MY TRUE FRIEND
They found that Mr. Muir had arrived, and no family party in the long
supper-room appeared more free from disturbing thoughts and memories
than the one gathered at the banker's table. In Madge the keen-eyed
man could detect nothing that was unusual, and in Graydon only a trace
of the dignity and seriousness which would inevitably follow some
deep experience or earnest purpose. They all spent the evening and the
greater part of the following day together, and Madge was touched more
than once by observing that Graydon sought unobtrusively to comply
with even her imagined wishes and to enhance the point and interest of
her spoken thoughts.
In answer to his direct question she had acknowledged the absolute
truth, and yet it had proved more misleading than all the disguises
which her maidenly reserve had compelled her to adopt. It seemed now
that she would have no further trouble with him--that he had defined
his purpose, and would abide by it. She was glad that she had not
yielded to his appeal and rewarded him in the first consciousness
of his new regard for her. This feeling had seemed too recent,
tumultuous, and full of impulse, and did not accord with her earnest,
chastened spirit, that had attained the goal of its hope by such
patient endeavor. She preferred that the first strong outflow from
his heart should find wide, deep channels, and that his love for her
should take the same recognized place in his life that her love had
occupied so long in her own. She also had a genuine and feminine
reluctance that the suitor of Stella Wildmere should be known as her
lover so speedily, and something more and deeper than good taste was
the cause of her aversion.
Yet she was exceedingly happy. The hope that had sustained her so
long, that had been so nearly lost, now seemed certain of fulfilment,
and no one but she and God knew how much this truth meant. Only He had
been her confidant, and she felt that she had been sustained in her
struggle from weakness to strength by a Power that was not human, and
guided during the past weeks by a wisdom beyond her own.
"He has proved to me a good Father," was her simple belief. "He led
me to do the best I could for myself, and then did the rest. I also
am sure He would have sustained me had I failed utterly. That my life
would not have been vain and useless was shown when I saved little
Nellie Wilder."
Thus it may be seen that she was quite unlike many good people. In her
consciousness God was not a being to be worshipped decorously and then
counted out from that which made her real life and hope.
The future now stretched away full of rest and glad assurance.
Graydon's manner already began to fulfil his promise. He would quietly
accept the situation as he understood it, and she saw already the
steadying power of an unselfish, unfaltering purpose. He appeared by
years an older and a graver man, and when he sat by her during the
service in the wide parlor, there was not a trace of his old flippant
irreverence. Whatever he now believed, he had attained the higher
breeding which respects what is sacred to others.
She had but little compunction over his self-sacrificing mood. It
was perfectly clear that by quiet, manly devotion he proposed to help
"time heal the wound" made by that "idiot" at Santa Barbara, and
she that she could gradually reveal to him so much improvement that
equanimity and at last hope would find a place in his mind.
They parted Monday morning with a brief, strong pressure of
hands, which Graydon felt conveyed volumes of sympathy and mutual
understanding. She had said that he could write to her, and he found
he had so much to say that he had to put a strong constraint upon
himself.
Mr. Muir had watched them curiously during his stay in the mountains,
and felt that something had occurred which he could not fathom.
Graydon's manner at parting and since, during business hours, had
confirmed this impression. He was almost as grave and reticent as the
banker himself, and the latter began to chafe and grow irritable over
the problem which he was bent on seeing solved in but one way. He
looked askance and discontentedly at Graydon during dinner in the
evening. When they were alone he was fidgety and rather curt in his
remarks. At last he burst out, "Confound it! What has happened between
you and Madge?"
"She has refused me, that's all," was the quiet reply.
Mr. Muir gave a low whistle.
"Oh, I understood you the other evening," resumed Graydon. "The
phenomenal penetration on which you so pride yourself is at fault for
once."
The banker was so nonplused that he permitted his cigar to go out, but
he soon reached the conclusion, "He has bungled." "Well," he asked at
last, "what do you propose to do?"
"To be to her all that she will ever permit, and die a bachelor for
her sake if I must."
Mr. Muir lighted his Havana again and puffed in silence for a while,
then said, "I like that. Your purpose is clearly defined. In business
and everything else there is solid comfort in knowing what you can
depend upon."
Madge's replies to Graydon's letters were scarcely more than notes,
but they were breezy little affairs, fragrant with the breath of the
mountains, and had an excellent tonic effect in the hot city. They
usually contained a description of what she had seen or of some
locality visited. On one occasion she wrote:
"Late in the afternoon there had been a shower, not gentle and
pattering, but one of those frightful, passionate outbursts which are
not infrequent in these mountains. The wind appeared to drive black
masses of clouds from all directions save one, which, meeting over the
height occupied by the hotel, discharged torrents of rain. At last
the wind left the writhing trees in peace, and carried the deeply
shadowing cloud away beyond the hills. The sun broke forth, and
nature began some magic work. Calling the mist fairies to her aid,
she gathered from every ravine and clove delicate airy clouds, which
formed a large and rapidly increasing mass of vapor. Soon the plain
below--the wide Hudson valley--was entirely shut out, as though a
great white curtain had dropped from the sky to the mountain's base.
Just then the setting sun, which had been temporarily obscured, shone
forth in glorious brightness, casting on the beautiful cloud-curtain
the dark, clearly defined shadow of the mountain-top, with its crown
of buildings, even the towers and turrets showing with startling
distinctness. It was like a mammoth, well-cut cameo, or a gigantic
magic lantern effect, with the sun as a calcium light.
"The spectacle lasted only a few moments. Then the cloudy curtain
parted, and the valley of the Hudson was seen again, spanned by a
rainbow."
The days lengthened into weeks, Graydon coming every Friday afternoon,
and wondering slightly at the demurely radiant face that greeted
him. "Truly," he thought, "in the words of the old hymn she 'puts a
cheerful courage on.'"
At times, however, she would be a little pensive. Then his tones would
have a greater depth and gentleness, and his sympathy was very sweet,
although she felt a little guilty because she was in no need of it.
She could stifle her compunction by thinking:
"There was such a long, weary time when I did need it, and was
desolate because of its absence, that I must have a little now to
offset those gray, lonely days."
She had thought she loved him before, but as she saw him patiently and
unselfishly seeking to brighten her life in every possible way, with
no better hope than that at some time in the indefinite future she
might give him what was left of her heart after the old fire had
died out, her former affection seemed as pale and shadowy as she was
herself when first she learned that she had a woman's heart.
Late one Friday afternoon he startled her by asking abruptly, "Madge,
what has become of that fellow out West?"
"Please don't speak about that again," she faltered.
"Oh, well, certainly not, if you don't wish me to; but I thought if
there was any chance--"
"Chance for what, Graydon?"
"Confound him! I don't suppose I could do anything. I want to make you
happy, Madge. I feel just like taking the idiot by the ear, bringing
him to you, and saying, 'There, you unconscionable fool, look at
that girl--' You know what I mean. I'm suggesting the spirit, not the
letter of my action. But, Madge, believe me, if I could help you at
any cost to myself--"
"Is your regard for me, of which you spoke, so slight that you could
go to work deliberately to bring that man to me?"
"There is no regard about it. My _love_ for you is so great that I
would do anything to make you happy."
"Madge," called the voice of Mrs. Muir, who was following them with
her husband, "where are you and Graydon?"
"Here!" cried Madge, springing up. Then she gave her hand to him,
and he saw that there were tears in her eyes. "Graydon," she said,
"I couldn't ask a stronger test than that. I can't tell you how I
appreciate it. I shall never impose any such task upon you."
"Don't hesitate on my account. I admit that it would be harder than
one of the labors of Hercules, but you command me now and always.
Nothing is so bad as to know that you are unhappy."
"Do I seem very unhappy?"
"No, you brave little woman! but who could guess the truth if you
were? My knowledge is not derived from your usual manner."
"It is a pity if I cannot be patient when you set me so good an
example," she said, as Mr. and Mrs. Muir approached.
When they were alone again for a brief time during the ramble, Graydon
resumed: "I wish to make sure of your confidence, Madge; I wish you to
take me at my word. I don't think you have been quite just to me. I am
not a cold-blooded fellow, and, no doubt, am given to impressions and
impulses; but I think constancy is one of my traits. I never wavered
in my affection for you until I misunderstood you immediately after
my return, and then that very misapprehension kept me worried and
perplexed much of the time. I was true to Miss Wildmere as long
as there was anything to be constant to, and yet for years she was
scarcely anything more than a fancy, a preference. Since my return
you know just what she was to me. Nothing is more certain than that I
never loved her. I did not know what the word meant then. There is a
chapter in your history that I don't know much about, but I am sure
I could make good my word to do anything within my power to bring you
happiness. I have imagined that a little management, guided by tact
and absolute fidelity--"
"Don't say anything more about that, Graydon," she said, firmly. "Not
if my heart broke a thousand times would I seek a man or permit him to
be sought for me in any such way as you suggest."
"That's settled, then."
"That's settled forever."
"Well, in that case," he said, with a short, nervous laugh, "there may
be a chance for me within the next hundred years."
"Are you so willing to take a woman who had once given her heart to
another?"
"I don't know anything about '_a_ woman.' I would take _you_, Madge,
under any circumstances that I can imagine."
"Graydon," said Mrs. Muir, suddenly appearing around a turn in the
walk, "what is the matter with you? Why can't you and Madge keep with
us more? For some reason we are getting separated all the time. This
is a lovely spot. Let us sit down here like a family party and have a
little music. I just long to get back home, so that Madge may sing
for us as much as we wish. Here she would attract the attention of
strangers, and that ends the matter; and so I feel as if I had a rare
singing bird, but never a song. In this secluded place no others will
hear you, Madge."
"Very well. What do you wish? I feel like singing."
"Make your own choice."
"I'll give you an old song, then, about friendship;" and with notes
rivalling those of a hermit-thrush that had been chanting vespers in
the dense woods near by, she sang a quaint melody, her voice wakening
faint echoes from the adjacent rocks. When she came to the last lines
she gave Graydon a shy glance, which seemed to signify, "These words
are for you."
"Kinder than Love is my true friend.
He'd die for me if that would end
My sorrow. Yes, would live for me--
Suffer and live unselfishly,
And that for him would harder be
Than at my feet to die for me."
As she ceased she again encountered his steadfast gaze with a glance
which said, "Have I not done you justice?"
He was satisfied, and felt that the presence of his relatives had
secured a sweeter answer than might otherwise have been given--an
answer that contained all he could hope for then.
"Humph!" ejaculated Mr. Muir, very discontentedly.
"What an appreciative remark, Henry!" said Madge, laughing.
"It was; and it expressed my views," said the banker, dryly. "Come,
Mary, let us go home to supper."
"Now, I think the song very pretty," said Mary, "only there are no
such people nowadays."
As Madge followed with Graydon she continued laughing softly to
herself.
"You are not hiding vexation at Henry?" Graydon asked.
"Oh, no, I understand Henry. You think I am always hiding something.
You at least should have understood my song."
"Yes, Madge," he said, gravely, "and you also made it clear that you
understood me. I am content."
She laughed, imitating the ejaculation.
"Henry's 'humph!' was too rich for anything. It meant volumes. What
sentimental fools he thinks us to be!"
"Henry could no more understand such a song than sing it," was
Graydon's somewhat irritable response.
"No matter. Such men are invaluable in the world. My nature is very
much in accord with Henry's, and so far as he has had experience, he
is very sound."
"With your saving clause in mind, I agree with you perfectly about
Henry, but not about yourself. Your nature, Madge, like your voice,
has a wide compass."
With this one exception there was no other spoken reference during
the remainder of the summer to the attitude toward her which he now
maintained in thought and action. The season was drawing to a close,
and she had enjoyed the latter part of it beyond her fondest hopes and
expectations. She made a few congenial acquaintances at the hotel, and
with them never wearied in exploring the paths that converged at the
great caravansary, and in visiting the various outlooks from which
the same wide landscapes presented ever-changing aspects. Chief among
these friends was a middle-aged artist, who was deeply imbued with the
genius of the mountains, and who had no little skill in catching and
idealizing the lovely effects he saw. He proved her best guide, for he
had long haunted the region, and the majority of the paths were due to
his taste and explorations. In such congenial tasks he acted as agent
for the sagacious and liberal owner of the vast property, who was so
wise that in his dealings with nature he employed one that loved and
understood her. To Madge the artist showed his favorite nooks and
haunts, where the wild beauty of the hills dwelt like a living
presence, and the scenery not yet painted which, from certain
standpoints, almost composed itself on the canvas. Thus he taught
her to see the region somewhat as he did, and to find in the general
beauty definite, natural pictures that were like flowers in the
wilderness. She greatly enjoyed watching with him the wonderful
moonlight effects on the vast shaggy sides and summit of High Peak,
that reared its almost untrodden solitudes opposite the hotel. This
mountain was the favorite haunt of fantastic clouds. Sometimes in the
form of detached mists they would pass up rapidly like white spectres
from the vast chasm of the Kaaterskill. Again a heavy mass would
settle on the whole length of the mountain, the outlines of which
would be lost, and the whole take the semblance of one vast height
crowned with the moon's radiance. Nothing fascinated Madge more than
to observe how the artist caught the essential elements of beauty in
the changing cloud scenery and reproduced the effects on a few
inches of canvas, and in her better appreciation of similar scenery
thereafter, she saw how true it is that art may be the interpreter of
nature.
The fine music and varied entertainments at the house served also to
beguile her time. On one occasion the young people were arranging a
series of tableaux, and she was asked to personate Jephtha's daughter.
When the curtain rose on her lovely face and large, dark eyes, the
Hebrew maiden and her pathetic history grew into vivid reality against
the dim background of the past.
After all, the time that intervened between Monday and Friday
afternoon was spent in waiting, and even the hours toward the last
were counted. The expression in Graydon's dark blue eyes was always
the same when he greeted her, and recalled the line:
"Kinder than Love is my true friend."
On Saturdays they took long tramps, seeking objective points far
beyond the range of ordinary ramblers.