PHILOSOPHY AT FAULT
If Mrs. Mayburn had fears that her nephew's peace would be affected by
his exposure to the fascinations of Miss St. John, they were quite
allayed by his course for the next two or three weeks. If she had
indulged the hope that he would speedily be carried away by the charms
which seemed to her irresistible, and so give the chance of a closer
relationship with her favorite, she saw little to encourage such a hope
beyond Graham's evident enjoyment in the young girl's society, and his
readiness to seek it on all fitting occasions. He played whist
assiduously, and appeared to enjoy the game. He often spent two or
three hours with the major during the day, and occasionally beguiled
the time by reading aloud to him, but the element of gallantry toward
the daughter seemed wanting, and the aunt concluded, "No woman can
rival a book in Alford's heart--that is, if he has one--and he is
simply studying Grace as if she were a book. There is one symptom,
however, that needs explanation--he is not so ready to talk about her
as at first, and I don't believe that indifference is the cause."
She was right: indifference was not the cause. Graham's interest in
Miss St. John was growing deeper every day, but the stronger the hold
she gained upon his thoughts, the less inclined was he to speak of her.
He was the last man in the world to be carried away by a Romeo-like
gust of passion, and no amount of beauty could hold his attention an
hour, did not the mind ray through it with a sparkle and power
essentially its own.
Miss St. John had soon convinced him that she could do more than look
sweetly and chatter. She could not only talk to a university-bred man,
but also tell him much that was new. He found his peer, not in his
lines of thought, but in her own, and he was so little of an egotist
that he admired her all the more because she knew what he did not, and
could never become an echo of himself. In her world she had been an
intelligent observer and thinker, and she interpreted that world to him
as naturally and unassumingly as a flower blooms and exhales its
fragrance. For the first time in his life he gave himself up to the
charm of a cultivated woman's society, and to do this in his present
leisure seemed the most sensible thing possible.
"One can see a rare flower," he had reasoned, "without wishing to pluck
it, or hear a wood-thrush sing without straightway thinking of a cage.
Miss St. John's affections may be already engaged, or I may be the last
person in the world to secure them. Idle fancies of what she might
become to me are harmless enough. Any man is prone to indulge in these
when seeing a woman who pleases his taste and kindles his imagination.
When it comes to practical action one may expect and desire nothing
more than the brightening of one's wits and the securing of agreeable
pastime. I do not see why I should not be entirely content with these
motives, until my brief visit is over, notwithstanding my aunt's
ominous warnings;" and so without any misgivings he had at first
yielded himself to all the spells that Miss St. John might
unconsciously weave.
As time passed, however, he began to doubt whether he could maintain
his cool, philosophic attitude of enjoyment. He found himself growing
more and more eager for the hours to return when he could seek her
society, and the intervening time was becoming dull and heavy-paced.
The impulse to go back to Germany and to resume his studies was slow in
coming. Indeed, he was at last obliged to admit to himself that a game
of whist with the old major had more attractions than the latest
scientific treatise. Not that he doted on the irascible veteran, but
because he thus secured a fair partner whose dark eyes were beaming
with mirth and intelligence, whose ever-springing fountain of happiness
was so full that even in the solemnity of the game it found expression
in little piquant gestures, brief words, and smiles that were like
glints of sunshine. Her very presence lifted him to a higher plane, and
gave a greater capacity for enjoyment, and sometimes simply an arch
smile or an unexpected tone set his nerves vibrating in a manner as
delightful as it was unexplainable by any past experience that he could
recall. She was a good walker and horsewoman, and as their acquaintance
ripened he began to ask permission to join her in her rides and
rambles. She assented without the slightest hesitancy, but he soon
found that she gave him no exclusive monopoly of these excursions, and
that he must share them with other young men. Her absences from home
were always comparatively brief, however, and that which charmed him
most was her sunny devotion to her invalid and often very irritable
father. She was the antidote to his age and to his infirmities of body
and temper. While she was away the world in general, and his own little
sphere in particular, tended toward a hopeless snarl. Jinny, the
colored servant, was subserviency itself, but her very obsequiousness
irritated him, although her drollery was at times diverting. It was
usually true, however, that but one touch and one voice could soothe
the jangling nerves. As Graham saw this womanly magic, which apparently
cost no more effort than the wood fire put forth in banishing
chilliness and discomfort, the thought would come, "Blessed will be the
man who can win her as the light and life of his home!"
When days passed, and no one seemed to have a greater place in her
thoughts and interest than himself, was it unnatural that the hope
should dawn that she might create a home for him? If she had a favored
suitor his aunt would be apt to know of it. She did not seem ambitious,
or disposed to invest her heart so that it might bring fortune and
social eminence. Never by word or sign had she appeared to chafe at her
father's modest competency, but with tact and skill, taught undoubtedly
by army experience, she made their slender income yield the essentials
of comfort and refinement, and seemed quite indifferent to
non-essentials. Graham could never hope to possess wealth, but he found
in Miss St. John a woman who could impart to his home the crowning
grace of wealth--simple, unostentatious elegance. His aunt had said
that the young girl had already refused more than one fortune, and the
accompanying assurance that she would marry the man she loved, whatever
might be his circumstances, seemed verified by his own observation.
Therefore why might he not hope? Few men are so modest as not to
indulge the hope to which their heart prompts them. Graham was slow to
recognize the existence of this hope, and then he watched its growth
warily. Not for the world would he lose control of himself, not for the
world would he reveal it to any one, least of all to his aunt or to her
who had inspired it, unless he had some reason to believe she would not
disappoint it. He was prompted to concealment, not only by his pride,
which was great, but more by a characteristic trait, an instinctive
desire to hide his deeper feelings, his inner personality from all
others. He would not admit that he had fallen in love. The very phrase
was excessively distasteful. To his friend Hilland he might have given
his confidence, and he would have accounted for himself in some such
way as this:--
"I have found a child and a woman; a child in frankness and joyousness,
a woman in beauty, strength, mental maturity, and unselfishness. She
interested me from the first, and every day I know better the reason
why--because she _is_ interesting. My reason has kept pace with my
fancy and my deeper feeling, and impels me to seek this girl quite as
much as does my heart. I do not think a man meets such a woman or such
a chance for happiness twice in a lifetime. I did not believe there was
such a woman in the world. You may laugh and say that is the way all
lovers talk. I answer emphatically, No. I have not yet lost my poise,
and I never was a predestined lover. I might easily have gone through
life and never given to these subjects an hour's thought. Even now I
could quietly decide to go away and take up my old life as I left it.
But why should I? Here is an opportunity to enrich existence
immeasurably, and to add to all my chances of success and power. So far
from being a drag upon one, a woman like Miss St. John would incite and
inspire a man to his best efforts. She would sympathize with him
because she could understand his aims and keep pace with his mental
advance. Granted that my prospects of winning her are doubtful indeed,
still as far as I can see there _is_ a chance. I would not care a straw
for a woman that I could have for the asking--who would take me as a
_dernier ressort_. Any woman that I would marry, many others would
gladly marry also, and I must take my chance of winning her from them.
Such would be my lot under any circumstances, and if I give way to a
faint heart now I may as well give up altogether and content myself
with a library as a bride."
Since he felt that he might have taken Hilland into his confidence, he
had, in terms substantially the same as those given, imagined his
explanation, and he smiled as he portrayed to himself his friend's
jocular response, which would have nevertheless its substratum of true
sympathy. "Hilland would say," he thought, "'That is just like you,
Graham. You can't smoke a cigar or make love to a girl without
analyzing and philosophizing and arranging all the wisdom of Solomon in
favor of your course. Now I would make love to a girl because I loved
her, and that would be the end on't.'"
Graham was mistaken in this case. Not in laughing sympathy, but in pale
dismay, would Hilland have received this revelation, for _he_ was
making love to Grace St. John because he loved her with all his heart
and soul. There had been a time when Graham might have obtained a hint
of this had circumstances been different, and it had occurred quite
early in his acquaintance with Miss St. John. After a day that had been
unusually delightful and satisfactory he was accompanying the young
girl home from his aunt's cottage in the twilight. Out of the
complacency of his heart he remarked, half to himself, "If Hilland were
only here, my vacation would be complete."
In the obscurity he could not see her sudden burning flush, and since
her hand was not on his arm he had no knowledge of her startled tremor.
All that he knew was that she was silent for a moment or two, and then
she asked quietly, "Is Mr. Warren Hilland an acquaintance of yours?"
"Indeed he is not," was the emphatic and hearty response. "He is the
best friend I have in the world, and the best fellow in the world."
Oh, fatal obscurity of the deepening twilight! Miss St. John's face was
crimson and radiant with pleasure, and could Graham have seen her at
that moment he could not have failed to surmise the truth.
The young girl was as jealous of her secret as Graham soon became of
his, and she only remarked demurely, "I have met Mr. Hilland in
society," and then she changed the subject, for they were approaching
the piazza steps, and she felt that if Hilland should continue the
theme of conversation under the light of the chandelier, a telltale
face and manner would betray her, in spite of all effort at control. A
fragrant blossom from the shrubbery bordering the walk brushed against
Graham's face, and he plucked it, saying, "Beyond that it is fragrant I
don't know what this flower is. Will you take it from me?"
"Yes," she said, hesitatingly, for at that moment her absent lover had
been brought so vividly to her consciousness that her heart recoiled
from even the slightest hint of gallantry from another. A moment later
the thought occurred, "Mr. Graham is _his_ dearest friend; therefore he
is my friend, although I cannot yet be as frank with him as I would
like to be."
She paused a few moments on the piazza, to cool her hot face and quiet
her fluttering nerves, and Graham saw with much pleasure that she
fastened the flower to her breastpin. When at last she entered she
puzzled him a little by leaving him rather abruptly at the parlor door
and hastening up the stairs.
She found that his words had stirred such deep, full fountains that she
could not yet trust herself under his observant eyes. It is a woman's
delight to hear her lover praised by other men, and Graham's words had
been so hearty that they had set her pulses bounding, for they assured
her that she had not been deceived by love's partial eyes.
"It's true, it's true," she murmured, softly, standing with dewy eyes
before her mirror. "He is the best fellow in the world, and I was blind
that I did not see it from the first. But all will yet be well;" and
she drew a letter from her bosom and kissed it.
Happy would Hilland have been had he seen the vision reflected by that
mirror--beauty, rich and rare in itself, but enhanced, illumined, and
made divine by the deepest, strongest, purest emotions of the soul.