MADGE'S STORY
Early in the beautiful morning of the following day Graydon was out
securing a light carriage, for he reasoned that after watching all
night Madge would be too weary to enjoy horseback exercise. He first
called on the doctor, and obtained careful directions as to the
locality of Madge's sojourn. "The best I can do is to go with you
as guide this afternoon to the trout-stream, and then drive back by
moonlight," the doctor added.
Within an hour Graydon reached the cottage, and Madge ran out to
welcome him. "Now, this is kind and thoughtful of you," she said, and
there was unmistakable gladness in her face.
"Dear Madge, you have had a long, dismal night, I fear. I can see it
from the lines under your eyes."
"It has been a sad night, Graydon, yet I am very glad I came, and you
have now rewarded me. The poor girl is sleeping, and I can slip away."
Mr. and Mrs. Wendall parted from her feelingly and gratefully. Madge
promised to come again soon.
For a few moments they drove in silence, and then Madge sighed: "How
young, fresh, and full of beautiful life the world seems this morning!
The contrast with that poor, suffering, dying girl is too great.
Nature often appears strangely indifferent."
"I am not indifferent, Madge. I kept a sort of watch with you for an
hour or two last night in the wee, sma' hours, and tried to imagine
you sitting in just such an open window as I saw there, with the
moonlight on your face; and I thought that the poor girl had one good
angel watching over her. You know I am a man of the world, but an act
of ministry like this touches me closely."
"No, Graydon; not a good angel, but a very human creature was the
watcher."
"Tell me about it--that is, continue the story from the point where
Mary left off;" and he explained about Mrs. Muir's account of the
previous evening.
"Well, you know what a wilful creature I am?" she began, with the
glimmer of a smile.
"Oh, yes; I've learned to understand that feature of your royal
womanhood. You are trying to be a woman, Madge. Well, you are one--the
kind I believe in. See how much faith I have--I believe, yet don't
understand."
"No jesting or compliments this morning, please; I'm too heavy-hearted
for them now."
"You ought to be serene and happy after so kind and good a deed."
"No," she said, decisively; "that sympathy must be superficial which
can pass almost immediately into self-complacency. Oh, Graydon, it is
all so sad, yet not sad; so passing strange, yet as natural and true
as life and death! I did sit for hours just as you imagined, looking
out on the great, still mountains. Never did they seem so vast
and stable, and our life so vapor-like, as when I heard that poor
fluttering breath come and go at my side. There was a time when this
truth grew oppressive; but later on that feeble life, which seemed
but a breath, came to mean something greater and more real than the
mountains themselves. But I am anticipating. As soon as Mary departed
I became as imperious as I dared to be. I saw that the poor mother had
reached about the limit of her endurance, and I arranged the lounge in
the sitting-room, so that she could lie down at once, saying: 'I am a
stranger, and young, and it's not natural that you should be willing
to give up to me too much, nor do I wish you to be far away; yet I
can see just how sorely in need of rest you are. You must finish your
supper, give me your directions, and then lie down and get every bit
of rest you can. I can easily keep awake, and promise to call you
whenever you are needed.'
"'Nancy,' her husband added, 'Miss Alden is right. I see by the way
she takes hold that she'll do everything, and you're jest beat out.'
So between us we had our way.
"'Bless you, miss,' said the man, trying to smile in a way that almost
made me cry, 'I'm as handy as a woman 'bout a kitchen;' and he soon
proved that he was handier than I could have been, for in a few
minutes he pulled up from the well a pail, took out a dressed chicken,
and broiled it to perfection. I made his wife eat some of it, and
saved a little of the breast for poor Tilly, as they call her."
"Did you take any yourself?" interrupted Graydon.
"Oh, yes, indeed! I'm one of those prosaic creatures whose appetite
never fails. If the world were coming to an end to-day I should insist
on having my breakfast."
"Madge," said Graydon, ruefully, "I might as well tell you, for I'm
sure to be found out: I once called you 'lackadaisical.'"
"Oh, I knew that over two years ago! What's more, you were right."
"No; I was not right," he answered, positively. "I should have
recognized the possibilities of your nature then. I did in regard to
your beauty, but not those higher qualities which bid fair to make you
my patron saint."
"Oh, hush, Graydon. Such words only pain me. I don't want your
compliments, and if any man made a patron saint of me I should be so
exasperated that I should probably box his ears. Let us stick to what
is simple, natural, and true, in all our talk."
"You may say what you please, Madge, I see it more clearly every day,
and reproach myself that I did not understand you. I was content to
amuse and pet you, and you naturally did not think me capable of doing
anything more. You went away alone to make as brave a fight as was
ever battled out in this world, and I had no part in helping you.
Mr. and Mrs. Wayland were worth a wilderness of superficial
society-fellows like me. I now know why you did not care to correspond
with me while making your noble effort."
[Illustration: HER LIPS WERE SLIGHTLY PARTED; HER POSE, GRACE ITSELF.]
"Truly, Graydon, your memory and penetration are phenomenal."
"You may disclaim out of kindness now, but I know I am right. You make
my life appear shallow and trivial. What have I done in the last two
years but attend carefully, from habit, to the details of business,
and then amuse myself? And when I wrote I merely sought to amuse you.
What were my flippant letters worth to one who was in earnest?"
"Graydon," said Madge, looking into his eyes with gentle dignity, "you
may do yourself injustice if you will, but you shall not misjudge me.
I have acquired a little of the art of taking care of myself, and you
are doing me a wrong which I cannot permit. I remember everything,
from the time that your kind eyes rested on the pallid, shrinking
child that crept down to the dining-room when we first met, and from
that day to this you have been kind and helpful to me. I said that
I regarded you as one of the best friends I had in the world. Do
you think me insincere? Do you think I forget how kind you were when
society would not have tolerated the ghost I was? I am not one who
forgets and ignores the past--who can go on to new friends with a
frigid shoulder for old ones. Let us end these misunderstandings.
Before the year is out you will probably be engaged, perhaps married.
Our lives will be widely separated. That is inevitable from the nature
of things. But distance and absence can cause no such separation as
results from misunderstanding. If we should not meet again in twenty
years I should be the same loyal friend. Now I've said it, and don't
vex me again by speaking as if I had not said and meant it."
"I can scarcely tell whether your words make me more glad or sad. Each
feeling is deeper than you will ever believe. You certainly give
me the impression that if I marry Stella Wildmere our lives will be
separated."
"You don't take nature, especially woman-nature, into consideration at
all. I am not congenial to Miss Wildmere; she does not like me. It
is nothing against her, but some people are antagonistic. This is
especially true among women, and in this case it is not strange. Our
experiences have been very different. She has ever been a beautiful,
brilliant society-girl. With her at your side you would always be
an object of envy in circles congenial to you, for admiration would
follow her as the light follows day. In the past, you know, I have
not been influenced by society considerations, and in the future they
shall be very secondary. Therefore we of necessity are unlike, and
could never be much company for each other. There is never any use
in trying to ignore the old law of 'like unto like.' I say this in
explanation of what you know is true all the world over. Even
the close ties of kindred often count for little where tastes,
occupations, and habits of thought are diverse. All this is nothing
against your perfect right to please yourself. In this land, thank
Heaven! families and friends cannot yoke people together to pull
forward general and miscellaneous interests."
"You speak as if it were a slight thing when the woman whom a man
marries is merely accepted, tolerated, by his kindred."
"I have not said that, Graydon; I have only said again what I said
before--that a man has a right to please himself. The truth is trite
enough; why recur to it?"
"Gravitation is trite enough, but it often has an acute bearing on
one's experience. You do not like Stella--"
"And she does not like me."
"Very well; but you try to be just to her, and when she has lived a
while in different associations you will find her greatly changed.
I think you can be her close friend in the future. But Henry detests
her, and he is so quietly and obstinately tenacious in his views that
the fact annoys me exceedingly."
"Very well; you can't help that. You will live in different houses,
and your domestic life will be quite removed from business interests."
"Oh, confound Henry! He married to suit himself, so shall I. But,
Madge, dear Madge, you will try to love her--to help her to be more
like you, for my sake?"
At last Madge's laugh rang out merrily. "For mercy's sake, Graydon,
don't ask me to be a missionary to your wife," she cried. "If I
escaped with my eyes I should be lucky. You must think your wife
perfection, and make her think you do. Woe be unto you if you
introduce a female friend and suggest that she should be imitated,
even to the arch of an eyebrow. Oh, no, I thank you! That's a sphere
in which I shouldn't shine at all, and I wouldn't dare attempt it with
any feminine saint in the calendar. Oh, Graydon, what a dear old goose
you are!" and she laughed till the tears came into her eyes. He joined
her in a half vexed way, protesting that she was still as uncanny as a
ghost, although she had lost the aspect of one.
Suddenly she stopped, and tears of sorrow filled her eyes. "Here I
am, laughing at our absurd talk," she said, "when I have just left the
side of a poor girl, no older than myself, who is ghostly indeed in
her flickering life. Is it heartless to seem to forget so soon? Oh,
Graydon, you don't know what trouble is! You have only had vexations
thus far. Let me tell you what happened last night, if only to make
you grateful for your strong, prosperous life."
"Tell me anything you wish. I always have better thoughts and impulses
after being with you."
"Please don't regard me as egotistical, or offend me by thinking I am
trying to be better than others. Why shouldn't I help that poor girl?
We often dance all night for fun; why can't we watch occasionally for
pity? And in simple truth it will be a long time before the ache for
that poor creature will go out of my heart. It came very close home,
Graydon--very close. It brought to mind another girl, who was once
scarcely stronger or better than Tilly Wendall is to-day, but God was
kind. Tilly also has great black eyes, and they do look so large and
pathetic in the wan little face! At first they did not notice me much.
I was only another of the watchers who had come to aid her mother.
It's astonishing how kind these plain country people are to one
another in trouble, and many a housewife in this region has toiled all
day and then sat up with the poor child the livelong night.
"For the first few hours I could do little more than help her move
in her weak restlessness, and give remedies to relieve her incessant
cough. The poor thing seemed neither more nor less than a victim of
disease, that with a cruelty almost malign had tortured her. I can't
explain how this awful impression grew upon me. It was as if viewless,
brutal hands had racked the emaciated form until intelligence was
gone, and then, not content, would continue their vindictive work
while breath remained in the body. As my watch was prolonged this
impression grew into a nightmare of horror. The still house, the
silent, white, beautiful world without, and that frail young girl
tortured hour after hour under my eyes by fever and a convulsive,
incessant, remorseless cough."
She buried her face in her hands, and for a moment or two her voice
was choked with sobs.
"Oh, Madge," cried Graydon, almost fiercely, "you anger me! I would
strangle a man who harmed a hair of such a child's head. How can I
worship a God who sends or permits such a thing? You are braver than
I. I could see a man shot, but I couldn't look upon what you have
described. Yet the picture brings back the moment when we parted--when
you struggled feebly in my arms with a premonition of your almost
mortal weakness, and then sank back white and deathlike. If you had
not made so wise and brave an effort you might have lingered on in
torture like this poor girl. You stood in just that peril, did you
not?"
"I suppose I did."
"Oh, what a clod I was! I used to hear you cough night after night,
and I would mutter, 'Poor Madge!' and go to sleep. To think that you
might have suffered as this girl is suffering! I never realized it
before, yet I thought I did. I can't tell you how my whole nature
rebels at it all, and pious talk about resignation in the presence of
such scenes fairly makes me grind my teeth;" and his brow blackened
like night in his mental revolt, and his eyes were sternly fixed in
honest, indignant arraignment of the Power he did not scruple to defy,
though so impotent to resist.
Madge brushed away her tears, and watched him earnestly for a moment.
In that confused instant she exulted in the strong, generous, kindly
manhood that would not cringe even to omnipotence when apparently
cruel. She said, gently, "Graydon, you are condemning God."
"I can't help it," he began, impetuously, "that is, such a God--"
She put her hand over his mouth.
"I like you better for your words," she continued, "but please don't
talk so any more. Let what you have said apply to 'such a God--' I
know what you mean, but there is no such being in existence. Let me
finish my story. We have had too many interruptions, and this secluded
road has an end. I won't try to explain my faith. What happened may
make it clearer to you. Well, Tilly gradually grew quieter, and at
last slept. The tired mother was sleeping also, and I sat at the
window just as you imagined, my thoughts sad and questioning, to say
the least At last I saw that Tilly was awake, and looking at me with
something like interest and curiosity. I went to her and asked if I
could do anything.
"She said, in her slow, feeble way, 'I thought I knew every one about
here, but I don't remember to have seen you before.'
"Then I told her who I was, and that her mother was in the next room.
"'You are very kind,' she said. 'And you are from the hotel. Isn't it
a little strange?'
"'It should not be,' I replied, and explained how I came to stay,
adding, 'Don't talk any more. You are not strong enough.'
"With a quiet smile that astonished me, she said, 'It won't make any
difference, Miss Alden; I shall never be any better, or, rather, I
shall soon be well. My mind seems growing clearer, and I'd like to
talk a little. It is strange to see a young girl here. Are you strong
and well?'
"'Yes, very strong, and very glad to help your mother take care of
you. I was once almost as ill as you are, yet I got well. Cheer up,
and let us nurse you back to health.'
"She shook her head. 'No, that's now impossible. You come and cheer
poor mother and father, Miss Alden. I am more than cheerful, I am
happy.'
"I made her call me Madge, and said: 'Tell me then in a few words how
you can be happy. My heart has just been aching for you ever since I
came.'
"Perhaps she saw tears in my eyes, for she said, 'Sit down by me.'
Then she took my hand, leaned her cheek upon it, and looked at me with
such a lovely sympathy in her beautiful dark eyes!
"'Yes,' she said, 'I see you are young and strong, and you probably
have wealth and many friends; still I think I am better off than you
are. I am almost home, and you may have long, weary journeying before
you yet. You ask me why I am happy. I'll just give you the negative
reasons: think how much they mean to me--"And there shall be no more
death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more
pain." All these may be taken from my life any hour. Think of what
will be added to it. You believe all this, Madge?'
"'Yes.'
"'Then you must know why I am happy, and why I may be better off than
you are. It will be very hard for father and mother--there will be
more pain for them here in consequence--but soon it will all end
forever; in a little while we shall be together again. So you know
nearly all about poor little me,' she said, with another of her
smiles, which were the sweetest, yet most unearthly things I ever saw.
'And now tell me about yourself. I'm not able to talk much more for
the present. I'd like to know something about the friend who helped
me through the last few steps of my journey. I can think about you in
heaven, you know,' she said, with the sweetest little laugh. 'Don't
look so sad, Madge. They'll tell you I'm gone soon. "Gone where?" ask
yourself, and never grieve a moment.'
"Oh, Graydon, she made it all seem so real, talking there alone in the
night! And it is just as she says or it isn't anything. When you
said, 'Such a God,' you had in mind a theological phantom, and I don't
wonder you felt as you did; but this girl believes in a God who 'so
loved the world'--who so loved her--and I do also. Her pain, her
thwarted young life, I don't understand any more than I do other
phases of evil, but I can give my allegiance to One who came to take
away the evil of the world. That's about all the religion I have, and
you mustn't ever say a word against it.
"Well, there is but little more to tell. Tilly spoke in quiet, broken
sentences as her cough permitted, and I told her a little about myself
and sang to her some hymns that mother sang to me when I was a child.
With the dawn her mother came in, and was frightened at having slept
so long, but Tilly laughed and said it was just splendid.
"She was evidently a very intelligent girl, and must have been a
pretty one, too. She certainly has read a great deal, and has taught
in public schools. There didn't seem to be a trace of morbidness
in her mind or feeling. She was simply trying to make the best of
everything, and her best certainly is _the_ best. She has helped and
comforted me more than I could her."
"Comforted you, Madge?"
"Oh, well," was the somewhat confused reply. "I've had trouble, and
shall have again. Who is without it long in this world?"
"It's almost hard to see how serious trouble can reach you hereafter,
you are so strong, so fortified. No, Madge; I'll never say a word
against your faith or that of your new friend. Would to Heaven I had
it myself! I wouldn't have missed this talk with you for the world,
and you can't know how I appreciate the friendship which has led
you to speak to me frankly of what is so sacred. All the whirl and
pressure of coming life and business shall never blot from my memory
the words you have spoken this morning or the scenes you have made so
real."
If this were true, how infinitely deeper would have been his
impression if he could have seen the beautiful girl, now smiling into
his eyes, bowed in agony at that sick-bed, while she acknowledged with
stifled sobs that the dying girl _was_ better off--far happier than
she who had to face almost the certainty of lifelong disappointment.
Poor Madge had not told Graydon all her story. She would have died
rather than have her secret known on earth, but she had not feared to
breathe it to one on the threshold of heaven.