"_If I could tell you his story_"
That evening a young woman and a young man sat on one of the benches in
Central Park. They were holding hands, but modestly and with a clinging
affection. No one appeared in sight; they had the moon-light, the
fragrance of the spring foliage, and their true love all to themselves.
The woman was Grace, the young man was Philip Andrews, a candid-eyed,
whole-hearted fellow whom any girl might be proud to be seen with, much
more to be engaged to. Grace was proud, but she was more than that; her
heart was all involved in her hope--a good heart which he was equally
proud to have won. Yet while love was theirs and the surroundings
breathed peace and joy, they did not look quite happy. A cloud was on
his brow and something like a tear in her eye as she spoke gently but
with rare firmness.
"Philip, we must wait. One love does not put out another. I cannot leave
my old father now. He is too feeble and much too dependent on me.
Philip, you do not know my father. You have seen him, it is true, many,
many times. You have talked with him and even have nursed him at odd
moments, when I had to be out of the room getting supper or supplying
some of his many wants. Yet you do not know him."
"I know that he is intelligent."
"Yes, yes, that is evident. Any one can see that. And you can see, too,
that he is frequently fretful and exacting, as all old people are. But
the qualities he shows me--his strong, melancholy, but devoted nature,
quickened by an unusually unhappy life--that you do not see and cannot,
much as you like him and much as he likes you. Only the child who has
surprised him at odd moments, when he thought himself quite alone,
wringing his hands and weeping over some intolerable memory--who has
listened in the dead of night to his smothered but heart-breaking
groans, can know either his suffering or the one joy which palliates it.
If I could tell you his story--but that would be treason to one whose
rights I am bound to reverence. You will respect my silence, but you
must also take my word that he needs and has a right to all the pleasure
and all the hope my love can give him. I cannot be with him much; my
work forbids, but the little time I have is his, except on rare
occasions like this, and he knows it and is satisfied. Were I
married----. But you will wait, Philip. It may not be long--he grows
weaker every day. Besides, you are not ready yet yourself. You are doing
wonderfully well, but a year's freedom will help you materially, as it
will me. Every day is adding to our store; in a year we may be almost
independent."
"Grace, you have misunderstood me. I said that I was no good without
you, that I needed your presence to make a man of me, but I did not mean
that you were to share my fortunes now. I would not ask that. I would be
a fool or worse, for, Grace, I'm not doing so well as you think. While I
knew that my present employment was for a specified time, I had hopes of
continuing on. But this cannot be. That's what I have to tell you
to-night. It looks as if our marriage would have to be postponed
indefinitely instead of hastened. And I can't bear it. You don't know
what you are to me, or what this disappointment is. I expected to be
raised, not dismissed, and if I had had----"
[Illustration: "_Grace, you have misunderstood me_"]
"What?"
The word came very softly, and with rare tenderness. It made him turn
and look at her sweet, upturned face, with its resources of strength and
shy, unfathomable smile. "What?" she asked again, with a closer pressure
of her hand. "You must finish all your sentences with _me_."
"I'm ashamed." He uttered it breathlessly. "What am I, to say, 'If I had
three thousand dollars the Stickney Company would keep me?' I have
barely three hundred and those are dedicated to you."