THE PARTING
At last Madge was alone. Her sister had suggested everything she could
think of, meanwhile bewailing the young girl's extreme imprudence.
Madge entreated for quiet and rest, and at last was left alone. Hour
after hour she lay with wide, fixed gaze. Her mind and imagination
did not partake of her physical weakness, and now they were abnormally
active. As the bewilderment from the shock of her abrupt awakening
passed, the truth hourly grew clearer. From the time she had first
come under her sister's roof Graydon Muir had begun to make himself
essential to her. His uniform kindness had created trust, freedom, and
a content akin to happiness. Now all was swept away. She understood
that his love was an affection resulting from pity and the strong,
genial forces of his nature. The girl who could kindle his spirit and
inspire the best and most enthusiastic efforts of his manhood must be
like Miss Wildmere--strong, beautiful, capable of keeping step with
him under society's critical eyes, and not a mere shadow of a woman
like herself. Her morbidly acute fancy recalled the ballroom. She saw
him again after his return, encircling the fair girl with his arm, and
looking down into her eyes with a meaning unmistakable. Oh, why had
she gone to that fatal party! The past, in contrast to the present and
the promise of the future, seemed happiness itself.
What could she do? What should she do? The more she thought of it
the more unendurable her position appeared. In her vivid
self-consciousness the old relations could not continue. Heretofore
his caresses had been a matter of course, of habit. They could be so
no longer. She shrank from them with inexpressible fear, knowing they
would bring what little blood she possessed to her face and very brow
in tell-tale floods. The one event from which her sensitive womanhood
drew back in deepest dread was his knowledge of her love. To prevent
this she would rather die, and she felt so weak and despairing that
she thought and almost hoped she would die. If she could only go away,
where she would not see him, and hide her wound! But how could she,
chained near his daily presence by weakness and helplessness?
Thus through the long night her despairing thoughts went to and fro,
and found no rest. Miss Wildmere's cold glance met her everywhere with
the assurance that such a creature as she could never be anything to
him, and, alas! his own words confirmed the verdict. Love that gives
all demands all, and such pitiful affection as he now gave was only a
mockery. The morning found her too weak to leave her room, and for
the few following days she made illness her excuse for remaining in
seclusion. As Graydon looked ruefully at her vacant chair the fourth
evening after the company, Mrs. Muir remarked, reproachfully, "I hope
you now realize how delicate Madge is. You never should have coaxed
her to go to that party."
He was filled with compunction, and brought her flowers, boxes of
candy, books, and everything which he imagined would amuse her. At the
same time he was growing a little impatient and provoked. He knew
that he had taken her from the kindest motives. Now that she gave up
utterly to her invalidism, he was inclined to question its necessity.
He found that he missed her more than he would have imagined, and his
brief hours at home were dreary by reason of her seclusion.
"Why don't you call in a first-class physician and put Madge under
a thorough course of treatment?" he asked, irritably. "She has no
disease now that I know anything about, and I don't believe it's
necessary that she should remain so weak and lackadaisical."
"We did have our doctor call often, and he said she would outgrow her
troubles if she would take plenty of fresh of fresh air and exercise.
And now she positively refuses to see a physician."
"I wouldn't humor a sick girl's fancies. She needs tonics and a
general building up. With your permission I'll stop on my way downtown
to-morrow and tell Dr. Anderson to call."
Mrs. Muir repeated the conversation to her sister, with the
literalness of which only unimaginative women are capable. Madge
turned her face to the wall, and said, coldly and decisively, "I
refuse to see a physician. I am no longer a child, and my wishes must
be respected." After a moment she added, apologetically: "A doctor
could do me no good. I shall soon be stronger. You understand me
better than Dr. Anderson can. You are the best and kindest nurse that
ever breathed, and I've had enough of doctors. I'll take anything you
give me."
These politic words appealed to Mrs. Muir's weak point. Nothing
pleased her better than to believe that she could act the part of
physician in the family, and prescribing for Madge was a source of
unflagging interest. When she informed Graydon of their decision in
the morning, he muttered something not very complimentary to either of
the ladies; but his good-nature prevailed, and instead of the doctor
he ordered a superb bouquet of Jacqueminot roses.
Meanwhile events were taking place of which Madge had no knowledge,
but which would favor the plan slowly maturing in her mind. Mr. Muir's
business affairs had been taking a turn which made it probable that
he would soon have to send his brother abroad. As long as there was
uncertainty the reticent man said nothing, but at last he received
advices which brought him to a prompt decision, and Graydon was told
that he must go at once. The young fellow submitted with fairly
good grace. A brief foreign residence had its attractions, but it
interfered with his incipient suit to Miss Wildmere. He felt that he
had not gone far enough for a definite proposal, but he showed, during
the brief call that his time permitted, an interest which the young
lady well understood. Since he was to be absent for an indefinite
period, and would have no chance to observe her other little affairs,
she permitted herself to be gracious and regretful up to the point of
inspiring much hope for the future. With a nicety of tact--the result
of experience--she confirmed his view that they had made favorable
impressions on each other, and that for the present they must be
content with this.
He had but a day in which to make his preparations in order to catch
a fast steamer that sailed at daylight the following morning. Madge's
first sensation when she learned of his near departure was one of
immense relief. The possibility which she had so dreaded could not
now be realized, and her plan could be carried out with far less
embarrassment. But as time passed, and she knew that their separation
was so near, her heart relented toward him with inexpressible
tenderness. The roses that perfumed the room were a type of his
unstinted kindness and consideration. She was just enough to
acknowledge that these were even more than she could naturally expect
from him--that the majority of young men would have treated her with
a half contemptuous pity which she was now beginning to admit would
be partially deserved. On the occasions when she had gone out with him
she had learned how unattractive in society her pale face and shy ways
were. Such attentions as she had received had been to her sensitive
spirit like charity. Graydon had been animated by unaffected good-will
and an affection that was, after its kind, genuine. While she
felt that it would be no longer possible to receive these mild
manifestations of regard while giving something so different, she
still knew, with a half despairing sinking of heart, how blank and
desolate her life would be without them. She must meet him once more,
and word was sent that she would receive his good-by after dinner.
Having safely passed this one interview, she hoped that she might be
able to control the future, and either cease to be, or bring about
changes upon which she had resolved.
Only a soft, dim light shone in her room when he came to say farewell.
"Why, Madge," he exclaimed, "you are better! You actually have color.
Perhaps it is fever, though," he added, dubiously. "At any rate, it's
very becoming."
"I think it must be the reflection from your roses there, you
extravagant fellow," she replied, laughing.
"That's famous, Madge. If you will laugh again like that I'll send
you a present from Paris. Dear Madge, do get well. Don't let us have
anything dismal in our parting. It's only for a little while, you
know. When I come back it will be summer, and I'll take you to the
seashore or mountains or somewhere, and help you get well."
"You are very kind, Graydon. You have been a true brother to me from
the time you tried to cheer and encourage the pale, frightened little
girl that sat opposite you at the dinner-table. Don't you remember?"
"Of course I do. It seemed so droll to me that you were afraid when
there was nothing to be afraid of."
"My fear was natural. Little as I know of the world, I know that--at
least for one like me. It may seem weak and silly to you, but, brought
up as I had been, I was morbidly sensitive. You might have meant to
be kind and sympathetic and all that, and yet have hurt me cruelly.
I have been out with you enough to know how I am regarded. I don't
complain. I suppose it is the way of the world, but it has not been
your way. You have brought sunshine from the first, not from a sense
of duty, not out of sheer humiliating pity, but because it was the
impulse of your strength to help and cheer one who was so weak, and
if--if--anything--Well, I want you to know before you go away that I
appreciate it all and shall never forget it."
"Oh, come, Madge, don't talk so dismally. What do you mean by
'if--if--anything'? You are going to get strong and well, and we will
open the campaign together next fall."
She shook her head, but asked, lightly, "How will Miss Wildmere endure
your absence?"
"Easier than you, I imagine. She knows how to console herself. Still,
as my little sister, I will tell you in confidence that she was very
kind in our parting interview. How much her kindness meant only she
herself knows, and I've been in society long enough to know that it
may mean very little."
"Are you so wholly bent upon winning her, Graydon?"
"Oh, you little Mother Eve! You are surely going to get well. There is
no sign of longevity in a woman so certain as curiosity. I've not yet
reached the point of breaking my heart about her, whatever she does.
Wouldn't you like so beautiful a creature for your sister?"
"The contrast would be too great. I should indeed seem a ghost
beside her. Still, if she would make you happy--" But she could go no
further.
"Well, well, that's a very uncertain problem of the future. Don't say
anything about it at home. My brother don't like her father. They do
not get on well in business. Let us talk about yourself. What are you
going to do while I am gone?"
"What can such a shadow as I do? Tell me rather what you are going
to do, and where you'll be. You are real, and what you do amounts to
something."
"There's one thing I'm going to do, and that is, write you some jolly
letters that will make you laugh in spite of yourself. They will be
part of the tonic treatment that I want you to promise me to begin at
once."
"I have already entered upon it, Graydon," she said, quietly, "and I
don't think any one will value your letters more than I, only I may
not get strong enough to write very much in reply. I've never had
occasion to write many letters, you know. Tell me where you will be
and what you are going to do," and she leaned back upon her lounge and
closed her eyes.
While he complied, he thought, "She has grown pale and thin even to
ghastliness, yet I was sure she had color when I first came in. Poor
little thing! perhaps her fears are well founded, and I may never
see her again;" and the good-hearted fellow was full of tender and
remorseful regret. He was quite as fond of her as if she had been his
own sister, perhaps even more so, for his affection was not merely the
result of a natural tie, but of something congenial to his nature in
the girl herself, and it cut him to the heart to see her so white and
frail. He stopped a moment, and she opened her eyes and looked at him
inquiringly.
"Oh, Madge," he broke out, "I'm so sorry I took you to that confounded
party. You seemed getting on hopefully until that blasted evening.
You must get well enough to haunt me after your old fashion. You don't
know what a dear little sister you have become, and I didn't know it
myself until you were secluded by illness, and all through my fault.
You have barricaded yourself long enough with that stand and its vase
of roses. I'm not going to say good-by at this distance." He removed
the stand, and seating himself by her side, he drew her head down
upon his shoulder and kissed her again and again. "There now," he
continued, "you look perfectly lovely. Kisses are a part of the tonic
treatment you need, and I wish I were going to be here to give them.
Why, you queer little woman! I did not know you had so much blood in
your body."
"It's--it's because I'm not strong," she said, struggling for release.
Suddenly she became still, her face took on almost the hue of death,
and he saw that she was unconscious.
In terrible alarm he laid her hastily on the lounge, and rushed for
Mrs. Muir.
"She has merely fainted," said that experienced woman, after a
moment's examination. "You never will learn, Graydon, that Madge is
not as strong as yourself. Call one of the maids, and leave her to
me."
That was the last time he saw Madge Alden for more than two years. She
soon rallied, but agreed with her sister that it would be best not
to see him again. She sent him one of his own roses, with the simple
message, "Good-by."
Late at night he went down to the steamer, depressed and anxious,
carrying with him the vivid memory of Madge lying white and death-like
where he had laid her apparently lifeless form.
"I shall never see her again," he muttered. "Such weakness must be
mortal."