BROKEN LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
Mr. Wildmere looked almost ten years older when he came down to what
he supposed would be a solitary breakfast; but something like hope
and gladness reappeared on his haggard face when he saw Arnault at his
table as usual. He scarcely knew how he would be received, but Arnault
was as affable and courteous as he would have been months previous,
and no one in the breakfast-room would have imagined that anything
had occurred to disturb the relations between the two gentlemen. He
inquired politely after the ladies, expressed regret that they were
indisposed, and changed the subject in a tone and manner natural to a
mere acquaintance.
Although his courtesy would appear faultless to observers, it made
Wildmere shiver.
"Mr. Arnault," Mr. Wildmere said, a little nervously, as they left the
breakfast-room, "may I speak with you?"
"Certainly," replied Arnault, with cool politeness, and he followed
Mr. Wildmere to a deserted part of the piazza.
"You made a very kind and liberal offer to my daughter," the latter
began.
"And received my final answer last night," was the cold, decisive
reply. "It would be impossible to imagine more definite assurance that
Miss Wildmere has no regard for me than was given within the time I
stipulated. I have accepted such assurance as final. Good-morning,
sir," and with a polite bow he turned on his heel and went to his
room.
Mr. Wildmere afterward learned that he took the first train to New
York.
"Arnault has a clear field now," Graydon had thought, cynically, while
at breakfast. "I can scarcely wish him anything worse than success;"
and then he looked complacently around the family group to which
he belonged, and felicitated himself that Wildmere traits were
conspicuously absent. His eyes dwelt oftenest on Madge. At this early
meal she always made him think of a flower with the morning dew upon
it. Even her evening costumes were characterized by quiet elegance;
but during the earlier hours of the day she dressed with a simplicity
that was almost severe, and yet with such good taste, such harmony
with herself, that the eye of the observer was always rested and
satisfied. Gentlemen who saw her would rarely fail to speak about her
afterward; few would ever mention her dress. Miss Wildmere affected
daintiness and style; Madge sought in the most quiet and modest way to
emphasize her own individuality. As far as possible she wished to be
valued for what she actually was. The very fact that there was so much
in her life that must be hidden led to a strong distaste for all that
was misleading in non-essentials.
"I am going to church with you to-day," said Graydon, "and I shall try
to behave."
"Try to! You cannot sit with me unless you promise to behave."
"That is the way to talk to men," said Mrs. Muir, who was completely
under her husband's thumb. "They like you all the better for showing
some spirit."
"I am not trying to make Graydon like me better, but only to insure
that he spends Sunday as should a good American."
"There is no longer any 'better' about my liking for Madge. It's all
best. I admit, however, that she has so much spirit that she inspires
unaffected awe."
"A roundabout way of calling me awful."
"Since you won't ride or drive with me to-day, are you too 'awfully
good,' as Harry says, to take a walk after dinner?"
"It depends on how you behave in church."
They spent the afternoon in a very different manner, however, for soon
after breakfast Dr. Sommers told them that Tilly Wendall was at rest,
and that the funeral would be that afternoon.
With Dr. Sommers's tidings Graydon saw that a shadow had fallen
on Madge's face, and his manner at once became gravely and gently
considerate. There were allusions to the dead girl in the service at
the chapel, where she had been an attendant, and Graydon saw half-shed
tears in Madge's eyes more than once.
She drove out with him in the lovely summer afternoon to the gray old
farmhouse. The thoughts of each were busy--they had not much to say
to each other--and Madge was grateful, for his quiet consideration
for her mood. It was another proof that the man she loved had not a
shallow, coarse-fibred nature. With all his strength he could be a
gentle, sympathetic presence--thinking of her first, thoughtfully
respecting her unspoken wishes, and not a garrulous egotist.
He in turn wondered at his own deep content and at the strange and
unexpected turn that his affairs had taken. He not only dwelt on what
had happened, but on what might have happened--what he had hoped for
and sought to attain. He remembered with shame that he had even
wished that Madge had not been at the resort, so that he might be less
embarrassed in his suit to Miss Wildmere. From his first waking moment
in the morning he had been conscious of an immeasurable sense of
relief at his escape. He felt now that he had never deeply loved Miss
Wildmere--that she had never touched the best feelings of his heart,
because not capable of doing so. But he had admired her. He had been a
devotee of society, and she had been to him the beautiful culmination
of that phase of life. He saw he had endowed her with the womanly
qualities which would make her the light of a home as well as of the
ballroom, but he had also seen that the woman which his fancy
had created did not exist. There is a love which is the result of
admiration and illusion, and this will often cling to its imperfect
object to the end. Such was not the case with Graydon, however. His
first motive had been little more than an ambition to seek the most
brilliant of social gems with which to crown a successful life; but he
was too much of a man to marry a belle as such and be content. He must
love her as a woman also, and he had loved what he imagined Stella
Wildmere to be. Now he felt, however, like a lapidary who, while
gloating over a precious stone, is suddenly shown that it is worthless
paste. He may have valued it highly an hour before; now he throws it
away in angry disgust. But this simile only in part explains Graydon's
feelings. He not only recognized Miss Wildmere's mercenary character
and selfish spirit, but also the power she would have had to thwart
his life and alienate him from his brother and Madge. While she was
not the pearl for which he might give all, she could easily have
become the active poison of his life.
"Oh," he thought, "how blessed is this content with sweet sister
Madge--sister in spite of all she says--compared with brief, feverish
pleasure in an engagement with such a sham of a woman, or the mad
chaos of financial disaster which my suit might have brought about!"
and he unconsciously gave a profound sigh of satisfaction.
"Oh, Graydon, what a sigh!" Madge exclaimed. "Is your regret so great?
You were indeed thinking very deeply."
"So were you, Madge--so you have been during the last half hour. My
sigh was one of boundless relief and gratitude. If you will permit
me, I will tell you the thoughts that occasioned it as a proof of my
friendly confidence. May I tell you?"
"Yes, if you think it right," she said, with slightly heightened
color.
"It seems to me both right and natural that I should tell you;" and he
put the thoughts which preceded his sigh into words.
"Yes," she replied, gravely; "I think you have escaped much that you
would regret. Please don't talk about it any more."
"What were you thinking about, Madge?" he asked, looking into her
flushed and lovely face.
"I have thought a great deal about Tilly and what passed between us.
That is the house there, and it will always remain in my mind as a
distinct memory."
Farm wagons and vehicles of all descriptions were gathering at
the dwelling. They were driven by men with faces as rugged and
weather-beaten as the mountains around them. By their sides were
plain-featured matrons, whose rustic beauty had early faded under the
stress of life's toil, and apple-cheeked boys and girls, with faces
composed into the most unnatural and portentous gravity. There was a
sprinkling of young men, with visages so burned by the sun that they
might pass for civilized Indians. They were accompanied by young women
who, in their remote rural homes, had obtained hints from the world of
fashion, and after the manner of American girls had arrayed themselves
with a neatness and taste that was surprising; and the fresh pink and
white of their complexions made a pleasing contrast with their swains.
Although the occasion was one of solemnity, it was not without its
pleasurable excitement. They all knew about poor Tilly, and to-day
was the culmination of the little drama of her illness, the details of
which had been discussed for weeks among the neighbors--not in callous
curiosity, but with that strange blending of gossip and sympathy which
is found in rural districts. The conclusion of all such talk had been
a sigh and the words, "She is prepared to go."
The people as yet were gathered without the door and in groups under
the trees. Tilly's remains were still in her own little room, Mrs.
Wendall taking her farewell look with hollow, tearless eyes. A few
favored ones, chiefly the watchers who had aided the stricken mother,
were admitted to this retreat of sorrow.
When Dr. Sommers saw Madge and Graydon he came to them and said, "Mrs.
Wendall requested that when you came you and whoever accompanied you
should be brought to her. Tilly, before she died, expressed the wish
that you should sit with her mother during the funeral. No, no, Mr.
Muir, Mrs. Wendall would have no objection to any of Miss Alden's
friends. I can give you a seat here by this window. The other rooms
will be very crowded with those who are strangers to you."
Graydon found himself by the same window at which Madge had sat in her
long vigil. The bed had been removed, and in its place was a plain
yet tasteful casket. Mr. Wendall, with his head bowed down, sat at its
foot, wiping away tears from time to time with a bandana handkerchief.
Two or three stanch friends and helpers sat also in the room, for it
would appear that the Wendalls had no relatives in the vicinity.
As Madge sat down by Mrs. Wendall, so intent was the mother's gaze
upon her dead child that she did not at first notice the young girl's
presence. Madge took a thin, toil-worn hand caressingly in both her
own, and then the tearless eyes were turned upon her, and the light
of recognition came slowly into them, as if she were recalling her
thoughts from an immense distance.
"I'm glad you've come," she said, in a loud, strange whisper. "She
wanted you to be with me. She said you had trouble, and would know how
to sustain me. She left a message for you. She said, 'Tell dear Madge
that the dying sometimes have clear vision--tell her I've prayed for
her ever since, and she'll be happy yet, even in this world. Tell her
that I only saw her a little while, but she belongs to those I shall
wait for to welcome.' You'll stay by me till it's all over, won't
you?"
Madge was deeply agitated, but she managed to say distinctly, "Tilly
also said something to me, and I want you to think of her words
through all that is to come. She said, 'Think where I have gone, and
don't grieve a moment.'"
"Yes, I'll come to that by and by; but now I can think of only one
thing--they are going to take away my baby;" and she laid her head
on the still bosom with a yearning in her face which only God, who
created the mother's heart, could understand.
What followed need not be dwelt upon. The mother and father took their
last farewell, the casket was carried to the outer room, the simple
service was soon over, the tearful tributes paid, and then the slow
procession took its way to a little graveyard on a hillside among the
mountains.
"I can't go and see Tilly buried," said Mrs. Wendall, in the same
unnatural whisper. "I will go to her grave some day, but not yet. I
am trying to keep up, but I don't feel that I could stand on my feet a
minute now."
"I'll stay with you till they come back," Madge answered, tenderly;
and at last she was left alone in the house, holding the tearless
mother's hand. She soon bowed her young head upon it, bedewing it with
her tears. The poor woman's deep absorption began to pass away. The
warm tears upon her hand, the head upon her lap, began to waken the
instincts of womanhood to help and console another. She stroked the
dark hair and murmured, "Poor child, poor child! Tilly was right.
Trouble makes us near of kin."
"You loved Tilly, Mrs. Wendall," Madge sobbed. "Think of where she's
gone. No more tears; no more pain; no more death."
Her touch of sympathy broke the stony paralysis; her hot tears melted
those which seemed to have congealed in the breaking heart, and the
mother took Madge in her arms and cried till her strength was gone.
When Mr. Wendall returned with some of the neighbors, Madge met him at
the door and held up a warning finger. The overwrought woman had been
soothed into the blessed oblivion of restoring sleep, the first she
had for many hours. A motherly-looking woman whispered her intention
of remaining with Mrs. Wendall all night. Mr. Wendall took Madge's
hand in both his own, and looked at her with eyes dim with tears.
Twice he essayed to speak, then turned away, faltering, "When I meet
you where Tilly is, perhaps I can tell you."
She went down the little path bordered by flowers which the dead girl
had loved and tended, and gathered a few of them. Then Graydon drove
her away, his only greeting being a warm pressure of her hand.
At last Madge breathed softly, "Think where I have gone. Where is
heaven? What is it?"
His eyes were moist as he turned toward her. "I don't know, Madge," he
said. "I know one thing, however, I shall never, as you asked, say a
word against your faith. I've seen its fruits to-day."