mayburn. You wouldn't dream
it, would you? Papa sometimes has a faint consciousness of the fact
when he finds on his table wines and dishes of which he knows the usual
cost. 'My dear,' he will say severely, 'is this paid for?' 'Yes,' I
reply, meekly. 'How did you manage it?' Then I stand upon my dignity,
and reply with offended majesty, 'Papa, I am housekeeper. You are too
good a soldier to question the acts of your superior officer.' Then he
makes me a most profound bow and apology, and rewards me amply by his
almost childlike enjoyment of what after all has only cost me a little
undetected economy and skill in cookery."

But the major was not so blind as he appeared to be. He knew more of
her "undetected" economies, which usually came out of her allowance,
than she supposed, and his conscience often reproached him for
permitting them; but since they appeared to give her as much pleasure
as they afforded him, he had let them pass. It is hard for a petted and
weary invalid to grow in self-denial. While the old gentleman would
have starved rather than angle for Hilland or plead his cause by a
word--he had given his consent to the young man's addresses with the
mien of a major-general--he nevertheless foresaw that wealth as the
ally of his daughter's affection would make him one of the most
discriminating and fastidious gourmands in the land.

In spite of his age and infirmity the old soldier was exceedingly fond
of travel and of hotel life. He missed the varied associations of the
army. Pain he had to endure much of the time, and from it there was no
escape. Change of place, scene, and companionship diverted his mind,
and he partially forgot his sufferings. As we have shown, he was a
devourer of newspapers, but he enjoyed the world's gossip far more when
he could talk it over with others, and maintain on the questions of the
day half a dozen good-natured controversies. When at the seashore the
previous summer he had fought scores of battles for his favorite
measures with other ancient devotees of the newspaper. Grace had made
Graham laugh many a time by her inimitable descriptions of the quaint
tilts and chaffings of these graybeards, as each urged the views of his
favorite journals; and then she would say, "You ought to see them sit
down to whist. Such prolonged and solemn sittings upset my gravity more
than all their _bric-a-brac_ jokes." And then she had sighed and said,
"I wish we could have remained longer, for papa improved so much and
was so happy."

The time was coming when he could stay longer--as long as he
pleased--for whatever pleased her father would please Grace, and would
have to please her husband. Her mother when dying had committed the old
man to her care, and a sacred obligation had been impressed upon her
childish mind which every year had strengthened.

As we have seen, Grace had given her heart to Hilland by a compulsion
which she scarcely understood herself. No thrifty calculations had had
the slightest influence in bringing the mysterious change of feeling
that had been a daily surprise to the young girl. She had turned to
Hilland as the flower turns to the sun, with scarcely more than the
difference that she was conscious that she was turning. When at last
she ceased to wonder at the truth that her life had become blended with
that of another--for, as her love developed, this union seemed the most
natural and inevitable thing in the world--she began to think of
Hilland more than of herself, and of the changes which her new
relations would involve. It became one of the purest sources of her
happiness that she would eventually have the means of gratifying every
taste and whim of her father, and could surround him with all the
comforts which his age and infirmities permitted him to enjoy.

Thus the engagement ring on Miss St. John's finger had its heights and
depths of meaning to both father and daughter; and its bright golden
hue pervaded all the prospects and possibilities--the least as well as
the greatest--of the future. It was but a plain, heavy circlet of gold,
and looked like a wedding-ring. Such to Graham it seemed to be, as its
sheen flashed upon his eyes during their play, which continued for two
hours or more, with scarcely a remark or an interruption beyond the
requirements of the game. The old major loved this complete and
scientific absorption, and Grace loved to humor him. Moreover, she
smiled more than once at Graham's intentness. Never had he played so
well, and her father had to put forth all his veteran skill and
experience to hold his own. "To think that I shed tears over his
disappointment, when a game of whist can console him!" she thought.
"How different he is from his friend! I suppose that is the reason that
they are such friends--they are so unlike. The idea of Warren playing
with that quiet, steady hand and composed face under like
circumstances! And yet, why is he so pale?"

Mrs. Mayburn understood this pallor too well, and she felt that the
ordeal had lasted long enough. She, too, had acted her part admirably,
but now she pleaded fatigue, saying that she had not been very well for
the last day or two. She was inscrutable to Grace, and caused no
misgivings. It is easier for a woman than for a man to hide emotions
from a woman, and Mrs. Mayburn's gray eyes and strong features rarely
revealed anything that she meant to conceal. The major acquiesced
good-naturedly, saying, "You are quite right to stop, Mrs. Mayburn, and
I surely have no cause to complain. We have had more play in two hours
than most people have in two weeks. I congratulate you, Mr. Graham; you
are becoming a foeman worthy of any man's steel."

Graham rose with the relief which a man would feel on leaving the rack,
and said, smilingly, "Your enthusiasm is contagious. Any man would soon
be on his mettle who played often with you."

"Is enthusiasm one of your traits?" Grace asked, with an arch smile
over her shoulder, as she went to ring the bell.

"What! Have you not remarked it?"

"Grace has been too preoccupied to remark anything--sly puss!" said the
major, laughing heartily. "My dear Mrs. Mayburn, I shall ask for your
congratulations tonight. I know we shall have yours, Mr. Graham, for
Grace has informed me that Hilland is your best and nearest friend.
This little girl of mine has been playing blind-man's-buff with her old
father. She thought she had the handkerchief tight over my eyes, but I
always keep One corner raised a little. Well, Mr. Graham, this dashing
friend of yours, who thinks he can carry all the world by storm, asked
me last summer if he could lay siege to Grace. I felt like wringing his
neck for his audacity and selfishness. The idea of any one taking Grace
from me!"

"And no one shall, papa," said Grace, hiding her blushing face behind
his white shock of hair. "But I scarcely think these details will
interest--"

"What!" cried the bluff, frank old soldier--"not interest Mrs. Mayburn,
the best and kindest of neighbors? not interest Hilland's alter ego?"

"I assure you," said Graham, laughing, "that I am deeply interested;
and I promise you, Miss Grace, that I shall give Hilland a severer
curtain lecture than he will ever receive from you, because he has left
me in the dark so long."

"Stop pinching my arm," cried the major, who was in one of his jovial
moods, and often immensely enjoyed teasing his daughter. "You may well
hide behind me. Mrs. Mayburn, I'm going to expose a rank case of filial
deception that was not in the least successful. This 'I came, I saw, I
conquered' friend of yours, Mr. Graham, soon discovered that he was
dealing with a race that was not in the habit of surrendering. But your
friend, like Wellington, never knew when he was beaten. He wouldn't
retreat an inch, but drawing his lines as close as he dared, sat down
to a regular siege."

Graham again laughed outright, and with a comical glance at the young
girl, asked, "Are you sure, sir, that Miss St. John was aware of these
siege operations?"

"Indeed she was. Your friend raised his flag at once, and nailed it to
the staff. And this little minx thought that she could deceive an old
soldier like myself by playing the role of disinterested friend to a
lonely young man condemned to the miseries of a mining town. I was
often tempted to ask her why she did not extend her sympathy to scores
of young fellows in the service who are in danger of being scalped
every day. But the joke of it was that I knew she was undermined and
must surrender long before Hilland did."

"Now, papa, it's too bad of you to expose me in this style. I appeal to
Mrs. Mayburn if I did not keep my flag flying so defiantly to the last
that even she did not suspect me."

"Yes," said the old lady, dryly; "I can testify to that."

"Which is only another proof of my penetration," chuckled the major.
"Well, well, it is so seldom I can get ahead of Grace in anything that
I like to make the most of my rare good fortune; and it seems, Mr.
Graham, as if you and your aunt had already become a part of our
present and prospective home circle. I have seen a letter in which
Warren speaks of you in a way that reminds me of a friend who was shot
almost at my side in a fight with the Indians. That was nearly half a
century ago, and yet no one has taken his place. With men, friendships
mean something, and last."

"Come, come," cried Mrs. Mayburn, bristling up, "neither Grace nor I
will permit such an implied slur upon our sex."

"My friendship for Hilland will last," said Graham, with quiet
emphasis. "Most young men are drawn together by a mutual liking--by
something congenial in their natures. I owe him a debt of gratitude
that can never be repaid, He found me a lonely, neglected boy, who had
scarcely ever known kindness, much less affection, and his ardent,
generous nature became an antidote to my gloomy tendencies. From the
first he has been a constant and faithful friend. He has not one
unworthy trait. But there is nothing negative about him, for he abounds
in the best and most manly qualities; and I think," he concluded,
speaking slowly and deliberately, as if he were making an inward vow,
"that I shall prove worthy of his trust and regard."

Grace looked at him earnestly and gratefully, and the thought again
asserted itself that she had not yet gauged his character or his
feeling toward herself. To her surprise she also noted that Mrs.
Mayburn's eyes were filled with tears, but the old lady was equal to
the occasion, and misled her by saying, "I feel condemned, Alford, that
you should have been so lonely and neglected in early life, but I know
it was so."

"Oh, well, aunt, you know I was not an interesting boy, and had I been
imposed upon you in my hobbledehoy period, our present relations might
never have existed. I must ask your congratulations also," he
continued, turning toward the major and his daughter. "My aunt and I
have in a sense adopted each other. I came hither to pay her a formal
call, and have made another very dear friend."

"Have you made only one friend since you became our neighbor?" asked
Grace, with an accent of reproach in her voice.

"I would very gladly claim you and your father as such," he replied,
smilingly.

The old major arose with an alacrity quite surprising in view of his
lameness, and pouring out two glasses of the wine that Jinny had
brought in answer to Grace's touch of the bell, he gave one of the
glasses to Graham, and with the other in his left hand, he said, "And
here I pledge you the word of a soldier that I acknowledge the claim in
full, not only for Hilland's sake, but your own. You have generously
sought to beguile the tedium of a crotchety and irritable old man; but
such as he is he gives you his hand as a true, stanch friend; and Grace
knows this means a great deal with me."

"Yes, indeed," she cried. "I declare, papa, you almost make me jealous.
You treated Warren as if you were the Great Mogul, and he but a
presuming subject. Mr. Graham, if so many new friends are not an
embarrassment of riches, will you give me a little niche among them?"
"I cannot give you that which is yours already," he replied; "nor have
I a little niche for you. You have become identified with Hilland, you
know, and therefore require a large space."

"Now, see here, my good friends, you are making too free with my own
peculiar property. You are already rich in each other, not counting Mr.
Hilland, who, according to Alford, seems to embody all human
excellence. I have only this philosophical nephew, and even with him
shall find a rival in every book he can lay hands upon. I shall
therefore carry him off at once, especially as he is to be absent
several days."

The major protested against his absence, and was cordiality itself in
his parting words.

Grace followed them out on the moonlit piazza. "Mr. Graham," she said,
hesitatingly, "you will not be absent very long, I trust."

"Oh, no," he replied, lightly; "only two or three weeks. In addition to
my affairs in the city, I have some business in Vermont, and while
there shall follow down some well-remembered trout-streams."

She turned slightly away, and buried her face in a spray of roses from
the bush that festooned the porch. He saw that a tinge of color was in
her cheeks, as she said in a low tone, "You should not be absent long;
I think your friend will soon visit us, and you should be here to
welcome him," and she glanced hastily toward him. Was it the moonlight
that made him look so very pale? His eyes held hers. Mrs. Mayburn had
walked slowly on, and seemingly he had forgotten her. The young girl's
eyes soon fell before his fixed gaze, and her face grew troubled. He
started, and said lightly, "I beg your pardon, Miss Grace, but you have
no idea what a picture you make with the aid of those roses. The human
face in clear moonlight reveals character, it is said, and I again
congratulate my friend without a shadow of doubt. Unversed as I am in
such matters, I am quite satisfied that Hilland will need no other
welcome than yours, and that he will be wholly content with it for some
time to come. Moreover, when I find myself among the trout, there's no
telling when I shall get out of the woods."

"Is fishing, then, one of your ruling passions?" the young girl asked,
with an attempt to resume her old piquant style of talk with him.

"Yes," he replied, laughing, so that his aunt might hear him; "but when
one's passions are of so mild a type one may be excused for having a
half-dozen. Good-by!"

She stepped forward and held out her hand. "You have promised to be my
friend," she said, gently.

His hand trembled in her grasp as he said quietly and firmly, "I will
keep my promise."

She looked after him wistfully, as she thought, "I'm not sure about
him. I hope it's only a passing disappointment, for we should not like
to think that our happiness had brought him wretchedness."



CHAPTER XII

FLIGHT TO NATURE

Graham found his aunt waiting for him on the rustic seat beneath the
apple-tree. Here, a few hours before, his heart elate with hope, he had
hastened forward to meet Grace St. John. Ages seemed to have passed
since that moment of bitter disappointment, teaching him how relative a
thing is time.

The old lady joined him without a word, and they passed on silently to
the house. As they entered, she said, trying to infuse into the
commonplace words something of her sympathy and affection, "Now we will
have a cosey little supper."

Graham placed his hand upon her arm, and detained her, as he replied,
"No, aunt; please get nothing for me. I must hide myself for a few
hours from even your kind eyes. Do not think me weak or unmanly. I
shall soon get the reins well in hand, and shall then be quiet enough."

"I think your self-control has been admirable this evening."

"It was the self-control of sheer, desperate force, and only partial at
that. I know I must have been almost ghostly in my pallor. I have felt
pale--as if I were bleeding to death. I did not mean to take her hand
in parting, for I could not trust myself; but she held it out so kindly
that I had to give mine, which, in spite of my whole will power,
trembled. I troubled and perplexed her. I have infused an element of
sorrow and bitterness into her happy love; for in the degree in which
it gives her joy she will fear that it brings the heartache to me, and
she is too good and kind not to care. I must go away and not return
until my face is bronzed and my nerves are steel. Oh, aunt! you cannot
understand me; I scarcely understand myself. It seems as if all the
love that I might have given to many in the past, had my life been like
that of others, had been accumulating for this hopeless, useless
waste--this worse than waste, since it only wounds and pains its
object."

"And do I count for so little, Alford?"

"You count for more now than all others save one; and if you knew how
contrary this utter unreserve is to my nature and habit, you would
understand how perfect is my confidence in you and how deep is my
affection. But I am learning with a sort of dull, dreary astonishment
that there are heights and depths of experience of which I once had not
the faintest conception. This is a kind of battle that one must fight
out alone. I must go away and accustom myself to a new condition of
life. But do not worry about me. I shall come back a vertebrate;" and
he tried to summon a reassuring smile, as he kissed her in parting.

That night Graham faced his trouble, and decided upon his future course.

After an early breakfast the next morning, the young man bade his aunt
good-by. With moist eyes, she said, "Alford, I am losing you, just as I
find how much you are and can be to me."

"No, aunty dear; my course will prove best for us both," he replied,
gently. "You would not be happy if you saw me growing more sad and
despairing every day through inaction, and--and--well, I could never
become strong and calm with that cottage there just beyond the trees.
You have not lost me, for I shall try to prove a good correspondent."

Graham kept his word. His "real estate speculation" did not detain him
long in the city, for his business agent was better able to manage such
interests than the inexperienced student; and soon a letter dated among
the mountains and the trout streams of Vermont assured Mrs. Mayburn
that he had carried out his intentions. Not long after, a box with a
score of superb fish followed the letter, and Major St. John's name was
pinned on some of the largest and finest. During the next fortnight
these trophies of his sport continued to arrive at brief intervals, and
they were accompanied by letters, giving in almost journal form graphic
descriptions of the streams he had fished, their surrounding scenery,
and the amusing peculiarities of the natives. There was not a word that
suggested the cause that had driven him so suddenly into the
wilderness, but on every page were evidences of tireless activity.

The major was delighted with the trout, and enjoyed a high feast almost
every day. Mrs. Mayburn, imagining that she had divined Graham's wish,
read from his letters glowing extracts which apparently revealed an
enthusiastic sportsman.

After his departure Grace had resumed her frequent visits to her
congenial old friend, and confidence having now been given in respect
to her absent lover, the young girl spoke of him out of the abundance
of her heart. Mrs. Mayburn tried to be all interest and sympathy, but
Grace was puzzled by something in her manner--something not absent when
she was reading Graham's letters. One afternoon she said: "Tell your
father that he may soon expect something extraordinarily fine, for
Alford has written me of a twenty-mile tramp through the mountains to a
stream almost unknown and inaccessible."

"Won't you read the description to us this evening? You have no idea
how much pleasure papa takes in Mr. Graham's letters. He says they
increase the gamy flavor of the fish he enjoys so much; and I half
believe that Mr. Graham in this indirect and delicate way is still
seeking to amuse my father, and so compensate him for his absence.
Warren will soon be here, however, and then we can resume our whist
parties. Do you know that I am almost jealous? Papa talks more of
Vermont woods than of Western mines. You ought to hear him expatiate
upon the trout. He seems to follow Mr. Graham up and down every stream;
and he explains to me with the utmost minuteness just how the flies are
cast and just where they were probably thrown to snare the speckled
beauties. By the way, Mr. Graham puzzles me. He seems to be the most
indefatigable sportsman I ever heard of. But I should never have
suspected it from the tranquil weeks he spent with us. He seemed above
all things a student of the most quiet and intellectual tastes, one who
could find more pleasure in a library and laboratory than in all the
rest of the world together. Suddenly he develops into the most ardent
disciple of Izaak Walton. Indeed, he is too ardent, too full of
restless activity, to be a true follower of the gentle, placid Izaak.
At his present rate he will soon overrun all Vermont;" and she looked
searchingly at her friend.

A faint color stole into the old lady's cheeks, but she replied,
quietly: "I have learned to know Alford well enough to love him dearly;
and yet you must remember that but a few weeks ago he was a comparative
stranger to me. He certainly is giving us ample proof of his
sportsmanship, and now that I recall it, I remember hearing of his
fondness for solitary rambles in the woods when a boy."

"His descriptions certainly prove that he is familiar with them," was
the young girl's answer to Mrs. Mayburn's words. Her inward comment on
the slight flush that accompanied them was: "She knows. He has told
her; or she, less blind than I, has seen." But she felt that the
admission of his love into which Graham had been surprised was not a
topic for her to introduce, although she longed to be assured that she
had not seriously disturbed the peace of her lover's friend. A day or
two later Hilland arrived, and her happiness was too deep, too
complete, to permit many thoughts of the sportsman in the Vermont
forests. Nor did Hilland's brief but hearty expressions of regret at
Graham's temporary absence impose upon her. She saw that the former was
indeed more than content with her welcome; that while his friendship
was a fixed star of the first magnitude, it paled and almost
disappeared before the brightness and fulness of her presence.
"Nature," indeed, became "radiant" to both "with purple light, the
morning and the night varied enchantments."

Grace waited for Graham to give his own confidence to his friend if he
chose to do so, for she feared that if she spoke of it estrangement
might ensue. The unsuspecting major was enthusiastic in his praises of
the successful fisherman, and Hilland indorsed with emphasis all he
said. Graham's absence and Grace's reception had banished even the
thought that he might possibly find a rival in his friend, and his
happiness was unalloyed.

One sultry summer evening in early July Graham returned to his aunt's
residence, and was informed that she was, as usual, at her neighbor's.
He went immediately to his room to remove the dust and stains of
travel. On his table still lay the marked copy of Emerson that Grace
had lent him, and he smiled bitterly as he recalled his complacent,
careless surmises over the underscored passage, now so well understood
and explained. Having finished his toilet, he gazed steadily at his
reflection in the mirror, as a soldier might have done to see if his
equipment was complete. It was evident he had not gone in vain to
nature for help. His face was bronzed, and no telltale flush or pallor
could now be easily recognized. His expression was calm and resolute,
indicating nerves braced and firm. Then he turned away with the look of
a man going into battle, and without a moment's hesitancy he sought the
ordeal. The windows and doors of Major St. John's cottage were open,
and as he mounted the piazza the group around the whist-table was in
full view--the major contracting his bushy eyebrows over his hand as if
not altogether satisfied, Mrs. Mayburn looking at hers with an interest
so faint as to suggest that her thoughts were wandering, and Hilland
with his laughing blue eyes glancing often from his cards to the fair
face of his partner, as if he saw there a story that would deepen in
its inthralling interest through life. There was no shadow, no doubt on
his wide, white brow. It was the genial, frank, merry face of the boy
who had thawed the reserve and banished the gathering gloom of a
solitary youth at college, only now it was marked by the stronger lines
of early manhood. His fine, short upper lip was clean shaven, and its
tremulous curves indicated a nature quick, sensitive, and ready to
respond to every passing influence, while a full, tawny beard and broad
shoulders banished all suggestion of effeminacy. He appeared to be,
what in truth he was, an unspoiled favorite of fortune, now supremely
happy in her best and latest gift. "If I could but have known the truth
at first," sighed Graham, "I would not have lingered here until my very
soul was enslaved; for he is the man above all others to win and hold a
woman's heart."

That he held the heart of the fair girl opposite him was revealed by
every glance, and Graham's heart ached with a pain hard to endure, as
he watched for a moment the exquisite outlines of her face, her wide,
low brow with its halo of light-colored hair that was in such marked
contrast with the dark and lustrous eyes, now veiled by silken lashes
as she looked downward intent on the game, now beaming with the very
spirit of mirth and mischief as she looked at her opponents, and again
softening in obedience to the controlling law of her life as she
glanced half shyly from time to time at the great bearded man on the
other side of the table.

"Was not the world wide enough for me to escape seeing that face?" he
groaned. "A few months since I was content with my life and lot. Why
did I come thousands of miles to meet such a fate? I feared I should
have to face poverty and privation for a time. Now they are my lot for
life, an impoverishment that wealth would only enhance. I cannot stay
here, I will not remain a day longer than is essential to make the
impression I wish to leave;" and with a firm step he crossed the
piazza, rapped lightly in announcement of his presence, and entered
without ceremony.

Hilland sprang forward joyously to meet him, and gave him just such a
greeting as accorded with his ardent spirit. "Why, Graham!" he cried,
with a crushing grasp, and resting a hand on his shoulder at the same
time, "you come unexpectedly, like all the best things in the world. We
looked for a letter that would give us a chance to celebrate your
arrival as that of the greatest fisherman of the age."

"Having taken so many unwary trout, it was quite in keeping to take us
unawares," said Grace, pressing forward with outstretched hand, for she
had determined to show in the most emphatic way that Hilland's friend
was also hers.

Graham took the proffered hand and held it, while, with a humorous
glance at his friend, he said: "See here, Hilland, I hold an
indisputable proof that it's time you appeared on the confines of
civilization and gave an account of yourself."

"I own up, old fellow. You have me on the hip. I have kept one secret
from you. If we had been together the thing would have come out, but
somehow I couldn't write, even to you, until I knew my fate."

"Mr. Graham," broke in the major, "if we were in the service, I should
place you in charge of the commissary department, and give you a roving
commission. I have lived like a lord for the past two weeks;" and he
shook Graham's hand so cordially as to prove his heart had sympathized
with an adjacent organ that had been highly gratified.

"I have missed you, Alford," was his aunt's quiet greeting, and she
kissed him as if he were her son, causing a sudden pang as he
remembered how soon he would bid her farewell again.

"Why, Graham, how you have improved! You have gained a splendid color
in the woods. The only trouble is that you are as attenuated as some of
the theories we used to discuss."

"And you, giddy boy, begin to look quite like a man. Miss Grace, you
will never know how greatly you are indebted to me for my restraining
influence. There never was a fellow who needed to be sat down upon so
often as Hilland. I have curbed and pruned him; indeed, I have almost
brought him up."

"He does you credit," was her reply, spoken with mirthful
impressiveness, and with a very contented glance at the laughing
subject of discussion.

"Yes, Graham," he remarked, "you were a trifle heavy at times, and were
better at bringing a fellow down than up. It took all the leverage of
my jolly good nature to bring you up occasionally. But I am glad to see
and hear that you have changed so happily. Grace and the major say you
have become the best of company, taking a human interest in other
questions than those which keep the scientists by the ears."

"That is because I have broken my shell and come out into the world.
One soon discovers that there are other questions, and some of them
conundrums that the scientists may as well give up at the start. I say,
Hilland, how young we were over there in Germany when we thought
ourselves growing hourly into _savants!_"

"Indeed we were, and as sublimely complacent as we were young. Would
you believe it, Mrs. Mayburn, your nephew and I at one time thought we
were on the trail of some of the most elusive secrets of the universe,
and that we should soon drag them from cover. I have learned since that
this little girl could teach me more than all the universities."

Graham shot a swift glance at his aunt, which Grace thought she
detected; but he turned to the latter, and said genially: "I
congratulate you on excelling all the German doctors. I know he's
right, and he'll remember the lore obtained from you long after he has
forgotten the deep, guttural abstractions that droned on his ears
abroad. It will do him more good, too."

"I fear I am becoming a subject of irony to you both," said Grace.

"They are both becoming too deep for us, are they not, Mrs. Mayburn?"
put in the major. "You obtained your best knowledge, Mr. Graham, when
you trampled the woods as a boy, and though you gathered so much of it
by hook it's like the fish you killed, rare to find. If we were in the
service and I had the power, I'd have you brevetted at once, and get
some fellow knocked on the head to make a vacancy. You have been
contributing royally to our mess, and now you must take a soldier's
luck with us to-night. Grace, couldn't you improvise a nice little
supper?"

"Please do not let me cause any such trouble this hot evening," Graham
began; "I dined late in town, and--"

"No insubordination," interrupted Grace, rising with alacrity.
"Certainly I can, papa," and as she paused near Graham, she murmured:
"Don't object; it will please papa."

She showed what a provident housekeeper she was, for they all soon sat
down to an inviting repast, of which fruit was the staple article, with
cake so light and delicate that it would never disturb a man's
conscience after he retired. Then with genial words and smiles that
masked all heartache, Graham and his aunt said good-night and departed,
Hilland accompanying his friend, that he might pour out the
long-delayed confidence. Graham shivered as he thought of the ordeal,
as a man might tremble who was on his way to the torture-chamber, but
outwardly he was quietly cordial.



CHAPTER XIII

THE FRIENDS

After accompanying Mrs. Mayburn to her cottage door, the friends
strolled away together, the sultry evening rendering them reluctant to
enter the house. When they reached the rustic seat under the
apple-tree, Hilland remarked: "Here's a good place for our--"

"Not here," interrupted Graham, in a tone that was almost sharp in its
tension.

"Why not?" asked his friend, in the accent of surprise.

"Oh, well," was the confused answer, "some one may be passing--servants
may be out in the grounds. Suppose we walk slowly."

"Graham, you seem possessed by the very demon of restlessness. The idea
of walking this hot night!"

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," Graham replied, carelessly, although his
face was rigid with the effort; and he threw himself down on the rustic
seat. "We are not conspirators that we need steal away in the darkness.
Why should I not be restless after sitting in the hot cars all day, and
with the habit of tramping fresh upon me?"

"What evil spirit drove you into the wilderness and made you the
champion tramp of the country? It seems to me you must have some
remarkable confidences also."

"No evil spirit, I assure you; far from it. My tramp has done me good;
indeed, I never derived more benefit from an outing in the woods in my
life. You will remember that when we were boys at college no fellow
took longer walks than I. I am simply returning to the impulses of my
youth. The fact is, I've been living too idly, and of course there
would be a reaction in one of my temperament and habits. The vital
force which had been accumulating under my aunt's high feeding and the
inspiration resulting from the society of two such charming people as
Major and Miss St. John had to be expended in some way. Somehow I've
lost much of my old faith in books and laboratories. I've been thinking
a great deal about it, and seeing you again has given a strong impulse
to a forming purpose. I felt a sincere commiseration when you gave up
your life of a student. I was a fool to do so. I have studied your face
and manner this evening, and can see that you have developed more
manhood out in those Western mines, in your contact with men and things
and the large material interests of the world, than you could have
acquired by delving a thousand years among dusty tomes."

"That little girl over there has done more for me than Western mines
and material interests."

"That goes without saying; and yet she could have done little for you,
had you been a dawdler. Indeed, in that case she would have had nothing
to do with you. She recognized that you were like the gold you are
mining--worth taking and fashioning; and I tell you she is not a girl
to be imposed upon."

"Flatterer!"

"No; friend."

"You admire Grace very much."

"I do indeed, and I respect her still more. You know I never was a
lady's man; indeed, the society of most young women was a weariness to
me. Don't imagine I am asserting any superiority. You enjoyed their
conversation, and you are as clever as I am."

"I understand," said Hilland, laughing; "you had nothing in common. You
talked to a girl as if she were a mile off, and often broached topics
that were cycles away. Now, a girl likes a fellow to come reasonably
close--metaphorically, if not actually--when he chats with her.
Moreover, many that you met, if they had brains, had never cultivated
them. They were as shallow as a duck-pond, and with their small
deceits, subterfuges, and affectations were about as transparent. Some
might imagine them deep. They puzzled and nonplussed you, and you slunk
away. Now I, while rating them at their worth, was able from previous
associations to talk a little congenial nonsense, and pass on. They
amused me, too. You know I have a sort of laughing philosophy, and
everything and everybody amuses me. The fellows would call these
creatures angels, and they would flap their little butterfly wings as
if they thought they were. How happened it that you so soon were _en
rapport_ with Grace?"

"Ah, wily wretch!" Graham laughed gayly, while the night hid his
lowering brows; "praise of your mistress is sweeter than flattery to
yourself. Why, simply because she is Grace St. John. I imagine that it
is her army life that has so blended unconventionality with perfect
good breeding. She is her bluff, honest, high-spirited old father over
again, only idealized, refined, and womanly. Then she must have
inherited some rare qualities from her Southern mother: you see my aunt
has told me all about them. I once met a Southern lady abroad, and
although she was middle-aged, she fascinated me more than any girl I
had ever met. In the first place, there was an indescribable accent
that I never heard in Europe--slight, indeed, but very pleasing to the
ear. I sometimes detect traces of it in Miss St. John's speech. Then
this lady had a frankness and sincerity of manner which put you at your
ease at once; and yet with it all there was a fine reserve. You no more
feared that she would blurt out something unsanctioned by good taste
than that she would dance a hornpipe. She was singularly gentle and
retiring in her manner; and yet one instinctively felt he would rather
insult a Southern fire-eater than offend her. She gave the impression
that she had been accustomed to a chivalric deference from men, rather
than mere society attentions; and one unconsciously infused a subtle
homage in his very accent when speaking to her. Now, I imagine that
Miss St. John's mother must have been closely akin to this woman in
character. You know my weakness for analyzing everything. You used to
say I couldn't smoke a cigar without going into the philosophy of it. I
had not spent one evening in the society of Miss St. John before I saw
that she was a _rara avis_. Then her devotion to her invalid father is
superb. She enlisted me in his service the first day of my arrival.
Although old, crippled, often racked with pain, and afflicted with a
temper which arbitrary command has not improved, she beguiles him out
of himself, smiles away his gloom--in brief, creates so genial an
atmosphere about him that every breath is balm, and does it all, too,
without apparent effort You see no machinery at work. Now, this was all
a new and very interesting study of life to me, and I studied it.
There, too, is my aunt, who is quite as interesting in her way. Such
women make general or wholesale cynicism impossible, or else
hypocritical;" and he was about to launch out into as extended an
analysis of the old lady's peculiarities, when Hilland interrupted him
with a slap on the shoulder and a ringing laugh.

"Graham, you haven't changed a mite. You discourse just as of old, when
in our den at the university we befogged ourselves in the tobacco-smoke
and the denser obscurities of German metaphysics, only your theme is
infinitely more interesting. Now, when I met my paragon, Grace, whom
you have limned with the feeling of an artist rather than of an
analyst, although with a blending of both, I fell in love with her."

"Yes, Hilland, it's just like you to fall in love. My fear has ever
been that you would fall in love with a face some day, and not with a
woman. But I now congratulate you from the depths of my soul."

"How comes it that _you_ did not fall in love with one whom you admire
so much? You were not aware of my suit."

"I suppose it is not according to my nature to 'fall in love,' as you
term it. The very phrase is repugnant to me. When a man is falling in
any sense of the word, his reason is rather apt to be muddled and
confused, and he cannot be very sure where he will land. If you had not
appeared on the scene my reason would have approved of my marriage with
Miss St. John--that is, if I had seen the slightest chance of
acceptance, which, of course, I never have. I should be an egregious
fool were it otherwise."

"How about your heart?"

"The heart often leads to the sheerest folly," was the sharp rejoinder.

Hilland laughed in his good-humored way. His friend's reply seemed the
result of irritation at the thought that the heart should have much to
say when reason demurred. "Well, Graham," he said, kindly and
earnestly, "if I did not know you so well, I should say you were the
most cold-blooded, frog-like fellow in existence. You certainly are an
enigma to me on the woman question. I must admit that my heart went
headlong from the first; but when at last reason caught up, and had
time to get her breath and look the case over, she said it was 'all
right'--far better than she had expected. To one of my temperament,
however, it seems very droll that reason should lead the way to love,
and the heart come limping after."

"Many a one has taken the amatory tumble who would be glad to reason
his way up and back. But we need not discuss this matter in the
abstract, for we have too much that is personal to say to each other.
You are safe; your wonted good fortune has served you better than ever.
All the wisdom of Solomon could not have enabled you to fall in love
more judiciously. Indeed, when I come to think of it, the wisdom of
Solomon, according to history, was rather at fault in these matters.
Tell me how it all came about" (for he knew the story must come); "only
outline the tale to-night. I've been speculating and analyzing so long
that it is late; and the major, hearing voices in the grounds, may
bring some of his old army ordnance to bear on us."

But Hilland, out of the abundance of his heart, found much to say; and
his friend sat cold, shivering in the sultry night, his heart growing
more despairing as he saw the heaven of successful wooing that he could
never enter. At last Hilland closed with the words, "I say, Graham, are
you asleep?"

"Oh, no," in a husky voice.

"You are taking cold."

"I believe I am."

"I'm a brute to keep you up in this style. As I live, I believe there
is the tinge of dawn in the east."

"May every dawn bring a happy day to you, Warren," was said so gently
and earnestly that Hilland rested his arm on his friend's shoulder as
he replied, "You've a queer heart, Alford, but such as it is I would
not exchange it for that of any man living." Then abruptly, "Do you
hold to our old views that this life ends all?"

A thrill of something like exultation shot through Graham's frame as he
replied, "Certainly."

Hilland sprang up and paced the walk a moment, then said, "Well, I
don't know. A woman like Grace St. John shakes my faith in our old
belief. It seems profanation to assert that she is mere clay."

The lurid gleam of light which the thought of ceasing to exist and to
suffer had brought to Graham faded. It did seem like profanation. At
any rate, at that moment it was a hideous truth that such a creature
might by the chance of any accident resolve into mere dust. And yet it
seemed a truth which must apply to her as well as to the grossest of
her sisterhood. He could only falter, "She is very highly organized."

They both felt that it was a lame and impotent conclusion.

But the spring of happiness was in Hilland's heart. The present was too
rich for him to permit such dreary speculations, and he remarked
cordially and laughingly, "Well, Graham, we have made amends for our
long separation and silence. We have talked all the summer night. I am
rich, indeed, in such a friend and such a sweetheart; and the latter
must truly approach perfection when my dear old philosopher of the
stoic school could think it safe and wise to marry her, were all the
conditions favorable. You don't wish that I was at the bottom of one of
my mines, do you, Alford?"

Graham felt that the interview must end at once, so he rose and said,
"No, I do not. My reason approves of your choice. If you wish more, my
'queer heart, such as it is,' approves of it also. If I had the power
to change everything this moment I would not do so. You have fairly won
your love, and may all the forces of nature conspire to prosper you
both. But come," he added in a lighter vein, "Miss St. John may be
watching and waiting for your return, and even imagining that I, with
my purely intellectual bent, may regard you as a disturbing element in
the problem, and so be led to eliminate you in a quiet, scientific
manner."

"Well, then, good night, or morning, rather. Forgive a lover's
garrulousness."

"I was more garrulous than you, without half your excuse. No, I'll see
you safely home. I wish to walk a little to get up a circulation. With
your divine flame burning so brightly, I suppose you could sit through
a zero night; but you must remember that such a modicum of philosophy
as I possess will not keep me warm. There, good-by, old fellow. Sleep
the sleep of the just, and, what is better in this chance-medley world,
of the happy. Don't be imagining that you have any occasion to worry
about me."

Hilland went to his room in a complacent mood, and more in love than
ever. Had not his keen-eyed, analytical friend, after weeks of careful
observation, testified to the exceeding worth of the girl of his heart?
He had been in love, and he had ever heard that love is blind. It
seemed to him that his friend could never love as he understood the
word; and yet the peerless maiden had so satisfied the exactions of
Graham's taste and reason, and had proved herself so generally
admirable, that he felt it would be wise and advantageous to marry her.

"It's a queer way of looking at these things," he concluded, with a
shrug, "but then it is Graham's way."

Soon he was smiling in his repose, for the great joy of his waking
hours threw its light far down into the obscurity of sleep.

Graham turned slowly away, and walked with downcast face to the rustic
seat. He stood by it a moment, and then sank into it like a man who has
reached the final limit of human endurance. He uttered no sound, but at
brief intervals a shiver ran through his frame. His head sank into his
hands, and he looked and felt like one utterly crushed by a fate from
which there was no escape. His ever-recurring thought was, "I have but
one life, and it's lost, worse than lost. Why should I stagger on
beneath the burden of an intolerable existence, which will only grow
heavier as the forces of life fail?"

At last in his agony he uttered the words aloud. A hand was laid upon
his shoulder, and a husky, broken voice said, "Here is one reason."

He started up, and saw that his aunt stood beside him.

The dawn was gray, but the face of the aged woman was grayer and more
pallid. She did not entreat--her feeling seemed too deep for words--but
with clasped hands she lifted her tear-dimmed eyes to his. Her withered
bosom rose and fell in short, convulsive sobs, and it was evident that
she could scarcely stand.

His eyes sank, and a sudden sense of guilt and shame at his
forgetfulness of her overcame him. Then yielding to an impulse, all the
stronger because mastering one who had few impulses, he took her in his
arms, kissed her repeatedly, and supported her tenderly to the cottage.
When at last they reached the quaint little parlor he placed her
tenderly in her chair, and, taking her hand, he kissed it, and said
solemnly, "No, aunty, I will not die. I will live out my days for your
sake, and do my best."

"Thank God!" she murmured--"thank God!" and for a moment she leaned her
head upon his breast as he knelt beside her. Suddenly she lifted
herself, with a return of her old energy; and he rose and stood beside
her. She looked at him intently as if she would read his thoughts, and
then shook her finger impressively as she said, "Mark my words, Alford,
mark my words: good will come of that promise."

"It has come already," he gently replied, "in that you, my best friend,
are comforted. Now go and rest and sleep. Have no fear, for your touch
of love has broken all evil spells."

Graham went to his room, calmed by an inflexible resolution. It was no
longer a question of happiness or unhappiness, or even of despair; it
was simply a question of honor, of keeping his word. He sat down and
read once more the paragraph in the marked copy of Emerson, "No man
ever forgot--" He gave the words a long, wistful look, and then closed
the volume as if he were closing a chapter of his life.

"Well," he sighed, "I did my best last night not to dispel their
enchantment, for of course Hilland will tell her the substance of our
talk. Now, it must be my task for a brief time to maintain and deepen
the impression that I have made."

Having no desire for sleep, he softly paced his room, but it was not in
nervous excitement. His pulse was quiet and regular, and his mind
reverted easily to a plan of extended travel upon which he had been
dwelling while in the woods. At last he threw himself upon his couch,
and slept for an hour or two. On awaking he found that it was past the
usual breakfast hour, and after a hasty toilet he went in search of his
aunt, but was informed that she was still sleeping.

"Do not disturb her," he said to the servant. "Let her sleep as long as
she will."

He then wrote a note, saying that he had decided to go to town to
attend to some business which had been neglected in his absence, and
was soon on his way to the train.



CHAPTER XIV

NOBLE DECEPTION

In the course of the forenoon Hilland called on his friend, and was
informed that Graham had gone to the city on business, but would return
in the evening. He also learned that Mrs. Mayburn was indisposed, and
had not yet risen. At these tidings Grace ran over to see her old
friend, hoping to do something for her comfort, and the young girl was
almost shocked when she saw Mrs. Mayburn's pinched and pallid face upon
her pillow. She seemed to have aged in a night.

"You are seriously ill!" she exclaimed, "and you did not let me know.
Mr. Graham should not have left you."

"He did not know," said the old lady, sharply, for the slightest
imputation against Graham touched her keenly. "He is kindness itself to
me. He only heard this morning that I was sleeping, and he left word
that I should not be disturbed. He also wrote a note explaining the
business which had been neglected in his absence. Oh, I assure you, no
one could be more considerate."

"Dear, loyal Mrs. Mayburn, you won't hear a word against those you
love. I think Mr. Graham wonderfully considerate for a man. You know we
should not expect much of men. I have to manage two, and it keeps me
busy, but never so busy that I cannot do all in my power for my dear
old friend. I'll get your breakfast myself, and bring it to you with my
own hands, and force it upon you with the inexorable firmness of Sairy
Gamp;" and she vanished to the kitchen.

The old lady turned her face to the wall and moaned, "Oh, if it could
only have been! Why is it that we so often set our hearts on that which
is denied? After a long, dull sleep of years it seemed as if my heart
had wakened in my old age only to find how poor and lonely I am. Alford
cannot stay with me--I could not expect it--neither can Grace; and so I
must go on alone to the end. I'm punished, punished that years ago I
did not make some one love me; but I was self-sufficient then."

Her regret was deepened when Grace returned with a dainty breakfast,
and waited on her with a daughter's gentleness and tenderness, making
her smile in spite of herself at her funny speeches, and beguiling her
into enjoyment of the present moment with a witchery that none could
resist.

Presently Mrs. May burn sighed, "It's a fearfully hot day for Alford to
be in town."

"For a student," cried Grace, "he is the most indefatigable man I ever
heard of. Warren told me that they sat out there under the apple-tree
and poured out their hearts till dawn. Talk about schoolgirls babbling
all night. My comment on Warren's folly was a dose of quinine. It's
astonishing how these _savants_, these intellectual giants, need taking
care of like babies. Woman's mission will never cease as long as there
are learned men in the world. They will sit in a draught and discuss
some obscure law concerning the moons of Jupiter; but when the law
resulting in influenza manifests itself, then they learn our worth."

"Oh, dear!" groaned Mrs. Mayburn, "I didn't give Alford any quinine.
You were more provident than I."

"How could you, when you were asleep?"

"Ah, true!" was the confused reply. "But then I should have been awake.
I should have remembered that he did not come in when I did last night."

The faint color that stole into the face that had been so pale gave
some surprise to the young girl. When once her mind was directed to a
subject her intuitions were exceedingly keen.

From the time the secret of his regard for her had been, surprised from
him, Graham had been a puzzle to her. Was he the cool, philosophical
lover that he would have her think? Hilland was so frank in nature and
so wholly under her influence that it was next to impossible for him
not to share with her his every thought. She had, therefore, learned
substantially the particulars of last night's interview, and she could
not fully accept his belief that Graham's intellect alone had been
captivated. She remembered how he had leaned against the tree for
support; how pale he had been during the evening that followed; and how
his hand had trembled in parting. She remembered his sudden flight to
the mountains, his tireless energy there, as if driven on by an aching
wound that permitted no rest. True, he had borne himself strongly and
well in her presence the evening before; and he had given the friend
who knew him so well the impression that it was merely an instance of
the quiet weighing of the pros and cons, in which, after much
deliberation, the pros had won. There had been much in his course, too,
to give color to this view of the case; but her woman's instinct
suggested that there was something more--something she did not know
about; and she would have been less or more than woman had she not
wished to learn the whole truth in a matter of this nature. She hoped
that her lover was right, and that Graham's heart, in accordance with
his development theory, was so inchoate as to be incapable of much
suffering. She was not sure, however. There was something she surmised
rather than detected. She felt it now in Mrs. Mayburn's presence, and
caught a glimpse of it in the flush that was fading from her cheeks.
Had the nephew given his aunt his confidence? or had she with her ripe
experience and keen insight discovered the ultimate truth?

It was evident that while Mrs. Mayburn still loved her dearly, and
probably was much disappointed that things had turned out as they had,
she had given her loyalty to Graham, and would voluntarily neither do
nor say anything that would compromise him. The slight flush suggested
to Grace that the aunt had awaited the nephew's return in the early
dawn, and that they had spoken freely together before separating; but
she was the last one in the world to attempt to surprise a secret from
another.

Still she wished to know the truth, for she felt a little guilty over
her reticence in regard to her relations with Hilland. She, perhaps,
had made too much of the luxury of keeping her secret until it could
shine forth as the sun of her life; and Graham had been left in an
ignorance that had not been fair to him. With a growing perception of
his character, now that she had given thought to the subject, she saw
that if he had learned to love her at all, it must have been in
accordance with his nature, quietly, deliberately, even analytically.
He was the last man to fall tumultuously in love. But when he had given
it in his own way, could she be sure it was a cool, easily managed
preference that he might at his leisure transfer to another who
satisfied his reason and taste even more fully than herself? If this
were true, her mind would be at rest; and she could like Hilland's
friend heartily, as one of the most agreeable human oddities it had
been her fortune to meet. She had serious misgivings, however, which
Mrs. Mayburn's sudden indisposition, and the marks of suffering upon
her face, did not tend to banish.

Whatever the truth might be, she felt that he had shown much
thoughtfulness for her in his frankness with Hilland. He had rendered
it unnecessary for her to conceal her knowledge of his regard. She need
have no secrets, so far as he was concerned. The only question was as
to the nature of this regard. If the impression he sought to give her
lover was correct, neither of them had cause for much solicitude. If to
save them pain he was seeking to hide a deeper wound, it was a noble
deception, and dictated by a noble, unselfish nature. If the latter
supposition should prove true, she felt that she would discover it
without any direct effort. But she also felt that her lover should be
left, if possible, under the impression his friend had sought to make,
and that Graham should have the solace of thinking he had concealed his
feelings from them both.

As the long evening shadows stretched eastward across the sloping lawn
in front of the St. John cottage, the family gathered on the piazza to
enjoy the welcome respite from the scorching heat of the day.

The old major looked weary and overcome. A July sun was the only fire
before which he had ever flinched. Hilland still appeared a little
heavy from his long hot afternoon nap, his amends for the vigils of the
previous night. Grace was enchanting in her light clinging draperies,
which made her lovely form tenfold more beautiful, because clothed in
perfect taste. The heat had deepened the flush upon her cheeks, and
brought a soft languor into her eyes, and as she stood under an arch of
the American woodbine, that mantled the supports of the piazza roof,
she might easily have fulfilled an artist's dream of summer. Hilland's
eyes kindled as he looked upon her, as she stood with averted face,
conscious meanwhile of his admiration, and exulting in it. What sweeter
incense is ever offered to a woman?

"Grace," he whispered, "you would create a pulse in a marble statue
to-night. You never looked more lovely."

"There is a glamour on your eyes, Warren," she replied; and yet the
quick flash of joy that came into her face proved the power of his
words, which still had all the exquisite charm of novelty.

"It's the glamour that will last while I do," he responded, earnestly.
"Are not this scene and hour perfect? and you are the gem of it all. I
don't see how a man could ask or wish for more than I have to-night,
except that it might last forever." A shadow passed over his face, and
he added, presently, "To think that after a few weeks I must return to
those blasted mines! One thing is settled, however. I shall close out
my interests there as speedily as possible; and were it not for my
obligations to others, I'd never go near them again. I have money
enough twice over, and am a fool to miss one hour with you."

"You will be all the happier, Warren, if you close up your interests in
the West in a manly, business-like way. I always wish to be as proud of
you as I am now. What's more, I don't believe in idle men, no matter
how rich they are. I should be worried at once if you had nothing to do
but sit around and make fine speeches. You'd soon weary of the
sugar-plum business, and so should I. I have read somewhere that the
true way to keep a man a lover is to give him plenty of work."

"Will you choose my work for me?"

"No; anything you like, so it is not speculation."

"I think I'll come and be your father's gardener."

"If you do," she replied, with a decisive little nod, "you will have to
rake and hoe so many hours a day before you can have any dinner."

"But you, fair Eve, would bring your fancy-work, and sit with me in the
shade."

"The idea of a gardener sitting in the shade, with weeds growing on
every side."

"But you would, my Eve."

"Possibly, after I had seen that you had earned your bread by the
'perspiration of your brow,' as a very nice maiden lady, a neighbor of
ours, always phrases it."

"That shall be my calling as soon as I can get East again. Major, I
apply for the situation of gardener as soon as I can sell out my
interests in the mines."

"I have nothing to do with it," was the reply. "Grace commands this
post, and while here you are under her orders."

"And you'll find out, too, what a martinet I am," she added. "There's
no telling how often I'll put you under arrest and mount guard over you
myself. So!"

"What numberless breaches of discipline there will be!"

Lovers' converse consists largely in tone and glance, and these cannot
be written; and were this possible, it could have but the slenderest
interest to the reader.

After a transient pause Hilland remarked: "Think of poor Graham in the
fiery furnace of New York to-day. I can imagine what a wilted and
dilapidated-looking specimen he will be if he escapes alive--By Jove,
there he is!" and the subject of his speech came as briskly up the walk
as if the thermometer had been in the seventies instead of the
nineties. His dress was quiet and elegant, and his form erect and step
elastic.

As he approached the piazza and doffed his hat, Hilland cried: "Graham,
you are the coolest fellow I ever saw. I was just commiserating you,
and expecting you to look like a cabbage--no, rose-leaf that had been
out in the sun; and you appear just as if you had stepped from a
refrigerator."

"All a matter of temperament and will, my dear fellow. I decided I
would not be hot to-day; and I've been very comfortable."

"Why did you not decide not to be cold last night?"

"I was so occupied with your interminable yarns that I forgot to think
about it. Miss Grace, for your sake and on this evening, I might wish
that there was a coolness between us, but from your kind greeting I see
there is not. Good-evening, major; I have brought with me a slight
proof that I do not forget my friends;" and he handed him a large
package of newspapers, several of them being finely illustrated foreign
prints.

"I promote you on the spot," cried the delighted veteran. "I felt that
fate owed me some amends for this long, horrid day. My paper did not
come this morning, and I had too much regard for the lives of my
household to send any one up the hot streets after one."

"Oh, papa!" cried Grace, "forgive me that I did not discover the fact.
I'm sure I saw you reading a paper."

"It was an old one. I read it through again, advertisements and all.
Oh, I know you. You'd have turned out the whole garrison at twelve M.,
had you found it out."

Graham dropped carelessly into an easy-chair, and they all noted the
pleasure with which the old gentleman adjusted his glasses, and scanned
the pictures of the world's current history. Like many whose sight is
failing, and to whom the tastes and memories of childhood are
returning, the poor old man found increasing delight in a picture which
suggested a great deal, and aided him to imagine more; and he would
often beguile his tedium by the hour with the illustrated journals.

"Mr. Graham," said Grace, after a pause in their talk, "have you seen
your aunt since your return?"

"No," he replied, turning hastily toward her.

"She is not very well; I've been to see her twice."

He gave her a mom

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