"I WISH HE HAD KNOWN"
The heat continued so oppressive that the major gave signs of
prostration, and Grace decided to take him to his old haunt by the
seashore. The seclusion of their cottage was, of course, more agreeable
to Hilland and herself under the circumstances; but Grace never
hesitated when her father was concerned. Shortly after the decision was
reached, Hilland met his friend, and promptly urged that he and Mrs.
Mayburn should accompany them.
"Certainly," was the quiet reply, "if my aunt wishes to go."
But for some cause, if not for the reasons given, the old lady was
inexorable that evening, even though the major with much gallantry
urged her compliance. She did not like the seashore. It did not agree
with her; and, what was worse, she detested hotels. She was better in
her own quiet nook, etc. Alford might go, if he chose.
But Graham when appealed to said it was both his duty and his pleasure
to remain with his aunt, especially as he was going abroad as soon as
he could arrange his affairs. "Don't put on that injured air," he
added, laughingly, to Hilland. "As if you needed me at present! You two
are sufficient for yourselves; and why should I tramp after you like
the multitude I should be?
"What do you know about our being sufficient for our-selves, I'd like
to ask?" was the bantering response.
"I have the best authority for saying what I do--written authority, and
that of a sage, too. Here it is, heavily under-scored by a hand that I
imagine is as heavy as your own. Ah! Miss Grace's conscious looks prove
that I am right," he added, as he laid the open volume of Emerson,
which he had returned, before her. "I remember reading that paragraph
the first evening I came to my aunt's house; and I thought it a very
curious statement. It made me feel as if I were a sort of polyp or
mollusk, instead of a man."
"Let me see the book," cried Hilland. "Oh, yes," he continued,
laughing; "I remember it all well--the hopes, the misgivings with which
I sent the volume eastward on its mission--the hopes and fears that
rose when the book was acknowledged with no chidings or coldness, and
also with no allusions to the marked passage--the endless surmises as
to what this gentle reader would think of the sentiments within these
black lines. Ha! ha! Graham. No doubt but this is Sanscrit; and all the
professors of all the universities could not interpret it to you."
"That's what I said in substance on the evening referred to--that
Emerson never learned this at a university. I confess that it's an
experience that is and ever will be beyond me. But it's surely good
authority for remaining here with my aunt, who needs me more than you
do."
"How is it, then, Mr. Graham, that you can leave your aunt for months
of travel?" Grace asked.
"Why, Grace," spoke up Mrs. Mayburn, quickly, "you cannot expect Alford
to transform himself into an old lady's life-long attendant. He will
enjoy his travel and come back to me."
The young girl made no answer, but thought: "Their defensive alliance
is a strong one."
"Besides," continued the old lady, after a moment, "I think it's very
kind of him to remain with me, instead of going to the beach for his
own pleasure and the marring of yours."
"Now, that's putting it much too strong," cried Hilland. "Graham never
marred our pleasure."
"And I hope he never will," was the low, earnest response. To Grace's
ear it sounded more like a vow or the expression of a controlling
purpose than like a mere friendly remark.
The next day the St. John cottage was alive with the bustle of
preparation for departure. Graham made no officious offers of
assistance, which, of course, would be futile, but quietly devoted
himself to the major. Whenever Grace appeared from the upper regions,
she found her father amused or interested, and she smiled her
gratitude. In the evening she found a chance to say in a low aside:
"Mr. Graham, you are keeping your word to be my friend. If the
sea-breezes prove as beneficial to papa as your society to-day, I shall
be glad indeed. You don't know how much you have aided me by
entertaining him so kindly."
Both her tone and glance were very gentle as she spoke these words, and
for a moment his silence and manner perplexed her. Then he replied
lightly: "You are mistaken, Miss Grace. Your father has been
entertaining me."
They were interrupted at this point, and Graham seemed to grow more
remote than ever.
Hilland was parting from his friend with evident and sincere regret. He
had made himself very useful in packing, strapping trunks, and in a
general eagerness to save his betrothed from all fatigue; but whenever
occasion offered he would sally forth upon Graham, who, with the major,
followed the shade on the piazza. Some jocular speech usually
accompanied his appearance, and he always received the same in kind
with such liberal interest that he remarked to Grace more than once,
"You are the only being in the world for whom I'd leave Graham during
his brief stay in this land."
"Oh, return to him by all means," she had said archly upon one
occasion. "We did very well alone last year before we were aware of
your existence."
"YOU may not care," was his merry response, "but it is written in one
of the oldest books of the world, 'It is not good for MAN to be alone.'
Oh, Grace, what an infinite difference there is between love for a
woman like you and the strongest friendship between man and man! Graham
just suits me as a friend. After a separation of years I find him just
the same even-pulsed, half-cynical, yet genial good fellow he always
was. It's hard to get within his shell; but when you do, you find the
kernel sweet and sound to the core, even if it is rather dry. From the
time we struck hands as boys there has never been an unpleasant jar in
our relations. We supplement each other marvellously; but how
infinitely more and beyond all this is your love! How it absorbs and
swallows up every other consideration, so that one hour with you is
more to me than an age with all the men of wit and wisdom that ever
lived! No; I'm not a false friend when I say that I am more than
content to go and remain with you; and if Graham had a hundredth part
as much heart as brains he would understand me. Indeed, his very
intellect serves in the place of a heart after a fashion; for he took
Emerson on trust so intelligently as to comprehend that I should not be
inconsolable."
"Mr. Graham puzzles me," Grace had remarked, as she absently inspected
the buttons on one of her father's vests. "I never met just such a man
before."
"And probably never will again. He has been isolated and peculiar from
childhood. I know him well, and he has changed but little in essentials
since I left him over two years ago."
"I wish I had your complacent belief about him," was her mental
conclusion. "I sometimes think you are right, and again I feel as if
some one in almost mortal pain is near me, and that I am to blame in
part."
Whist was dispensed with the last night they were together, for the
evening was close, and all were weary. Grace thought Graham looked
positively haggard; but, whether by design or chance, he kept in the
shadows of the piazza most of the time. Still she had to admit that he
was the life of the party. Mrs. Mayburn was apparently so overcome by
the heat as to be comparatively silent; and Hilland openly admitted
that the July day and his exertions had used him up. Therefore the last
gathering at the St. Johns' cottage came to a speedy end; and Graham
not only said good-night, but also good-by; for, as he explained,
business called him to town early the following morning. He parted
fraternally with Hilland, giving a promise to spend a day with him
before he sailed for Europe. Then he broke away, giving Grace as a
farewell only a strong, warm pressure of the hand, and hastened after
his aunt, who had walked on slowly before. The major, after many
friendly expressions, had retired quite early in the evening.
Grace saw the dark outline of Graham's form disappear like a shadow,
and every day thereafter he grew more shadowy to her. To a degree she
did not imagine possible he had baffled her scrutiny and left her in
doubt. Either he had quietly and philosophically accepted the
situation, or he wished her to think so. In either case there was
nothing to be done. Once away with father and lover she had HER world
with her; and life grew richer and more full of content every day.
Lassitude and almost desperate weariness were in Graham's step as he
came up the path the following evening, for there was no further reason
to keep up the part he was acting. When he greeted his aunt he tried to
appear cheerful, but she said gently, "Put on no mask before me,
Alford. Make no further effort. You have baffled even Grace, and
thoroughly satisfied your friend that all is well. Let the strain cease
now; and let my home be a refuge while you remain. Your wound is one
that time only can heal. You have made an heroic struggle not to mar
their happiness, and I am proud of you for it. But don't try to deceive
me or put the spur any longer to your jaded spirit. Reaction into new
hopes and a new life will come all the sooner if you give way for the
present to your mood."
The wise old woman would have been right in dealing with most natures.
But Graham would not give way to his bitter disappointment, and for him
there would come no reaction. He quietly read to her the evening
papers, and after she had retired stole out and gazed for hours on the
St. John cottage, the casket that had contained for him the jewel of
the world. Then, compressing his lips, he returned to his room with the
final decision, "I will be her friend for life; but it must be an
absent friend. I think my will is strong; but half the width of the
world must be between us."
For the next two weeks he sought to prepare his aunt for a long
separation. He did not hide his feeling; indeed, he spoke of it with a
calmness which, while it surprised, also convinced her that it would
dominate his life. She was made to see clearly the necessity of his
departure, if he would keep his promise to live and do his best. He
promised to be a faithful and voluminous correspondent, and she knew
she would live upon his letters. After the lapse of three weeks he had
arranged his affairs so as to permit a long absence, and then parted
with his aunt as if he had been her son.
"Alford," she said, "all that I have is yours, as you will find in my
will."
"Dear aunty," was his reply, "in giving me your love you have given me
all that I crave. I have more than enough for my wants. Forgive me that
I cannot stay; but I cannot. I have learned the limit of my power of
endurance. I know that I cannot escape myself or my memories, but new
scenes divert my thoughts. Here, I believe, I should go mad, or else do
something wild and desperate. Forgive me, and do not judge me harshly
because I leave you. Perhaps some day this fever of unrest will pass
away, When it does, rest assured you shall see me again."
He then went to the seaside resort where Hilland with the major and his
daughter was sojourning, and never had they seen a man who appeared so
far removed from the lackadaisical, disconsolate lover. His dress was
elegant, although very quiet, his step firm and prompt, and his manner
that of a man who is thoroughly master of the situation. The major was
ill from an indiscretion at the table during the preceding day, and
Grace could not leave him very long. He sent to his favorite companion
and antagonist at whist many feeling messages and sincere good wishes,
and they lost nothing in hearty warmth as they came from Grace's lips;
and for some reason, which she could scarcely explain to herself, tears
came into her eyes as she gave him her hand in parting.
He had been laughing and jesting vivaciously a moment before; but as he
looked into her face, so full of kindly feeling which she could not
wholly repress, his own seemed to grow rigid, and the hand she held was
so cold and tense as to remind her of a steel gauntlet. In the supreme
effort of his spiritual nature he belied his creed. His physical being
was powerless in the grasp of the dominant soul. No martyr at the stake
ever suffered more than he at that moment, but he merely said with
quiet emphasis, "Good-by, Grace St. John. I shall not forget my
promise, nor can there come a day on which I shall not wish you all the
happiness you deserve."
He then bowed gravely and turned away. She hastily sought her room, and
then burst into an irrepressible passion of tears. "It's all in vain,"
she sobbed. "I felt it. I know it. He suffers as I should suffer, and
his iron will cannot disguise the truth."
The friends strolled away up the beach for their final talk, and at
length Hilland came back in a somewhat pensive but very complacent
mood. Grace looked at him anxiously, but his first sentences reassured
her.
"Well," he exclaimed, "if Graham is odd, he's certainly the best and
most sensible fellow that ever lived, and the most steadfast of
friends. Here we've been separated for years, and yet, for any change
in his attitude toward me, we might have parted overnight at the
university. He was as badly smitten by the girl I love as a man of his
temperament could be; but on learning the facts he recognizes the
situation with a quiet good taste which leaves nothing to be desired.
He made it perfectly clear to me that travel for the present was only a
broader and more effective way of continuing his career as a student,
and that when tired of wandering he can go back to books with a larger
knowledge of how to use them. One thing he has made clearer still--if
we do not see each other for ten years, he will come back the same
stanch friend."
"I think you are right, Warren. He certainly has won my entire respect."
"I'm glad he didn't win anything more, sweetheart."
"That ceased to be possible long before he came, but I--I wish he had
known it," was her hesitating response, as she pushed Hilland's hair
back from his heated brow.
"Nonsense, you romantic little woman! You imagine he has gone away with
a great gaping wound in his heart. Graham is the last man in the world
for that kind of thing, and no one would smile more broadly than he,
did he know of your gentle solicitude."
Grace was silent a moment, and then stole away to her father's side.
The next tidings they had of Graham was a letter dated among the fiords
and mountains of Norway.
At times no snowy peak in that wintry land seemed more shadowy or
remote to Grace than he. Again, while passing to and fro between their
own and Mrs. Mayburn's cottage in the autumn, she would see him, with
almost the vividness of life, deathly pale as when he leaned against
the apple-tree at their well-remembered interview.