GRAHAM'S LAST SACRIFICE
A terrible foreboding oppressed Graham. Would Grace fulfil her
prediction and disappoint him, after all? Would she elude him, escape,
_die_, and yet remain at his side, beautiful as a dream? Oh, the agony
of possessing this perfect casket, remembering the jewel that had
vanished! He had vowed to defeat his gloomy rivals, Grief and Death,
and they were mocking him, giving the semblance of what he craved
beyond even imagined perfection, but carrying away into their own
inscrutable darkness the woman herself.
What was Grace?--what becoming? As he looked he thought of her as a
sculptor's ideal embodied, a dream of beauty only, not a woman--as the
legend of Eve, who might, before becoming a living soul, have
harmonized with the loveliness of her garden without seeing or feeling
it.
He could not think of her mind as blotted out or perverted; he could
not conceive of it otherwise than as corresponding with her outward
symmetry. To his thought it slumbered, as her form might repose upon
her couch, in a death-like trance. She went and came among them like a
somnambulist, guided by unconscious instincts, memories, and habits.
She knew their voices, did, within limitations, as they requested; but
when she waited on her father there was a sad, mechanical repetition of
what she had done since childhood. Mrs. Mayburn found her docile and
easily controlled, and the heart-stricken old lady was vigilance itself.
Toward Graham, however, her manner had a marked characteristic. He was
her master, and she a dumb, lovely, unreasoning creature, that looked
into his eyes for guidance, and gathered more from his tones than from
his words. Some faint consciousness of the past had grown into an
instinct that to him she must look for care and direction; and she
never thought of resisting his will. If he read to her, she turned to
him her lovely face, across which not a gleam of interest or
intelligence would pass. If he brought her flowers, she would hold them
until they were taken from her. She would pace the garden walks by his
side, with her hand upon his arm, by the hour if he wished it,
sometimes smiling faintly at his gentle tones, but giving no proof that
she understood the import of his words. At Hilland's name only she
would start and tremble as if some deep chord were struck, which could
merely vibrate until its sounds were faint and meaningless.
It was deeply touching also to observe in her sad eclipse how her
ingrained refinement asserted itself. In all her half-conscious action
there was never a coarse look or word. She was a rose without its
perfume. She was a woman without a woman's mind and heart. These had
been subtracted, with all the differences they made; otherwise she was
Grace Hilland.
Graham was profoundly perplexed and distressed. The problem had become
too deep for him. The brain, nourished by good blood, had not brought
life. All his skill and that of those allied with him had failed. The
materialist had matter in the perfection of breathing outline, but
where was the woman he loved? How could he reach her, how make himself
understood by her, except as some timid, docile creature responds to a
caress or a tone? His very power over her was terrifying. It was built
upon the instinct, the allegiance that cannot reason but is
unquestioning. Nothing could so have daunted his hope, courage, and
will as the exquisite being Grace had become, as she looked up to him
with her large, mild, trusting eyes, from which thought, intelligence,
and volition had departed.
At last Dr. Markham came, and for several days watched his patient
closely, she giving little heed to his presence. They all hung on his
perturbed looks with a painful anxiety. For a time he was very
reticent, but one day he followed Graham to his quarters in Mrs.
Mayburn's cottage, where he was now much alone. Grace seemed to miss
him but slightly, although she always gave some sign of welcome on his
return. The mocking semblance of all that he could desire often so
tantalized him that her presence became unendurable. The doctor found
him pacing his room in a manner betokening his half-despairing
perplexity.
"Colonel Graham," he said, "shall I surprise you when I say physicians
are very fallible? I know that it is not the habit of the profession to
admit this, but I have not come here to talk nonsense to you. You have
trusted me in this matter, and admitted me largely into your
confidence, and I shall speak to you in honest, plain English. Mrs.
Hilland's symptoms are very serious. What I feared has taken place.
From her acute and prolonged mental distress and depression, of which
she would have died had you not come, she reacted first into mental
lethargy, and now into almost complete mental inactivity. I cannot
discover that any disturbed physical functions have been an element in
her mental aberration, for more perfect physical life and loveliness I
have never seen. Her white hair, which might have made her look old, is
a foil to a beauty which seems to defy age.
"Pardon me for saying it, but I fear our treatment has been
superficial. We men of the world may believe what we please, but to
many natures, especially to an organization like Mrs. Hilland's, hope
and faith are essential. She has practically been without these from
the first, and, as you know, she was sinking under the struggle
maintained by her own brave, womanly spirit. She was contending with
more than actual bereavement. It was the hopelessness of the struggle
that crushed her, for she is not one of that large class of women who
can find consolation in crape and becoming mourning.
"In response to your appeal, she did make the effort you required, but
it was the effort of a mind still without hope or faith--one that saw
no remedy for the evils that had already overwhelmed her--and I must
bear witness that her efforts were as sincere as they were pathetic. We
all watched to give every assistance in our power. I've lain awake
nights, Colonel Graham, to think of remedies that would meet her needs;
and good Mrs. Mayburn and your old black cook, Aunt Sheba, prepared
food fit for the gods. You were more untiring and effective than any of
us, and the major's very infirmities were among her strongest allies.
Well, we have the result--a woman who might be a model for a goddess,
even to her tranquil face, in which there is no trace of varying human
feeling. Explanation of the evil that crushed her, hope, and faith were
not given--who can give them?--but they were essential to her from the
first. Unbelief, which is a refuge to some, was an abyss to her. In it
she struggled and groped until her mind, appalled and discouraged and
overwhelmed, refused to act at all. In one sense it is a merciful
oblivion, in another a fatal one, from which she must be aroused if
possible. But it's a hard, hard case."
"You make it hard indeed," said Graham, desperately. "What faith can I
instil except the one I have? I can't lie, even for Grace Hilland. She
knew well once that I could easily die for her."
"Well, then," said the physician, "permit a plain, direct question.
Will you marry her?"
"Marry her--as she now is?" cried Graham, in unfeigned astonishment.
"You said you could die for her. This may be going much further. Indeed
I should call it the triumph of human affection, for in honesty I must
tell you that she may never be better, she may become worse. But I
regard it as her only chance. At any rate, she needs a vigilant
caretaker. Old Mrs. Mayburn will not be equal to the task much longer,
and her place will have to be filled by hired service. I know it is
like suggesting an almost impossible sacrifice to broach even the
thought, remembering her condition, but--"
"Dr. Markham," said Graham, pacing the floor in great agitation, "you
wholly misunderstand me. I was thinking of her, not of myself. What
right have I to marry Grace Hilland without her consent? She could give
no intelligent assent at present."
"The right of your love; the right her husband gave when he committed
her to your care; the right of your desire to prevent her from drifting
into hopeless, lifelong imbecility, wherein she would be almost at the
mercy of hired attendants, helpless to shield herself from any and
every wrong; the right of a man to sacrifice himself absolutely for
another if he chooses."
"But she might waken from this mental trance and feel that I had taken
a most dishonorable advantage of her helplessness."
"Yes, you run that risk; but here is one man who will assure her to the
contrary, and you would be sustained by the consciousness of the purest
motives. It is that she may waken that I suggest the step; mark, I do
not advise it. As I said at first, I am simply treating you with
absolute confidence and sincerity. If matters go on as they are, I have
little or no hope. Mrs. Mayburn is giving way under the strain, and
symptoms of her old disorder are returning. She cannot watch Mrs.
Hilland much longer as she has been doing. Whom will you put in her
place? Will you send Mrs. Hilland to an asylum, with its rules and
systems and its unknown attendants? Moreover, her present tranquil
condition may not last. She may become as violent as she now is gentle.
She may gradually regain her intelligence, or it may be restored to her
by some sudden shock. If the mysteries of the physical nature so baffle
us, who can predict the future of a disordered intellect? I have
presented the darkest side of the picture; I still think it has its
bright side. She has no hereditary mental weakness to contend with. As
it developed somewhat gradually, it may pass in the same manner. If you
should marry her and take her at once to Europe, change of scene, of
life, with your vigilant presence ever near, might become important
factors in the problem. The memory that she was committed to your care
has degenerated into a controlling instinct; but that is far better
than nothing. The only real question in my mind is, Are you willing to
make the sacrifice and take the risks? You know the world will say you
married her for her money, and that will be hard on a man like you."
Graham made a gesture of contempt: "That for the world," he said. "Have
you broached this subject to her father and my aunt?"
"Certainly not before speaking to you."
"You then give me your assurance, as a man, that you believe this
right, and that it is Grace Hilland's best chance--indeed, almost her
only chance--for recovery?"
"I do most unhesitatingly, and I shall do more. I shall bring from New
York an eminent physician who has made mental disease a study all his
life, and he shall either confirm my opinion or advise you better."
"Do so, Dr. Markham," said Graham, very gravely. "I have incurred risks
before in my life, but none like this. If from any cause Mrs. Hilland
should recover memory and full intelligence, and reproach me for having
taken advantage of a condition which, even among savage tribes, renders
the afflicted one sacred, all the fiendish tortures of the Inquisition
would be nothing to what I should suffer. Still, prove to me, prove to
her father, that it is her best chance, and for Grace Hilland I will
take even this risk. Please remember there must be no professional
generalities. I must have your solemn written statement that it is for
Mrs. Hilland's sake I adopt the measure."
"So be it," was the reply. "I shall telegraph to Dr. Armand immediately
to expect me, and shall say that I wish him to be prepared to come at
once."
"Do so, and consider no question of expense. I am no longer poor, and
if I were, I would mortgage my blood at this juncture."
On the following evening Dr. Armand was almost startled by the vision
on the veranda of the St. John cottage. A silvery-haired woman sat
looking placidly at the glowing sunset, with its light and its
rose-hues reflected in her face.
"If ever there was a picture of a glorified saint, there is one," he
muttered, as he advanced and bowed.
She gave him no attention, but with dark eyes, made brilliant by the
level rays, she gazed steadily on the closing day. The physician stole
a step or two nearer, and looked as steadily at her, while his
experienced eye detected in all her illuminated beauty the absence of
the higher, more subtle light of reason. Dr. Markham had told him next
to nothing about the case, and had asked him to go and see for himself,
impressing him only with the fact that it was a question of vital
importance that he was to aid in deciding; that he must give it his
whole professional skill, and all the necessary time, regardless of
expense. The moment he saw Grace, however, the business aspect of the
affair passed from his mind. His ruling passion was aroused, and he was
more than physician--a student--as the great in any calling ever are.
Graham came to the door and recognized instinctively the intent,
eagle-eyed man, who merely nodded and motioned him to approach his
patient. Graham did so, and Grace turned her eyes to him with a timid,
questioning glance. He offered her his arm; she rose instantly and took
it, and began walking with him.
"Were you looking at the sunset, Grace?"
She turned upon him the same inquiring eyes, but did not answer.
"Do you not think it very beautiful? Does it not remind you of the
sunset you saw on the evening when I returned from my first battle?"
She shook her head, and only looked perplexed,
"Why, Grace," he continued, as if provoked, "you _must_ remember. I was
carried, you know, and you and Mrs. Mayburn acted as if my scratches
were mortal wounds."
She looked frightened at his angry tones, clasped her hands, and with
tears in her eyes looked pleadingly up to him.
"Dear Grace, don't be worried." He now spoke in the gentlest tones, and
lifted her hand to his lips. A quick, evanescent smile illumined her
face. She fawned against his shoulder a moment, placed his hand against
her cheek, and then leaned upon his arm as they resumed their walk, Dr.
Armand keeping near them without in the least attracting her attention.
"Grace," resumed Graham, "you must remember. Hilland, Warren, you know."
She dropped his arm, looked wildly around, covered her face with her
hands, and shuddered convulsively.
After a moment he said, kindly but firmly, "Grace, dear Grace."
She sprang to him, seized his hand, and casting a look of suspicion at
Dr. Armand, drew him away.
A few moments later she was again looking tranquilly at the west, but
the light had departed from the sky and from her face. It had the look
of one who saw not, thought and felt not. It was breathing, living
death.
Graham looked at her mournfully for a few moments, and then, with a
gesture that was almost despairing, turned to the physician, who had
not lost a single expression.
"Thank you," was that gentleman's first laconic remark; and he dropped
into a chair, still with his eyes on the motionless figure of Grace.
At last he asked, "How long would she maintain that position?"
"I scarcely know," was the sad response; "many hours certainly."
"Please let her retain it till I request you to interfere. The moon is
rising almost full, the evening is warm, and she can take no harm."
The major tottered out on his crutches, and was given his chair, the
physician meanwhile being introduced. Brief and courteous was Dr.
Armand's acknowledgment, but he never took his eyes from his patient.
The same was true of his greeting to Mrs. Mayburn; but that good lady's
hospitable instincts soon asserted themselves, and she announced that
dinner was ready.
"Take Mrs. Hilland to dinner," said the physician to Graham; "but first
introduce me."
The young man approached and said, "Grace." She rose instantly and took
his arm. "This is Dr. Armand, Grace. He has called to see you." She
made him a courteous inclination, and then turned to Graham to see what
next was expected of her, but he only led her to the dining-room.
"Gracie, darling, bring me my cushion," said her father, speaking as he
had been used to do when she was a little girl.
She brought it mechanically and arranged it, then stood in expectancy.
"That will do, dear;" and she returned to her seat in silence.
Throughout the meal she maintained this silence, although Dr. Armand
broached many topics, avoiding only the name of her husband. Her manner
was that of a little, quiet, well-bred child, who did not understand
what was said, and had no interest in it. The physician's scrutiny did
not embarrass her; she had never remembered, much less forgotten him.
When the meal was over they all returned to the piazza. At the
physician's request she was placed in her old seat, and they all sat
down to watch. The moon rose higher and higher, made her hair more
silvery, touched her still face with a strange, ethereal beauty, and
threw the swaying shadow of a spray of woodbine across her motionless
figure--so motionless that she seemed a sculptured rather than a
breathing woman.
After a while the old major rose and groaned as he tottered away. Mrs.
Mayburn, in uncontrollable nervous restlessness, soon followed, that
she might find relief in household cares. The two men watched on till
hours had passed, and still the lovely image had not stirred. At last
Dr. Armand approached her and said, "Mrs. Hilland."
She rose, and stood coldly aloof. The name, with her prefix, did not
trouble her. She had long been accustomed to that "Hilland," as Graham
uttered the word, alone affected her, touching some last deep chord of
memory.
"Mrs. Hilland," the doctor continued, "it is getting late. Do you not
think you had better retire?"
She looked at him blankly, and glanced around as if in search of some
one.
"I am here, Grace," said Graham, emerging from the doorway.
She came to him at once, and he led her to Mrs. Mayburn, kissing her
hand, and receiving, in return, her strange, brief, fawning caress.
"I would like to know the history of Mrs. Hilland's malady from the
beginning," said Dr. Armand, when Graham returned.
"I cannot go over it again," replied Graham, hoarsely. "Dr. Markham can
tell you about all, and I will answer any questions. Your room is ready
for you here, where Dr. Markham will join you presently. I must bid you
good-night;" and he strode away.
But as he passed under the apple-tree and recalled all that had
occurred there, he was so overcome that once more he leaned against it
for support.