NOBLE DECEPTION
In the course of the forenoon Hilland called on his friend, and was
informed that Graham had gone to the city on business, but would return
in the evening. He also learned that Mrs. Mayburn was indisposed, and
had not yet risen. At these tidings Grace ran over to see her old
friend, hoping to do something for her comfort, and the young girl was
almost shocked when she saw Mrs. Mayburn's pinched and pallid face upon
her pillow. She seemed to have aged in a night.
"You are seriously ill!" she exclaimed, "and you did not let me know.
Mr. Graham should not have left you."
"He did not know," said the old lady, sharply, for the slightest
imputation against Graham touched her keenly. "He is kindness itself to
me. He only heard this morning that I was sleeping, and he left word
that I should not be disturbed. He also wrote a note explaining the
business which had been neglected in his absence. Oh, I assure you, no
one could be more considerate."
"Dear, loyal Mrs. Mayburn, you won't hear a word against those you
love. I think Mr. Graham wonderfully considerate for a man. You know we
should not expect much of men. I have to manage two, and it keeps me
busy, but never so busy that I cannot do all in my power for my dear
old friend. I'll get your breakfast myself, and bring it to you with my
own hands, and force it upon you with the inexorable firmness of Sairy
Gamp;" and she vanished to the kitchen.
The old lady turned her face to the wall and moaned, "Oh, if it could
only have been! Why is it that we so often set our hearts on that which
is denied? After a long, dull sleep of years it seemed as if my heart
had wakened in my old age only to find how poor and lonely I am. Alford
cannot stay with me--I could not expect it--neither can Grace; and so I
must go on alone to the end. I'm punished, punished that years ago I
did not make some one love me; but I was self-sufficient then."
Her regret was deepened when Grace returned with a dainty breakfast,
and waited on her with a daughter's gentleness and tenderness, making
her smile in spite of herself at her funny speeches, and beguiling her
into enjoyment of the present moment with a witchery that none could
resist.
Presently Mrs. May burn sighed, "It's a fearfully hot day for Alford to
be in town."
"For a student," cried Grace, "he is the most indefatigable man I ever
heard of. Warren told me that they sat out there under the apple-tree
and poured out their hearts till dawn. Talk about schoolgirls babbling
all night. My comment on Warren's folly was a dose of quinine. It's
astonishing how these _savants_, these intellectual giants, need taking
care of like babies. Woman's mission will never cease as long as there
are learned men in the world. They will sit in a draught and discuss
some obscure law concerning the moons of Jupiter; but when the law
resulting in influenza manifests itself, then they learn our worth."
"Oh, dear!" groaned Mrs. Mayburn, "I didn't give Alford any quinine.
You were more provident than I."
"How could you, when you were asleep?"
"Ah, true!" was the confused reply. "But then I should have been awake.
I should have remembered that he did not come in when I did last night."
The faint color that stole into the face that had been so pale gave
some surprise to the young girl. When once her mind was directed to a
subject her intuitions were exceedingly keen.
From the time the secret of his regard for her had been, surprised from
him, Graham had been a puzzle to her. Was he the cool, philosophical
lover that he would have her think? Hilland was so frank in nature and
so wholly under her influence that it was next to impossible for him
not to share with her his every thought. She had, therefore, learned
substantially the particulars of last night's interview, and she could
not fully accept his belief that Graham's intellect alone had been
captivated. She remembered how he had leaned against the tree for
support; how pale he had been during the evening that followed; and how
his hand had trembled in parting. She remembered his sudden flight to
the mountains, his tireless energy there, as if driven on by an aching
wound that permitted no rest. True, he had borne himself strongly and
well in her presence the evening before; and he had given the friend
who knew him so well the impression that it was merely an instance of
the quiet weighing of the pros and cons, in which, after much
deliberation, the pros had won. There had been much in his course, too,
to give color to this view of the case; but her woman's instinct
suggested that there was something more--something she did not know
about; and she would have been less or more than woman had she not
wished to learn the whole truth in a matter of this nature. She hoped
that her lover was right, and that Graham's heart, in accordance with
his development theory, was so inchoate as to be incapable of much
suffering. She was not sure, however. There was something she surmised
rather than detected. She felt it now in Mrs. Mayburn's presence, and
caught a glimpse of it in the flush that was fading from her cheeks.
Had the nephew given his aunt his confidence? or had she with her ripe
experience and keen insight discovered the ultimate truth?
It was evident that while Mrs. Mayburn still loved her dearly, and
probably was much disappointed that things had turned out as they had,
she had given her loyalty to Graham, and would voluntarily neither do
nor say anything that would compromise him. The slight flush suggested
to Grace that the aunt had awaited the nephew's return in the early
dawn, and that they had spoken freely together before separating; but
she was the last one in the world to attempt to surprise a secret from
another.
Still she wished to know the truth, for she felt a little guilty over
her reticence in regard to her relations with Hilland. She, perhaps,
had made too much of the luxury of keeping her secret until it could
shine forth as the sun of her life; and Graham had been left in an
ignorance that had not been fair to him. With a growing perception of
his character, now that she had given thought to the subject, she saw
that if he had learned to love her at all, it must have been in
accordance with his nature, quietly, deliberately, even analytically.
He was the last man to fall tumultuously in love. But when he had given
it in his own way, could she be sure it was a cool, easily managed
preference that he might at his leisure transfer to another who
satisfied his reason and taste even more fully than herself? If this
were true, her mind would be at rest; and she could like Hilland's
friend heartily, as one of the most agreeable human oddities it had
been her fortune to meet. She had serious misgivings, however, which
Mrs. Mayburn's sudden indisposition, and the marks of suffering upon
her face, did not tend to banish.
Whatever the truth might be, she felt that he had shown much
thoughtfulness for her in his frankness with Hilland. He had rendered
it unnecessary for her to conceal her knowledge of his regard. She need
have no secrets, so far as he was concerned. The only question was as
to the nature of this regard. If the impression he sought to give her
lover was correct, neither of them had cause for much solicitude. If to
save them pain he was seeking to hide a deeper wound, it was a noble
deception, and dictated by a noble, unselfish nature. If the latter
supposition should prove true, she felt that she would discover it
without any direct effort. But she also felt that her lover should be
left, if possible, under the impression his friend had sought to make,
and that Graham should have the solace of thinking he had concealed his
feelings from them both.
As the long evening shadows stretched eastward across the sloping lawn
in front of the St. John cottage, the family gathered on the piazza to
enjoy the welcome respite from the scorching heat of the day.
The old major looked weary and overcome. A July sun was the only fire
before which he had ever flinched. Hilland still appeared a little
heavy from his long hot afternoon nap, his amends for the vigils of the
previous night. Grace was enchanting in her light clinging draperies,
which made her lovely form tenfold more beautiful, because clothed in
perfect taste. The heat had deepened the flush upon her cheeks, and
brought a soft languor into her eyes, and as she stood under an arch of
the American woodbine, that mantled the supports of the piazza roof,
she might easily have fulfilled an artist's dream of summer. Hilland's
eyes kindled as he looked upon her, as she stood with averted face,
conscious meanwhile of his admiration, and exulting in it. What sweeter
incense is ever offered to a woman?
"Grace," he whispered, "you would create a pulse in a marble statue
to-night. You never looked more lovely."
"There is a glamour on your eyes, Warren," she replied; and yet the
quick flash of joy that came into her face proved the power of his
words, which still had all the exquisite charm of novelty.
"It's the glamour that will last while I do," he responded, earnestly.
"Are not this scene and hour perfect? and you are the gem of it all. I
don't see how a man could ask or wish for more than I have to-night,
except that it might last forever." A shadow passed over his face, and
he added, presently, "To think that after a few weeks I must return to
those blasted mines! One thing is settled, however. I shall close out
my interests there as speedily as possible; and were it not for my
obligations to others, I'd never go near them again. I have money
enough twice over, and am a fool to miss one hour with you."
"You will be all the happier, Warren, if you close up your interests in
the West in a manly, business-like way. I always wish to be as proud of
you as I am now. What's more, I don't believe in idle men, no matter
how rich they are. I should be worried at once if you had nothing to do
but sit around and make fine speeches. You'd soon weary of the
sugar-plum business, and so should I. I have read somewhere that the
true way to keep a man a lover is to give him plenty of work."
"Will you choose my work for me?"
"No; anything you like, so it is not speculation."
"I think I'll come and be your father's gardener."
"If you do," she replied, with a decisive little nod, "you will have to
rake and hoe so many hours a day before you can have any dinner."
"But you, fair Eve, would bring your fancy-work, and sit with me in the
shade."
"The idea of a gardener sitting in the shade, with weeds growing on
every side."
"But you would, my Eve."
"Possibly, after I had seen that you had earned your bread by the
'perspiration of your brow,' as a very nice maiden lady, a neighbor of
ours, always phrases it."
"That shall be my calling as soon as I can get East again. Major, I
apply for the situation of gardener as soon as I can sell out my
interests in the mines."
"I have nothing to do with it," was the reply. "Grace commands this
post, and while here you are under her orders."
"And you'll find out, too, what a martinet I am," she added. "There's
no telling how often I'll put you under arrest and mount guard over you
myself. So!"
"What numberless breaches of discipline there will be!"
Lovers' converse consists largely in tone and glance, and these cannot
be written; and were this possible, it could have but the slenderest
interest to the reader.
After a transient pause Hilland remarked: "Think of poor Graham in the
fiery furnace of New York to-day. I can imagine what a wilted and
dilapidated-looking specimen he will be if he escapes alive--By Jove,
there he is!" and the subject of his speech came as briskly up the walk
as if the thermometer had been in the seventies instead of the
nineties. His dress was quiet and elegant, and his form erect and step
elastic.
As he approached the piazza and doffed his hat, Hilland cried: "Graham,
you are the coolest fellow I ever saw. I was just commiserating you,
and expecting you to look like a cabbage--no, rose-leaf that had been
out in the sun; and you appear just as if you had stepped from a
refrigerator."
"All a matter of temperament and will, my dear fellow. I decided I
would not be hot to-day; and I've been very comfortable."
"Why did you not decide not to be cold last night?"
"I was so occupied with your interminable yarns that I forgot to think
about it. Miss Grace, for your sake and on this evening, I might wish
that there was a coolness between us, but from your kind greeting I see
there is not. Good-evening, major; I have brought with me a slight
proof that I do not forget my friends;" and he handed him a large
package of newspapers, several of them being finely illustrated foreign
prints.
"I promote you on the spot," cried the delighted veteran. "I felt that
fate owed me some amends for this long, horrid day. My paper did not
come this morning, and I had too much regard for the lives of my
household to send any one up the hot streets after one."
"Oh, papa!" cried Grace, "forgive me that I did not discover the fact.
I'm sure I saw you reading a paper."
"It was an old one. I read it through again, advertisements and all.
Oh, I know you. You'd have turned out the whole garrison at twelve M.,
had you found it out."
Graham dropped carelessly into an easy-chair, and they all noted the
pleasure with which the old gentleman adjusted his glasses, and scanned
the pictures of the world's current history. Like many whose sight is
failing, and to whom the tastes and memories of childhood are
returning, the poor old man found increasing delight in a picture which
suggested a great deal, and aided him to imagine more; and he would
often beguile his tedium by the hour with the illustrated journals.
"Mr. Graham," said Grace, after a pause in their talk, "have you seen
your aunt since your return?"
"No," he replied, turning hastily toward her.
"She is not very well; I've been to see her twice."
He gave her a momentary but searching glance, rose instantly, and said:
"Please excuse me, then. I feel guilty that I have delayed a moment,
but this piazza was so inviting!" and he hastened away.
"Does he look and act like a man who 'hid a secret sorrow'?" whispered
Hilland, confidently. "I never saw him appear so well before."
Grace smiled, but kept her thoughts to herself. To her also Graham had
never appeared so well. There was decision in his step and slightest
movement. The old easy saunter of leisure was gone; the old half-dreamy
and slightly cynical eyes of the student showed a purpose which was
neither slight nor indefinite; and that brief, searching glance--what
else could it be than a query as to the confidences his aunt may have
bestowed during the day? Moreover, why did he avoid looking at her
unless there was distinct occasion for his glance?
She would have known too well had she heard poor Graham mutter: "My
will must be made of Bessemer steel if I can see her often as she
looked to-night and live."
In the evening Hilland walked over to call on his friend and make
inquiries. Through the parlor windows he saw Graham reading to his
aunt, who reclined on a lounge; and he stole away again without
disturbing them.
The next few days passed uneventfully away, and Graham's armor was
almost proof against even the penetration of Grace. He did not assume
any mask of gayety. He seemed to be merely his old self, with a subtle
difference, and a very unobtrusive air of decision in all his
movements. He was with his friend a great deal; and she heard them
talking over their old life with much apparent zest. He was as good
company for the major as ever, and when a whist played so good a game
as to show that he was giving it careful attention. There was a
gentleness toward his aunt that rather belied his character of stoic
philosopher. Indeed, he seemed to have dropped this phase also, and was
simply a well-bred man of the world, avoiding reference to himself, and
his past or present views, as far as possible.
To a question of Hilland's one day he replied: "No; I shall not go back
to my studies at present. As I told you the other night, my excursion
into the world has shown me the advantage of studying it more fully.
While I shall never be a Croesus like yourself, I am modestly
independent; and I mean to see the world we live in, and then shall
know better what I am studying about."
When Hilland told Grace of this purpose, she felt it was in keeping
with all the rest. It might mean what was on the surface; it might mean
more. It might be a part of the possible impulse that had driven him
into the Vermont woods, or the natural and rational step he would have
taken had he never seen her. At any rate, she felt that he was daily
growing more remote, and that by a nice gradation of effort he was
consciously withdrawing himself. And yet she could scarcely dwell on a
single word or act, and say: "This proves it." His manner toward her
was most cordial. When they conversed he looked at her steadily and
directly, and would respond in kind to her mirthful words and Hilland's
broad raillery; but she never detected one of the furtive, lingering
glances that she now remembered with compunction were once frequent. It
was quite proper that this should be so, but it was unnatural. If
hitherto she had only pleased his taste and satisfied his reason, it
would be a safe and harmless pastime for him to linger near her still
in thought and reality. If he was struggling with a passion that had
struck its root deep, then there was good reason for that steady
withdrawal from her society which he managed so naturally that no one
observed it but herself. Hilland had no misgivings, and she suggested
none; but whenever she was in the presence of Graham or Mrs. Mayburn,
although their courtesy and kind manner were unexceptionable, she felt
there was "something in the air."