THE REVELATION
Graham found letters which required his absence for a day or two, and
it seemed to him eminently fitting that he should go over in the
evening and say good-by to Miss St. John. Indeed he was disposed to say
more, if the opportunity offered. His hopes sank as he saw that the
first floor was darkened, and in answer to his summons Jinny informed
him that the major and Miss Grace were "po'ful tired" and had withdrawn
to their rooms. He trembled to find how deep was his disappointment,
and understood as never before that his old self had ceased to exist. A
month since no one was essential to him; now his being had become
complex. Then he could have crossed the ocean with a few easily spoken
farewells; now he could not go away for a few hours without feeling
that he must see one who was then a stranger. The meaning of this was
all too plain, and as he walked away in the June starlight he admitted
it fully. Another life had become essential to his own. And still he
clung to his old philosophy, muttering, "If this be true, why will not
my life become as needful to her?" His theory, like many another, was a
product of wishes rather than an induction from facts.
When he returned after a long ramble, the light still burning in Miss
St. John's window did not harmonize with the story of the young girl's
fatigue. The faint rays, however, could reveal nothing, although they
had illumined page after page traced full of words of such vital import
to him.
Mrs. Mayburn shared his early breakfast, and before he took his leave
he tried to say in an easy, natural manner:
"Please make my adieus to Miss St. John, and say I called to present
them in person, but it seemed she had retired with the birds. The
colored divinity informed me that she was 'po'ful tired,' and I hope
you will express my regret that the day proved so exceedingly
wearisome." Mrs. Mayburn lifted her keen gray eyes to her nephew's
face, and a slow rising flush appeared under her scrutiny. Then she
said gently, "That's a long speech, Alford, but I don't think it
expresses your meaning. If I give your cordial good-by to Grace and
tell her that you hope soon to see her again, shall I not better carry
out your wishes?"
"Yes," was the grave and candid reply.
"I believe you are in earnest now."
"I am, indeed," he replied, almost solemnly, and with these vague yet
significant words they came to an understanding.
Three days elapsed, and still Graham's business was not completed. In
his impatience he left it unfinished and returned. How his heart
bounded as he saw the familiar cottage! With hasty steps he passed up
the path from the street. It was just such another evening as that
which had smiled upon his first coming to his aunt's residence, only
now there was summer warmth in the air, and the richer, fuller promise
of the year. The fragrance that filled the air, if less delicate, was
more penetrating, and came from flowers that had absorbed the sun's
strengthening rays. If there was less of spring's ecstasy in the song
of the birds, there was now in their notes that which was in truer
accord with Graham's mood.
At a turn of the path he stopped short, for on the rustic seat beneath
the apple-tree he saw Miss St. John reading a letter; then he went
forward to greet her, almost impetuously, with a glow in his face and a
light in his eyes which no one had ever seen before. She rose to meet
him, and there was an answering gladness in her face which made her
seem divine to him.
"You are welcome," she said cordially. "We have all missed you more
than we dare tell you;" and she gave his hand a warm, strong pressure.
The cool, even-pulsed man, who as a boy had learned to hide his
feelings, was for a moment unable to speak. His own intense emotion,
his all-absorbing hope, blinded him to the character of her greeting,
and led him to give it a meaning it did not possess. She, equally
preoccupied with her one thought, looked at him for a moment in
surprise, and then cried, "He has told you--has written?"
"He! who?" Graham exclaimed with a blanching face.
"Why, Warren Hilland, your friend. I told you I would tell you, but I
could not before I told him," she faltered.
He took an uncertain step or two to the tree, and leaned against it for
support.
The young girl dropped the letter and clasped her hands in her
distress. "It was on the drive--our return, you remember," she began
incoherently. "You asked where my thoughts were, and I said I would
tell you soon. Oh! we have both been blind. I am so--so sorry."
Graham's face and manner had indeed been an unmistakable revelation,
and the frank, generous girl waited for no conventional acknowledgment
before uttering what was uppermost in her heart.
By an effort which evidently taxed every atom of his manhood, Graham
gained self-control, and said quietly, "Miss St. John, I think better
of myself for having loved you. If I had known! But you are not to
blame. It is I who have been blind, for you have never shown other than
the kindly regard which was most natural, knowing that I was Hilland's
friend. I have not been frank either, or I should have learned the
truth long ago. I disguised the growing interest I felt in you from the
first, fearing I should lose my chance if you understood me too early.
I am Hilland's friend. No one living now knows him better than I do,
and from the depths of my heart I congratulate you. He is the best and
truest man that ever lived."
"Will you not be my friend, also?" she faltered.
He looked at her earnestly as he replied, "Yes, for life."
"You will feel differently soon," said the young girl, trying to smile
reassuringly. "You will see that it has all been a mistake, a
misunderstanding; and when your friend returns we will have the
merriest, happiest times together."
"Could you soon feel differently?" he asked.
"Oh! why did you say that?" she moaned, burying her face in her hands.
"If you will suffer even in a small degree as I should!"
Her distress was so evident and deep that he stood erect and stepped
toward her. "Why are you so moved, Miss St. John?" he asked. "I have
merely paid you the highest compliment within my power."
Her hands dropped from her face, and she turned away, but not so
quickly as to hide the tears that dimmed her lustrous eyes. His lip
quivered for a moment at the sight of them, but she did not see this.
"You have merely paid me a compliment," she repeated in a low tone.
The lines of his mouth were firm now, his face grave and composed, and
in his gray eyes only a close observer might have seen that an
indomitable will was resuming sway. "Certainly," he continued, "and
such compliments you have received before and would often again were
you free to receive them. I cannot help remembering that there is
nothing unique in this episode."
She turned and looked at him doubtingly, as she said with hesitation,
"You then regard your--your--"
"My vacation experience," he supplied.
Her eyes widened in what resembled indignant surprise, and her tones
grew a little cold and constrained as she again repeated his words.
"You then regard your experience as a vacation episode."
"Do not for a moment think I have been insincere," he said, with strong
emphasis, "or that I should not have esteemed it the chief honor of my
life had I been successful--"
"As to that," she interrupted, "there are so many other honors that a
man can win."
"Assuredly. Pardon me, Miss St. John, but I am sure you have had to
inflict similar disappointments before. Did not the men survive?"
The girl broke out into a laugh in which there was a trace of
bitterness. "Survive!" she cried. "Indeed they did. One is already
married, and another I happen to know is engaged. I'm sure I'm glad,
however. Your logic is plain and forcible, Mr. Graham, and you relieve
my mind greatly. Men must be different from women."
"Undoubtedly."
"What did you mean by asking me, 'Could you soon feel differently?'"
He hesitated a moment and flushed slightly, then queried with a smile,
"What did you mean by saying that I should soon learn to feel
differently, and that when Hilland returned we should have the merriest
times together?"
It was her turn now to be confused now; and she saw that her words were
hollow, though spoken from a kindly impulse.
He relieved her by continuing: "You probably spoke from an instinctive
estimate of me. You remembered what a cool and wary suitor I had been.
Your father would say that I had adopted an-army-of-observation
tactics, and I might have remembered that such armies rarely accomplish
much. I waited for you to show some sign of weakness, and now you see
that I am deservedly punished. It is ever best to face the facts as
they are."
"You appear frank, Mr. Graham, and you certainly have not studied
philosophy in vain."
"Why should I not take a philosophical view of the affair? In my
policy, which I thought so safe and astute, I blundered. If from the
first I had manifested the feeling"--the young girl smiled slightly at
the word--"which you inspired, you would soon have taught me the wisdom
of repressing its growth. Thus you see that you have not the slightest
reason for self-censure; and I can go on my way, at least a wiser man."
She bowed gracefully, as she said with a laugh, "I am now beginning to
understand that Mr. Graham can scarcely regret anything which adds to
his stores of wisdom, and certainly not so slight an 'affair' as a
'vacation episode.' Now that we have talked over this little
misunderstanding so frankly and rationally, will you not join us at
whist to-night?"
"Certainly. My aunt and I will come over as usual."
Her brow contracted in perplexity as she looked searchingly at him for
a moment; but his face was simply calm, grave, and kindly in its
expression, and yet there was something about the man which impressed
her and even awed her--something unseen, but felt by her woman's
intuition. It must be admitted that it was felt but vaguely at the
time; for Grace after all was a woman, and Graham's apparent philosophy
was not altogether satisfactory. It had seemed to her as the interview
progressed that she had been surprised into showing a distress and
sympathy for which there was no occasion--that she had interpreted a
cool, self-poised man by her own passionate heart and boundless love.
In brief, she feared she had been sentimental over an occasion which
Graham, as he had suggested, was able to view philosophically. She had
put a higher estimate on his disappointment than he, apparently; and
she had too much of her father's spirit, and too much womanly pride not
to resent this, even though she was partially disarmed by this very
disappointment, and still more so by his self-accusation and his
tribute to Hilland. But that which impressed her most was something of
which she saw no trace in the calm, self-controlled man before her. As
a rule, the soul's life is hidden, except as it chooses to reveal
itself; but there are times when the excess of joy or suffering cannot
be wholly concealed, even though every muscle is rigid and the face
marble. Therefore, although there were no outward signals of distress,
Graham's agony was not without its influence on the woman before him,
and it led her to say, gently and hesitatingly, "But you promised to be
my friend, Mr. Graham."
His iron will almost failed him, for he saw how far removed she was
from those women who see and know nothing save that which strikes their
senses. He had meant to pique her pride as far as he could without
offence, even though he sank low in her estimation; but such was the
delicacy of her perceptions that she half divined the trouble he
sedulously strove to hide. He felt as if he could sit down and cry like
a child over his immeasurable loss, and for a second feared he would
give way. There was in his eyes a flash of anger at his weakness, but
it passed so quickly that she could scarcely note, much less interpret
it.
Then he stepped forward in a friendly, hearty way, and took her hand as
he said: "Yes, Miss St. John, and I will keep my promise. I will be
your friend for life. If you knew my relations to Hilland, you could
not think otherwise. I shall tell him when we meet of my first and
characteristic siege of a woman's heart, of the extreme and prudent
caution with which I opened my distant parallels, and how, at last,
when I came within telescopic sight of the prize, I found that he had
already captured it. My course has been so perfectly absurd that I must
laugh in spite of myself;" and he did laugh so naturally and genially
that Grace was constrained to join him, although the trouble and
perplexity did not wholly vanish from her eyes.
"And now," he concluded, "that I have experienced my first natural
surprise, I will do more than sensibly accept the situation. I
congratulate you upon it as no one else can. Had I a sister I would
rather that she married Hilland than any other man in the world. We
thus start on the right basis for friendship, and there need be no
awkward restraint on either side. I must now pay my respects to my
aunt, or I shall lose not only her good graces but my supper also;" and
with a smiling bow he turned and walked rapidly up the path, and
disappeared within Mrs. Mayburn's open door.
Grace looked after him, and the perplexed contraction of her brow
deepened. She picked up Hilland's letter, and slowly and musingly
folded it. Suddenly she pressed a fervent kiss upon it, and murmured:
"Thank God, the writer of this has blood in his veins; and yet--and
yet--he looked at first as if he had received a mortal wound,
and--and--all the time I felt that he suffered. But very possibly I am
crediting him with that which would be inevitable were my case his."
With bowed head she returned slowly and thoughtfully through the
twilight to her home.