SUPREME MOMENTS
Graham's visit was at last lengthened to a month, and yet the impulse
of work or of departure had not seized him. Indeed, there seemed less
prospect of anything of the kind than ever. A strong mutual attachment
was growing between himself and his aunt. The brusque, quick-witted old
lady interested him, while her genuine kindness and hearty welcome gave
to him, for the first time in his life, the sense of being at home. She
was a woman of strong likes and dislikes. She had taken a fancy to
Graham from the first, and this interest fast deepened into affection.
She did not know how lonely she was in her isolated life, and she found
it so pleasant to have some one to look after and think about that she
would have been glad to have kept him with her always.
Moreover, she had a lurking hope, daily gaining confirmation, that her
nephew was not so indifferent to her favorite as he seemed. In her old
age she was beginning to long for kindred and closer ties, and she felt
that she could in effect adopt Grace, and could even endure the invalid
major for the sake of one who was so congenial. She thought it politic
however to let matters take their own course, for her strong good sense
led her to believe that meddling rarely accomplishes anything except
mischief. She was not averse to a little indirect diplomacy, however,
and did all in her power to make it easy and natural for Graham to see
the young girl as often as possible, and one lovely day, early in June,
she planned a little excursion, which, according to the experience of
her early days, promised well for her aims.
One breathless June morning that was warm, but not sultry, she went
over to the St. Johns', and suggested a drive to the brow of a hill
from which there was a superb view of the surrounding country. The plan
struck the major pleasantly, and Grace was delighted. She had the
craving for out-of-door life common to all healthful natures, but there
was another reason why she longed for a day under the open sky with her
thoughts partially and pleasantly distracted from one great truth to
which she felt she must grow accustomed by degrees. It was arranged
that they should take their lunch and spend the larger part of the
afternoon, thus giving the affair something of the aspect of a quiet
little picnic.
Although Graham tried to take the proposition quietly, he could not
repress a flush of pleasure and a certain alacrity of movement
eminently satisfactory to his aunt. Indeed, his spirits rose to a
degree that made him a marvel to himself, and he wonderingly queried,
"Can I be the same man who but a few weeks since watched the dark line
of my native country loom up in the night, and with prospects as vague
and dark as that outline?"
Miss St. John seemed perfectly radiant that morning, her eyes vying
with the June sunlight, and her cheeks emulating the roses everywhere
in bloom. What was the cause of her unaffected delight? Was it merely
the prospect of a day of pleasure in the woods? Could he hope that his
presence added to her zest for the occasion? Such were the questions
with which Graham's mind was busy as he aided the ladies in their
preparations. She certainly was more kind and friendly than usual--yes,
more familiar. He was compelled to admit, however, that her manner was
such as would be natural toward an old and trusted friend, but he
hoped--never before had he realized how dear this hope was
becoming--that some day she would awaken to the consciousness that he
might be more than a friend. In the meantime he would be patient, and,
with the best skill he could master, endeavor to win her favor, instead
of putting her on the defensive by seeking her love.
"Two elements cannot pass into combination until there is mutual
readiness," reasoned the scientist. "Contact is not combination. My
province is to watch until in some unguarded moment she gives the hope
that she would listen with her heart. To speak before that, either by
word or action, would be pain to her and humiliation to me."
The gulf between them was wide indeed, although she smiled so genially
upon him. In tying up a bundle their hands touched. He felt an electric
thrill in all his nerves; she only noticed the circumstance by saying,
"Who is it that is so awkward, you or I?"
"You are Grace," he replied. "It was I."
"I should be graceless indeed were I to find fault with anything
to-day," she said impulsively, and raising her head she looked away
into the west as if her thoughts had followed her eyes.
"It certainly is a very fine day," Graham remarked sententiously.
She turned suddenly, and saw that he was watching her keenly. Conscious
of her secret she blushed under his detected scrutiny, but laughed
lightly, saying, "You are a happy man, Mr. Graham, for you suggest that
perfect weather leaves nothing else to be desired."
"Many have to be content with little else," he replied, "and days like
this are few and far between."
"Not few and far between for me," she murmured to herself as she moved
away.
She was kinder and more friendly to Graham than ever before, but the
cause was a letter received that morning, against which her heart now
throbbed. She had written to Hilland of Graham, and of her enjoyment of
his society, dwelling slightly on his disposition to make himself
agreeable without tendencies toward sentiment and gallantry.
Love is quick to take alarm, and although Graham was his nearest
friend, Hilland could not endure the thought of leaving the field open
to him or to any one a day longer. He knew that Graham was deliberate
and by no means susceptible. And yet, to him, the fact conveyed by the
letter, that his recluse friend had found the society of Grace so
satisfactory that he had lingered on week after week, spoke volumes. It
was not like his studious and solitary companion of old. Moreover, he
understood Graham sufficiently well to know that Grace would have
peculiar attractions for him, and that upon a girl of her mind he would
make an impression very different from that which had led society
butterflies to shun him as a bore. Her letter already indicated this
truth. The natural uneasiness that he had felt all along lest some
master spirit should appear was intensified. Although Graham was so
quiet and undemonstrative, Hilland knew him to be possessed of an
indomitable energy of will when once it was aroused and directed toward
an object. Thus far from Grace's letter he believed that his friend was
only interested in the girl of his heart, and he determined to
forestall trouble, if possible, and secure the fruits of his patient
waiting and wooing, if any were to be gathered. At the same time he
resolved to be loyal to his friend, as far as he could admit his
claims, and he wrote a glowing eulogy of Graham, unmarred by a phrase
or word of detraction. Then, as frankly, he admitted his fears, in
regard not only to Graham, but to others, and followed these words with
a strong and impassioned plea in his own behalf, assuring her that time
and absence, so far from diminishing her mastery over him, had rendered
it complete. He entreated for permission to come to her, saying that
his business interests, vast as they were, counted as less than nothing
compared with the possession of her love--that he would have pressed
his suit by personal presence long before had not obligations to others
detained him. These obligations he now could and would delegate, for
all the wealth of the mines on the continent would only be a burden
unless she could share it with him. He also informed her that a ring
made of gold, which he himself had mined deep in the mountain's heart,
was on the way to her--that his own hands had helped to fashion the
rude circlet-and that it was significant of the truth that he sought
her not from the vantage ground of wealth, but because of a manly
devotion that would lead him to delve in a mine or work in a shop for
her, rather than live a life of luxury with any one else in the world.
For the loving girl what a treasure was such a letter! The joy it
brought was so overwhelming that she was glad of the distractions which
Mrs. Mayburn's little excursion promised. She wished to quiet the
tumult at her heart, so that she could write as an earnest woman to an
earnest man, which she could not do on this bright June morning, with
her heart keeping tune with every bird that sang. Such a response as
she then might have made would have been the one he would have welcomed
most, but she did not think so. "I would not for the world have him
know how my head is turned," she had laughingly assured herself, not
dreaming that such an admission would disturb his equilibrium to a far
greater degree.
"After a day," she thought, "out of doors with Mrs. Mayburn's genial
common-sense and Mr. Graham's cool, half-cynical philosophy to steady
me, I shall be sane enough to answer."
They were soon bowling away in a strong, three-seated rockaway, well
suited to country roads, Graham driving, with the object of his
thoughts and hopes beside him. Mrs. Mayburn and the major occupied the
back seat, while Jinny, with a capacious hamper, was in the middle
seat, and in the estimation of the diplomatic aunt made a good screen
and division.
All seemed to promise well for her schemes, for the young people
appeared to be getting on wonderfully together. There was a constant
succession of jest and repartee. Grace was cordiality itself; and in
Graham's eyes that morning there was coming an expression of which he
may not have been fully aware, or which at last he would permit to be
seen. Indeed, he was yielding rapidly to the spell of her beauty and
the charm of her mind and manner. He was conscious of a strange,
exquisite exhilaration. Every nerve in his body seemed alive to her
presence, while the refined and delicate curves of her cheek and throat
gave a pleasure which no statue in the galleries of Europe had ever
imparted.
He wondered at all this, for to him it was indeed a new experience. His
past with its hopes and ambitions seemed to have floated away to an
indefinite distance, and he to have awakened to a new life--a new phase
of existence. In the exaltation of the hour he felt that, whatever
might be the result, he had received a revelation of capabilities in
his nature of which he had not dreamed, and which at the time promised
to compensate for any consequent reaction. He exulted in his human
organism as a master in music might rejoice over the discovery of an
instrument fitted to respond perfectly to his genius. Indeed, the
thought crossed his mind more than once that day that the marvel of
marvels was that mere clay could be so highly organized. It was not his
thrilling nerves alone which suggested this thought, or the pure mobile
face of the young girl, so far removed from any suggestion of
earthliness, but a new feeling, developing in his heart, that seemed so
deep and strong as to be deathless.
They reached their destination in safety. The June sunlight would have
made any place attractive, but the brow of the swelling hill with its
wide outlook, its background of grove and intervening vistas, left
nothing to be desired. The horses were soon contentedly munching their
oats, and yet their stamping feet and switching tails indicated that
even for the brute creation there is ever some alloy. Graham, however,
thought that fortune had at last given him one perfect day. There was
no perceptible cloud. The present was so eminently satisfactory that it
banished the past, or, if remembered, it served as a foil. The future
promised a chance for happiness that seemed immeasurable, although the
horizon of his brief existence was so near; for he felt that with her
as his own, human life with all its limitations was a richer gift than
he had ever imagined possible. And yet, like a slight and scarcely
heard discord, the thought would come occasionally, "Since so much is
possible, more ought to be possible. With such immense capability for
life as I am conscious of to-day, how is it that this life is but a
passing and perishing manifestation?"
Such impressions took no definite form, however, but merely passed
through the dim background of his consciousness, while he gave his
whole soul to the effort to make the day one that from its unalloyed
pleasure could not fail to recall him to the memory of Miss St. John.
He believed himself to be successful, for he felt as if inspired. He
was ready with a quick reply to all her mirthful sallies, and he had
the tact to veil his delicate flattery under a manner and mode of
speech that suggested rather than revealed his admiration. She was
honestly delighted with him and his regard, as she understood it, and
she congratulated herself again and again that Hilland's friend was a
man that she also would find unusually agreeable. His kindness to her
father had warmed her heart toward him, and now his kindness and
interest were genuine, although at first somewhat hollow and assumed.
Graham had become a decided favorite with the old gentleman, for he had
proved the most efficient ally that Grace had ever gained in quickening
the pace of heavy-footed Time. Even the veteran's chilled blood seemed
to feel the influences of the day, and his gallantry toward Mrs.
Mayburn was more pronounced than usual. "We, too, will be young people
once more," he remarked, "for the opportunity may not come to us again."
They discussed their lunch with zest, they smiled into one another's
face, and indulged in little pleasantries that were as light and
passing as the zephyrs that occasionally fluttered the leaves above
their heads; but deep in each heart were memories, tides of thought,
hopes, fears, joys, that form the tragic background of all human life.
The old major gave some reminiscences of his youthful campaigning. In
his cheerful mood his presentation of them was in harmony with the
sunny afternoon. The bright sides of his experiences were toward his
auditors, but what dark shadows of wounds, agony, and death were on the
further side! And of these he could never be quite unconscious, even
while awakening laughter at the comic episodes of war.
Mrs. Mayburn seemed her plain-spoken, cheery self, intent only on
making the most of this genial hour in the autumn of her life, and yet
she was watching over a hope that she felt might make her last days her
best days. She was almost praying that the fair girl whom she had so
learned to love might become the solace of her age, and fill, in her
childless heart, a place that had ever been an aching void. Miss St.
John was too preoccupied to see any lover but one, and he was ever
present, though thousands of miles away. But she saw in Graham his
friend, and had already accepted him also as her most agreeable friend,
liking him all the better for his apparent disposition to appeal only
to her fancy and reason, instead of her heart. She saw well enough that
he liked her exceedingly, but Hilland's impetuous wooing and
impassioned words had made her feel that there was an infinite
difference between liking and loving; and she pictured to herself the
pleasure they would both enjoy when finding that their seemingly chance
acquaintance was but preparation for the closer ties which their
several relations to Hilland could not fail to occasion.
The object of this kindly but most temperate regard smiled into her
eyes, chatted easily on any topic suggested, and appeared entirely
satisfied; but was all the while conscious of a growing need which,
denied, would impoverish his life, making it, brief even as he deemed
it to be, an intolerable burden. But on this summer afternoon hope was
in the ascendant, and he saw no reason why the craving of all that was
best and noblest in his nature should not be met. When a supreme
affection first masters the heart it often carries with it a certain
assurance that there must be a response, that when so much is given by
a subtle, irresistible, unexpected impulse, the one receiving should,
sooner or later, by some law of correspondence, be inclined to return a
similar regard. All living things in nature, when not interfered with,
at the right time and in the right way, sought and found what was
essential to the completion of their life, and he was a part of nature.
According to the law of his own individuality he had yielded to Miss
St. John's power. His reason had kept pace with his heart. He had
advanced to his present attitude toward her like a man, and had not
been driven to it by the passion of an animal. Therefore he was
hopeful, self-complacent, and resolute. He not only proposed to win the
girl he loved, cost what it might in time and effort, but in the
exalted mood of the hour felt that he could and must win her.
She, all unconscious, smiled genially, and indeed seemed the very
embodiment of mirth. Her talk was brilliant, yet interspersed with
strange lapses that began to puzzle him. Meanwhile she scarcely saw
him, gave him but the passing attention with which one looks up from an
absorbing story, and all the time the letter against which her heart
pressed seemed alive and endowed with the power to make each throb more
glad and full of deep content.
How isolated and inscrutable is the mystery of each human life! Here
were four people strongly interested in each other and most friendly,
between whom was a constant interchange of word and glance, and yet
their thought and feeling were flowing in strong diverse currents,
unseen and unsuspected.
As the day declined they all grew more silent and abstracted. Deeper
shadows crept into the vistas of memory with the old, and those who had
become but memories were with them again as they had been on like June
days half a century before. With the young the future, outlined by
hope, took forms so absorbing that the present was forgotten.
Ostensibly they were looking off at the wide and diversified landscape;
in reality they were contemplating the more varied experiences, actual
and possible, of life.
At last the major complained querulously that he was growing chilly.
The shadow in which he shivered was not caused by the sinking sun.
The hint was taken at once, and in a few moments they were on their way
homeward. The old sportive humor of the morning did not return. The
major was the aged invalid again. Mrs. Mayburn and Graham were
perplexed, for Grace had seemingly become remote from them all. She was
as kind as ever; indeed her manner was characterized by an unusual
gentleness; but they could not but see that her thoughts were not with
them. The first tumultuous torrent of her joy had passed, and with it
her girlhood. Now, as an earnest woman, she was approaching the hour of
her betrothal, when she would write words that would bind her to
another and give direction to all her destiny. Her form was at Graham's
side; the woman was not there. Whither and to whom had she gone? The
question caused him to turn pale with fear.
"Miss Grace," he said at last, and there was a tinge of reproach in his
voice, "where are you? You left us some time since," and he turned and
tried to look searchingly into her eyes.
She met his without confusion or rise in color. Her feelings had become
so deep and earnest, so truly those of a woman standing on the assured
ground of fealty to another, that she was beyond her former girlish
sensitiveness and its quick, involuntary manifestations. She said
gently, "Pardon me, Mr. Graham, for my unsocial abstraction. You
deserve better treatment for all your efforts for our enjoyment to-day."
"Please do not come back on compulsion," he said. "I do not think I am
a natural Paul Pry, but I would like to know where you have been."
"I will tell you some day," she said, with a smile that was so friendly
that his heart sprang up in renewed hope. Then, as if remembering what
was due to him and the others, she buried her thoughts deep in her
heart until she could be alone with them and their object. And yet her
secret joy, like a hidden fire, tinged all her words with a kindly
warmth. Graham and his aunt were not only pleased but also perplexed,
for both were conscious of something in Grace's manner which they could
not understand. Mrs. Mayburn was sanguine that her June-day strategy
was bringing forth the much-desired results; her nephew only hoped.
They all parted with cordial words, which gave slight hint of that
which was supreme in each mind.