THE EFFORT TO LIVE
As Graham had said, it did seem that infinite patience and courage
would be required to defeat the dark adversaries now threatening the
life upon which he felt that his own depended. He had full assurance
that Grace made her promised effort, but it was little more than an
effort of will, dictated by a sense of duty. She had lost her hold on
life, which to her enfeebled mind and body promised little beyond
renewed weariness and disappointment. How she could live again in any
proper sense of the word was beyond her comprehension; and what was
bare existence? It would be burdensome to herself and become wearisome
to others. The mind acts through its own natural medium, and all the
light that came to her was colored by almost despairing memories.
Too little allowance is often made for those in her condition. The
strong man smiles half contemptuously at the efforts of one who is
feeble to lift a trifling weight. Still, he is charitable. He knows
that if the man has not the muscle, all is explained. So material are
the conceptions of many that they have no patience with those who have
been enfeebled in mind, will, and courage. Such persons would say, "Of
course Mrs. Hilland cannot attend to her household as before; but she
ought to have faith, resignation; she ought to make up her mind
cheerfully to submit, and she would soon be well. Great heavens!
haven't other women lost their husbands? Yes, indeed, and they worried
along quite comfortably."
Graham took no such superficial view. "Other women" were not Grace. He
was philosophical, and tried to estimate the effect of her own peculiar
experience on her own nature, and was not guilty of the absurdity of
generalizing. It was his problem to save Grace as she was, and not as
some good people said she ought to be. Still, his firm belief remained,
that she could live if she would comply with what he believed to be the
conditions of life; indeed, that she could scarcely help living. If the
time could come when her brain would be nourished by an abundance of
healthful blood, he might hope for almost anything. She would then be
able to view the past dispassionately, to recognize that what _was
past_ was gone forever, and to see the folly of a grief which wasted
the present and the future. If she never became strong enough for
that--and the prospect was only a faint, half-acknowledged hope--then
he would reverently worship a patient, gentle, white-haired woman, who
should choose her own secluded path, he being content to make it as
smooth and thornless as possible.
Beyond a brief absence at the time his regiment was mustered out of the
service, he was always at home, and the allies against death--with
their several hopes, wishes, and interests--worked faithfully. At last
there was a more decided response in the patient. Her sleep became
prolonged, as if she were making amends for the weariness of years.
Skilful tonic treatment told on the wasted form. New blood was made,
and that, in Graham's creed, was new life.
His materialistic theory, however, was far removed from any gross
conception of the problem. He did not propose to feed a woman into a
new and healthful existence, except as he fed what he deemed to be her
whole nature. In his idea, flowers, beauty in as many forms as he could
command and she enjoy at the time, were essential. He ransacked nature
in his walks for things to interest her. He brought her out into the
sunshine, and taught her to distinguish the different birds by their
notes. He had Mrs. Mayburn talk to her and consult with her over the
homely and wholesome details of housekeeping. Much of the news of the
day was brought to her attention as that which should naturally
interest her, especially the reconstruction of the South, as
represented and made definite by the experience of Henry Anderson and
his sister. He told her that he had bought at a nominal sum a large
plantation in the vicinity of the parsonage, and that Colonel Anderson
should be his agent, with the privilege of buying at no more of an
advance than would satisfy the proud young Southerner's self respect.
Thus from every side he sought to bring natural and healthful
influences to bear upon her mind, to interest her in life at every
point where it touched her, and to reconnect the broken threads which
had bound her to the world.
He was aided earnestly and skilfully on all sides. Their success,
however, was discouragingly slow. In her weakness Grace made pathetic
attempts to respond, but not from much genuine interest. As she grew
stronger her manner toward her father was more like that of her former
self than was the rest of her conduct. Almost as if from the force of
habit, she resumed her thoughtful care for his comfort; but beyond that
there seemed to be an apathy, an indifference, a dreary preoccupation
hard to combat.
In Graham's presence she would make visible effort to do all he wished,
but it was painfully visible, and sometimes she would recognize his
unobtrusive attentions with a smile that was sadder than any words
could be. One day she seemed almost wholly free from the deep apathy
that was becoming characteristic, and she said to him, "Alas, my
friend! as I said to you at first, the woman _is_ dead within me. My
body grows stronger, as the result of the skill and help you all are
bringing to bear on my sad problem, but my heart is dead, and my hope
takes no hold on life. I cannot overcome the feeling that I am a mere
shadow, and have no right to be here among the living. You are so
brave, patient, and faithful that I am ever conscious of a sort of dull
remorse; but there is a weight on my brain and a despairing numbness at
my heart, making everything seem vain and unreal. Please do not blame
me. Asking me to feel is like requiring sight of the blind. I've lost
the faculty. I have suffered so much that I have become numb, if not
dead. The shadows of the past mingle with the shadows of to-day. Only
you seem real in your strong, vain effort, and as far as I can suffer
any more it pains me to see you thus waste yourself on a hopeless
shadow of a woman. I told you I should disappoint you."
"I am not wasting myself, Grace. Remain a shadow till you can be more.
I will bear my part of the burden, if you will be patient with yours.
Won't you believe that I am infinitely happier in caring for you as you
are than I should be if I could not thus take your hand and express to
you my thought, my sympathy? Dear Grace, the causes which led to your
depression were strong and terrible. Should we expect them to be
counteracted in a few short weeks?"
"Alas, Alford! is there any adequate remedy? Forgive me for saying this
to you, and yet you, of all people, can understand me best. You cling
to me who should be nothing to a man of your power and force. You say
you cannot go on in life without me, even as a weak, dependent
friend--that you would lose all zest, incentive, and interest; for I
cannot think you mean more. If you feel in this way toward me, who in
the eyes of other men would be a dismal burden, think how Warren dwells
in my memory, what he was to me, how his strong sunny nature was the
sun of my life. Do you not see you are asking of me what you say you
could not do yourself, although you would, after your own brave, manly
fashion? But your own belief should teach you the nature of my task
when you ask me to go on and take up life again, from which I was torn
more completely than the vine which falls with the tree to which it
clung."
"Dear Grace, do not think for a moment that I am not always gratefully
conscious of the immense self-sacrifice you are making for me and
others. You long for rest and forgetfulness, and yet you know well that
your absence would leave an abyss of despair. You now add so much to
the comfort of your father! Mrs. Mayburn clings to you with all the
love of a mother. And I, Grace--what else can I do? Even your frail,
sad presence is more to me than the sun in the sky. Is it pure
selfishness on my part to wish to keep you? Time, the healer, will
gradually bring to you rest from pain, and serenity to us all. When you
are stronger I will take you to Hilland's grave--"
"No, no, no!" she cried, almost passionately. "Why should I go there?
Oh, this is the awful part of it! What I so loved has become nothing,
worse than nothing--that from which I shrink as something horrible. Oh,
Alford! why are we endowed with such natures if corruption is to be the
end? It is this thought that paralyzes me. It seems as if pure,
unselfish love is singled out for the most diabolical punishment. To
think that a form which has become sacred to you may be put away at any
moment as a horrible and unsightly thing! and that such should be the
end of the noblest devotion of which man is capable! My whole being
revolts at it; and yet how can I escape from its truth? I am beset by
despairing thoughts on every side when able to think at all, and my
best remedy seems a sort of dreary apathy, in which I do little more
than breathe. I have read that there comes a time when the tortured
cease to feel much pain. There was a time, especially at the hospital,
when I suffered constantly--when almost everything but you suggested
torturing thoughts. I suffered with you and for you, but there was
always something sustaining in your presence. There is still. I should
not live a month in your absence, but it seems as if it were your
strong will that holds me, not my own. You have given me the power, the
incentive, to make such poor effort as I am putting forth. Moreover, in
intent, you gave your life for Warren again and again, and as long as I
have any volition left I will try and do all you wish, since you so
wish it. But my hope is dead. I do not see how any more good can come
to me or through me."
"You are still willing, however, to permit me to think for you, to
guide you? You will still use your utmost effort to live?"
"Yes. I can refuse to the man who went back to my dying husband nothing
within my power to grant. It is indeed little. Besides, I am in your
care, but I fear I shall prove a sad, if not a fatal legacy."
"Of that, dear Grace, you must permit me to be the judge. All that you
have said only adds strength to my purpose. Does not the thought that
you are doing so very much for me and for all who love you bring some
solace?"
"It should. But what have I brought you but pain and deep anxiety? Oh,
Alford, Alford! you will waken some bitter day to the truth that you
love but the wraith of the girl who unconsciously won your heart. You
have idealized her, and the being you now love does not exist. How can
I let you go on thus wronging yourself?"
"Grace," replied he, gravely and almost sternly, "I learned in the
northern woods, among the fiords of Norway, under the shadow of the
Himalayas, and in my long, lonely hours in the war, whom I loved, and
why I loved her. I made every effort at forgetfulness that I, at least,
was capable of exerting, and never forgot for an hour. Am I a
sentimental boy, that you should talk to me in this way? Let us leave
that question as settled for all time. Moreover, never entertain the
thought that I am planning and hoping for the future. I see in your
affection for me only a pale reflection of your love for Hilland."
"No, Alford, I love you for your own sake. How tenderly you have ever
spoken of little Rita Anderson, and yet--"
"And yet, as I have told you more than once, the thought of loving her
never entered my mind. I could plan for her happiness as I would for a
sister, had I one."
"Therefore you can interpret me."
"Therefore I have interpreted you, and, from the first, have asked for
nothing more than that you still make one of our little circle, each
member of which would be sadly missed, you most of all."
"I ought to be able to do so little as that for you. Indeed, I am
trying."
"I know you are, and, as you succeed, you will see that I am content.
Do not feel that when I am present you must struggle and make unwonted
effort. The tide is setting toward life; float gently on with it. Do
not try to force nature. Let time and rest daily bring their
imperceptible healing. The war is over. I now have but one object in
life, and if you improve I shall come and go and do some man's work in
the world. My plantation in Virginia will soon give me plenty of
wholesome out-of-door thoughts."
She gave him one of her sad smiles as she replied wearily, "You set me
a good example."
This frank interchange of thought appeared at first to have a good
effect on Grace, and brought something of the rest which comes from
submission to the inevitable. She found that Graham's purpose was as
immovable as the hills, and at the same time was more absolutely
convinced that he was not looking forward to what seemed an impossible
future. Nor did he ask that her effort should be one of feeble
struggles to manifest an interest before him which she did not feel.
She yielded to her listlessness and apathy to a degree that alarmed her
father and Mrs. Mayburn, but Graham said: "It's the course of nature.
After such prolonged suffering, both body and mind need this lethargy.
Reaction from one extreme to another might be expected."
Dr. Markham agreed in the main with this view, and yet there was a
slight contraction of perplexity on his brows as he added: "I should
not like to see this tendency increase beyond a certain point, or
continue too long. From the first shock of her bereavement Mrs.
Hilland's mind has not been exactly in a normal condition. There are
phases of her trouble difficult to account for and difficult to treat.
The very fineness of her organization made the terrible shock more
serious in its injury. I do not say this to discourage you--far from
it--but in sincerity I must call your attention to the fact that every
new phase of her grief has tended to some extreme manifestation,
showing a disposition toward, not exactly mental weakness, but
certainly an abnormal mental condition. I speak of this that you may
intelligently guard against it. If due precaution is used, the happy
mean between these reactions may be reached, and both mind and body
recover a healthful tone. I advise that you all seek some resort by the
sea, a new one, without any associations with the past."
Within a few days they were at a seaside inn, a large one whose very
size offered seclusion. From their wide and lofty balconies they could
watch the world come and go on the sea and on the land; and the world
was too large and too distant for close scrutiny or petty gossip. They
could have their meals in their rooms, or in the immense dining-hall,
as they chose; and in the latter place the quiet party would scarcely
attract a second glance from the young, gay, and sensation-loving.
Their transient gaze would see two old ladies, one an invalid, an old
and crippled man, and one much younger, who evidently would never take
part in a german.
It was thought and hoped that this nearness to the complex world, with
the consciousness that it could not approach her to annoy and pry,
might tend to awaken in Grace a passing interest in its many phases.
She could see without feeling that she was scanned and surmised about,
as is too often the case in smaller houses wherein the guests are not
content until they have investigated all newcomers.
But Grace disappointed her friends. She was as indifferent to the world
about her as the world was to her. At first she was regarded as a quiet
invalid, and scarcely noticed. The sea seemed to interest her more than
all things else, and, if uninterrupted, she would sit and gaze at its
varying aspects for hours.
According to Graham's plan, she was permitted, with little
interference, to follow her mood. Mrs. Mayburn was like a watchful
mother, the major much his former self, for his habits were too fixed
for radical changes. Grace would quietly do anything he asked, but she
grew more forgetful and inattentive, coming out of her deep
abstraction--if such it could be termed--with increasing effort. With
Graham she seemed more content than with any one else. With him she
took lengthening walks on the beach. He sat quietly beside her while
she watched the billows chasing one another to the shore. Their swift
onset, their defeat, over which they appeared to foam in wrath, their
backward and disheartened retreat, ever seemed to tell her in some dim
way a story of which she never wearied. Often she would turn and look
at him with a vague trouble in her face, as if faintly remembering
something that was a sorrow to them both; but his reassuring smile
quieted her, and she would take his hand as a little child might have
done, and sit for an hour without removing her eyes from the waves. He
waited patiently day after day, week after week, reiterating to
himself, "She will waken, she will remember all, and then will have
strength and calmness to meet it. This is nature's long repose."
It was growing strangely long and deep.
Meanwhile Grace, in her outward appearance, was undergoing a subtle
change. Graham was the first to observe it, and at last it was apparent
to all. As her mind became inert, sleeping on a downy couch of
forgetfulness, closely curtained, the silent forces of physical life,
in her deep tranquillity, were doing an artist's work. The hollow
cheeks were gradually rounded and given the faintest possible bloom.
Her form was gaining a contour that might satisfy a sculptor's dream.
The major had met old friends, and it was whispered about who they
were--the widow of a millionaire; Colonel Graham, one of the most
dashing cavalry officers in the war which was still in all minds; Major
St. John, a veteran soldier of the regular service, who had been
wounded in the Mexican War and who was well and honorably known to the
chief dignitaries of the former generation. Knowing all this, the
quidnuncs complacently felt at first that they knew all. The next thing
was to know the people. This proved to be difficult indeed. The major
soon found a few veteran cronies at whist, but to others was more
unapproachable than a major-general of the old school. Graham was far
worse, and belles tossed their heads at the idea that he had ever been
a "dashing cavalry officer" or dashing anything else. Before the summer
was over the men began to discover that Mrs. Hilland was the most
beautiful woman in the house--strangely, marvellously, supernaturally
beautiful.
An artist, who had found opportunity to watch the poor unconscious
woman furtively--not so furtively either but that any belle in the
hostelry would know all about it in half a minute--raved about the
combination of charms he had discovered.
"Just imagine," he said, "what a picture she made as she sat alone on
the beach! She was so remarkable in her appearance that one might think
she had arisen from the sea, and was not a creature of the earth. Her
black, close-fitting dress suggested the form of Aphrodite as she rose
from the waves. Her profile was almost faultless in its exquisite
lines. Her complexion, with just a slight warm tinge imparted by the
breeze, had not the cold, dead white of snow, but the clear
transparency which good aristocratic blood imparts. But her eyes and
hair were her crowning features. How shall I describe the deep, dreamy
languor of her large, dark eyes, made a hundred-fold more effective by
the silvery whiteness of her hair, which had partly escaped from her
comb, and fell upon her neck! And then her sublime, tranquil
indifference! That I was near, spellbound with admiration, did not
interest her so much as a sail, no larger than a gull's wing, far out
at sea."
"Strange, strange!" said one of his friends, laughing; "her
unconsciousness of your presence was the strangest part of it all. Why
did you not make a sketch?"
"I did, but that infernal Colonel Graham, who is said to be her
shadow--after her million, you know--suddenly appeared and asked
sternly: 'Have you the lady's permission for this sketch?' I stammered
about being 'so impressed, that in the interests of art,' etc. He then
snatched my sketch and threw it into the waves. Of course I was angry,
and I suppose my words and manner became threatening. He took a step
toward me, looking as I never saw a man look. 'Hush,' he said, in a low
voice. 'Say or do a thing to annoy that lady, and I'll wring your neck
and toss you after your sketch. Do you think I've been through a
hundred battles to fear your insignificance?' By Jove! he looked as if
he could do it as easily as say it. Of course I was not going to brawl
before a lady."
"No; it wouldn't have been prudent--I mean gentlemanly," remarked his
bantering friend.
"Well, laugh at me," replied the young fellow, who was as honest as
light-hearted and vain. 'I'd risk the chance of having my neck wrung
for another glimpse at such marvellous beauty. Would you believe it?
the superb creature never so much as once turned to glance at us. She
left me to her attendant as completely as if he were removing an
annoying insect. Heavens! but it was the perfection of high breeding.
But I shall have my revenge: "I'll paint her yet."
"Right, my friend, right you are; and your revenge will be terrible.
Her supernatural and high-bred nonchalance will be lost forever should
she see her portrait;" and with mutual chaffing, spiced with
good-natured satire, as good-naturedly received, the little party in a
smoking-room separated.
But furtive eyes soon relieved the artist from the charge of
exaggeration. Thus far Grace's manner had been ascribed to high-bred
reserve and the natural desire for seclusion in her widowhood. Now,
however, that attention was concentrated upon her, Graham feared that
more than her beauty would be discovered.
He himself also longed inexpressibly to hide his new phase of trouble
from the chattering throng of people who were curious to know about
them. To know? As if they could know! They might better sit down to
gossip over the secrets of the differential and the integral calculus.
But he saw increasing evidences that they were becoming objects of
"interest," and the beautiful millionaire widow "very interesting," as
it was phrased; and he knew that there is no curiosity so penetrating
as that of the fashionable world when once it is aroused, and the game
deemed worthy of pursuit.
People appeared from Washington who had known Lieutenant-Colonel
Hilland and heard something of Graham, and the past was being ferreted
out. "Her hair had turned white from grief in a night," it was
confidently affirmed.
Poor Jones shrugged his shoulders as he thought: "I shall never be the
cause of my wife's hair turning white, unless I may, in the future,
prevent her from dyeing it."
After all, sympathy was not very deep. It was generally concluded that
Colonel Graham would console her, and one lady of elegant leisure,
proud of her superior research, declared that she had seen the colonel
"holding Mrs. Hilland's hand," as they sat in a secluded angle of the
rocks.
Up to a certain time it was comparatively easy to shield Grace; but
now, except as she would turn her large, dreamy eyes and unresponsive
lips upon those who sought her acquaintance, she was as helpless as a
child. The major and Mrs. Mayburn at once acquiesced in Graham's wish
to depart. Within a day or two the gossips found that their prey had
escaped, and Grace was once more in her cottage home.
At first she recognized familiar surroundings with a sigh of content.
Then a deeply troubled look flitted across her face and she looked at
Graham inquiringly.
"What is it, Grace?" he asked, gently.
She pressed her hand to her brow, glanced around once more, shook her
head sadly, and went to her room to throw off her wraps.
They all looked at one another with consternation. Hitherto they had
tried to be dumb and blind, each hiding the growing and awful
conviction that Grace was drifting away from them almost as surely as
if she had died.
"Something must be done at once," said practical Mrs. Mayburn.
"I have telegraphed for Dr. Markham," replied Graham, gloomily.
"Nothing can be done till he returns. He is away on a distant trip."
"Oh!" groaned the old major, "there will be an end of me before there
is to all this trouble."