THE FRIENDS
After accompanying Mrs. Mayburn to her cottage door, the friends
strolled away together, the sultry evening rendering them reluctant to
enter the house. When they reached the rustic seat under the
apple-tree, Hilland remarked: "Here's a good place for our--"
"Not here," interrupted Graham, in a tone that was almost sharp in its
tension.
"Why not?" asked his friend, in the accent of surprise.
"Oh, well," was the confused answer, "some one may be passing--servants
may be out in the grounds. Suppose we walk slowly."
"Graham, you seem possessed by the very demon of restlessness. The idea
of walking this hot night!"
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," Graham replied, carelessly, although his
face was rigid with the effort; and he threw himself down on the rustic
seat. "We are not conspirators that we need steal away in the darkness.
Why should I not be restless after sitting in the hot cars all day, and
with the habit of tramping fresh upon me?"
"What evil spirit drove you into the wilderness and made you the
champion tramp of the country? It seems to me you must have some
remarkable confidences also."
"No evil spirit, I assure you; far from it. My tramp has done me good;
indeed, I never derived more benefit from an outing in the woods in my
life. You will remember that when we were boys at college no fellow
took longer walks than I. I am simply returning to the impulses of my
youth. The fact is, I've been living too idly, and of course there
would be a reaction in one of my temperament and habits. The vital
force which had been accumulating under my aunt's high feeding and the
inspiration resulting from the society of two such charming people as
Major and Miss St. John had to be expended in some way. Somehow I've
lost much of my old faith in books and laboratories. I've been thinking
a great deal about it, and seeing you again has given a strong impulse
to a forming purpose. I felt a sincere commiseration when you gave up
your life of a student. I was a fool to do so. I have studied your face
and manner this evening, and can see that you have developed more
manhood out in those Western mines, in your contact with men and things
and the large material interests of the world, than you could have
acquired by delving a thousand years among dusty tomes."
"That little girl over there has done more for me than Western mines
and material interests."
"That goes without saying; and yet she could have done little for you,
had you been a dawdler. Indeed, in that case she would have had nothing
to do with you. She recognized that you were like the gold you are
mining--worth taking and fashioning; and I tell you she is not a girl
to be imposed upon."
"Flatterer!"
"No; friend."
"You admire Grace very much."
"I do indeed, and I respect her still more. You know I never was a
lady's man; indeed, the society of most young women was a weariness to
me. Don't imagine I am asserting any superiority. You enjoyed their
conversation, and you are as clever as I am."
"I understand," said Hilland, laughing; "you had nothing in common. You
talked to a girl as if she were a mile off, and often broached topics
that were cycles away. Now, a girl likes a fellow to come reasonably
close--metaphorically, if not actually--when he chats with her.
Moreover, many that you met, if they had brains, had never cultivated
them. They were as shallow as a duck-pond, and with their small
deceits, subterfuges, and affectations were about as transparent. Some
might imagine them deep. They puzzled and nonplussed you, and you slunk
away. Now I, while rating them at their worth, was able from previous
associations to talk a little congenial nonsense, and pass on. They
amused me, too. You know I have a sort of laughing philosophy, and
everything and everybody amuses me. The fellows would call these
creatures angels, and they would flap their little butterfly wings as
if they thought they were. How happened it that you so soon were _en
rapport_ with Grace?"
"Ah, wily wretch!" Graham laughed gayly, while the night hid his
lowering brows; "praise of your mistress is sweeter than flattery to
yourself. Why, simply because she is Grace St. John. I imagine that it
is her army life that has so blended unconventionality with perfect
good breeding. She is her bluff, honest, high-spirited old father over
again, only idealized, refined, and womanly. Then she must have
inherited some rare qualities from her Southern mother: you see my aunt
has told me all about them. I once met a Southern lady abroad, and
although she was middle-aged, she fascinated me more than any girl I
had ever met. In the first place, there was an indescribable accent
that I never heard in Europe--slight, indeed, but very pleasing to the
ear. I sometimes detect traces of it in Miss St. John's speech. Then
this lady had a frankness and sincerity of manner which put you at your
ease at once; and yet with it all there was a fine reserve. You no more
feared that she would blurt out something unsanctioned by good taste
than that she would dance a hornpipe. She was singularly gentle and
retiring in her manner; and yet one instinctively felt he would rather
insult a Southern fire-eater than offend her. She gave the impression
that she had been accustomed to a chivalric deference from men, rather
than mere society attentions; and one unconsciously infused a subtle
homage in his very accent when speaking to her. Now, I imagine that
Miss St. John's mother must have been closely akin to this woman in
character. You know my weakness for analyzing everything. You used to
say I couldn't smoke a cigar without going into the philosophy of it. I
had not spent one evening in the society of Miss St. John before I saw
that she was a _rara avis_. Then her devotion to her invalid father is
superb. She enlisted me in his service the first day of my arrival.
Although old, crippled, often racked with pain, and afflicted with a
temper which arbitrary command has not improved, she beguiles him out
of himself, smiles away his gloom--in brief, creates so genial an
atmosphere about him that every breath is balm, and does it all, too,
without apparent effort You see no machinery at work. Now, this was all
a new and very interesting study of life to me, and I studied it.
There, too, is my aunt, who is quite as interesting in her way. Such
women make general or wholesale cynicism impossible, or else
hypocritical;" and he was about to launch out into as extended an
analysis of the old lady's peculiarities, when Hilland interrupted him
with a slap on the shoulder and a ringing laugh.
"Graham, you haven't changed a mite. You discourse just as of old, when
in our den at the university we befogged ourselves in the tobacco-smoke
and the denser obscurities of German metaphysics, only your theme is
infinitely more interesting. Now, when I met my paragon, Grace, whom
you have limned with the feeling of an artist rather than of an
analyst, although with a blending of both, I fell in love with her."
"Yes, Hilland, it's just like you to fall in love. My fear has ever
been that you would fall in love with a face some day, and not with a
woman. But I now congratulate you from the depths of my soul."
"How comes it that _you_ did not fall in love with one whom you admire
so much? You were not aware of my suit."
"I suppose it is not according to my nature to 'fall in love,' as you
term it. The very phrase is repugnant to me. When a man is falling in
any sense of the word, his reason is rather apt to be muddled and
confused, and he cannot be very sure where he will land. If you had not
appeared on the scene my reason would have approved of my marriage with
Miss St. John--that is, if I had seen the slightest chance of
acceptance, which, of course, I never have. I should be an egregious
fool were it otherwise."
"How about your heart?"
"The heart often leads to the sheerest folly," was the sharp rejoinder.
Hilland laughed in his good-humored way. His friend's reply seemed the
result of irritation at the thought that the heart should have much to
say when reason demurred. "Well, Graham," he said, kindly and
earnestly, "if I did not know you so well, I should say you were the
most cold-blooded, frog-like fellow in existence. You certainly are an
enigma to me on the woman question. I must admit that my heart went
headlong from the first; but when at last reason caught up, and had
time to get her breath and look the case over, she said it was 'all
right'--far better than she had expected. To one of my temperament,
however, it seems very droll that reason should lead the way to love,
and the heart come limping after."
"Many a one has taken the amatory tumble who would be glad to reason
his way up and back. But we need not discuss this matter in the
abstract, for we have too much that is personal to say to each other.
You are safe; your wonted good fortune has served you better than ever.
All the wisdom of Solomon could not have enabled you to fall in love
more judiciously. Indeed, when I come to think of it, the wisdom of
Solomon, according to history, was rather at fault in these matters.
Tell me how it all came about" (for he knew the story must come); "only
outline the tale to-night. I've been speculating and analyzing so long
that it is late; and the major, hearing voices in the grounds, may
bring some of his old army ordnance to bear on us."
But Hilland, out of the abundance of his heart, found much to say; and
his friend sat cold, shivering in the sultry night, his heart growing
more despairing as he saw the heaven of successful wooing that he could
never enter. At last Hilland closed with the words, "I say, Graham, are
you asleep?"
"Oh, no," in a husky voice.
"You are taking cold."
"I believe I am."
"I'm a brute to keep you up in this style. As I live, I believe there
is the tinge of dawn in the east."
"May every dawn bring a happy day to you, Warren," was said so gently
and earnestly that Hilland rested his arm on his friend's shoulder as
he replied, "You've a queer heart, Alford, but such as it is I would
not exchange it for that of any man living." Then abruptly, "Do you
hold to our old views that this life ends all?"
A thrill of something like exultation shot through Graham's frame as he
replied, "Certainly."
Hilland sprang up and paced the walk a moment, then said, "Well, I
don't know. A woman like Grace St. John shakes my faith in our old
belief. It seems profanation to assert that she is mere clay."
The lurid gleam of light which the thought of ceasing to exist and to
suffer had brought to Graham faded. It did seem like profanation. At
any rate, at that moment it was a hideous truth that such a creature
might by the chance of any accident resolve into mere dust. And yet it
seemed a truth which must apply to her as well as to the grossest of
her sisterhood. He could only falter, "She is very highly organized."
They both felt that it was a lame and impotent conclusion.
But the spring of happiness was in Hilland's heart. The present was too
rich for him to permit such dreary speculations, and he remarked
cordially and laughingly, "Well, Graham, we have made amends for our
long separation and silence. We have talked all the summer night. I am
rich, indeed, in such a friend and such a sweetheart; and the latter
must truly approach perfection when my dear old philosopher of the
stoic school could think it safe and wise to marry her, were all the
conditions favorable. You don't wish that I was at the bottom of one of
my mines, do you, Alford?"
Graham felt that the interview must end at once, so he rose and said,
"No, I do not. My reason approves of your choice. If you wish more, my
'queer heart, such as it is,' approves of it also. If I had the power
to change everything this moment I would not do so. You have fairly won
your love, and may all the forces of nature conspire to prosper you
both. But come," he added in a lighter vein, "Miss St. John may be
watching and waiting for your return, and even imagining that I, with
my purely intellectual bent, may regard you as a disturbing element in
the problem, and so be led to eliminate you in a quiet, scientific
manner."
"Well, then, good night, or morning, rather. Forgive a lover's
garrulousness."
"I was more garrulous than you, without half your excuse. No, I'll see
you safely home. I wish to walk a little to get up a circulation. With
your divine flame burning so brightly, I suppose you could sit through
a zero night; but you must remember that such a modicum of philosophy
as I possess will not keep me warm. There, good-by, old fellow. Sleep
the sleep of the just, and, what is better in this chance-medley world,
of the happy. Don't be imagining that you have any occasion to worry
about me."
Hilland went to his room in a complacent mood, and more in love than
ever. Had not his keen-eyed, analytical friend, after weeks of careful
observation, testified to the exceeding worth of the girl of his heart?
He had been in love, and he had ever heard that love is blind. It
seemed to him that his friend could never love as he understood the
word; and yet the peerless maiden had so satisfied the exactions of
Graham's taste and reason, and had proved herself so generally
admirable, that he felt it would be wise and advantageous to marry her.
"It's a queer way of looking at these things," he concluded, with a
shrug, "but then it is Graham's way."
Soon he was smiling in his repose, for the great joy of his waking
hours threw its light far down into the obscurity of sleep.
Graham turned slowly away, and walked with downcast face to the rustic
seat. He stood by it a moment, and then sank into it like a man who has
reached the final limit of human endurance. He uttered no sound, but at
brief intervals a shiver ran through his frame. His head sank into his
hands, and he looked and felt like one utterly crushed by a fate from
which there was no escape. His ever-recurring thought was, "I have but
one life, and it's lost, worse than lost. Why should I stagger on
beneath the burden of an intolerable existence, which will only grow
heavier as the forces of life fail?"
At last in his agony he uttered the words aloud. A hand was laid upon
his shoulder, and a husky, broken voice said, "Here is one reason."
He started up, and saw that his aunt stood beside him.
The dawn was gray, but the face of the aged woman was grayer and more
pallid. She did not entreat--her feeling seemed too deep for words--but
with clasped hands she lifted her tear-dimmed eyes to his. Her withered
bosom rose and fell in short, convulsive sobs, and it was evident that
she could scarcely stand.
His eyes sank, and a sudden sense of guilt and shame at his
forgetfulness of her overcame him. Then yielding to an impulse, all the
stronger because mastering one who had few impulses, he took her in his
arms, kissed her repeatedly, and supported her tenderly to the cottage.
When at last they reached the quaint little parlor he placed her
tenderly in her chair, and, taking her hand, he kissed it, and said
solemnly, "No, aunty, I will not die. I will live out my days for your
sake, and do my best."
"Thank God!" she murmured--"thank God!" and for a moment she leaned her
head upon his breast as he knelt beside her. Suddenly she lifted
herself, with a return of her old energy; and he rose and stood beside
her. She looked at him intently as if she would read his thoughts, and
then shook her finger impressively as she said, "Mark my words, Alford,
mark my words: good will come of that promise."
"It has come already," he gently replied, "in that you, my best friend,
are comforted. Now go and rest and sleep. Have no fear, for your touch
of love has broken all evil spells."
Graham went to his room, calmed by an inflexible resolution. It was no
longer a question of happiness or unhappiness, or even of despair; it
was simply a question of honor, of keeping his word. He sat down and
read once more the paragraph in the marked copy of Emerson, "No man
ever forgot--" He gave the words a long, wistful look, and then closed
the volume as if he were closing a chapter of his life.
"Well," he sighed, "I did my best last night not to dispel their
enchantment, for of course Hilland will tell her the substance of our
talk. Now, it must be my task for a brief time to maintain and deepen
the impression that I have made."
Having no desire for sleep, he softly paced his room, but it was not in
nervous excitement. His pulse was quiet and regular, and his mind
reverted easily to a plan of extended travel upon which he had been
dwelling while in the woods. At last he threw himself upon his couch,
and slept for an hour or two. On awaking he found that it was past the
usual breakfast hour, and after a hasty toilet he went in search of his
aunt, but was informed that she was still sleeping.
"Do not disturb her," he said to the servant. "Let her sleep as long as
she will."
He then wrote a note, saying that he had decided to go to town to
attend to some business which had been neglected in his absence, and
was soon on his way to the train.