Books: His Sombre Rivals

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"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."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

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.

CHAPTEE XXXIX

MARRIED UNCONSCIOUSLY

There was no sleep for Graham that night, for he knew that two skilful
men were consulting on a question beyond any that had agitated his
heart before. As he paced the little parlor with restless steps, Aunt
Sheba's ample form filled the doorway, and in her hands was a tray
bearing such coffee as only she knew how to brew.

"Thanks, Aunt Sheba," he said, motioning to a table, without pausing
in his distracted walk.

She put down the tray, retreated hesitatingly, and then began: "Dear
Mas'r Graham, my ole heart jes aches for yer. But don't yer be so cast
down, mas'r; de good Lord knows it all, and I'se a-prayin' for yer and
de lubly Miss Grace night and day."

He was so utterly miserable that he was grateful for even this homely
sympathy, and he took the old woman's hand in his as he said kindly,
"Pray on, then, good old aunty, if it's any comfort to you. It
certainly can do no harm."

"Oh, Mas'r Graham, you dunno, you dunno. Wid all yer wise knowin' yer
dunno. You'se all--good Mis' Mayburn, de ole major, an' all--are in de
dark land ob unbelievin', like poor Missy Grace. She doesn't know how
you'se all tink about her an' lub her; needer does you know how de
good Lord tinks about you and lubs you. You guv me my liberty; you guv
what I tinks a sight more on; you'se been kind to de poor old slave
dat los' all her chillen in de weary days dat's gone. I'se a
'memberin' yer all de time. You hab no faith, Mas'r Graham, and poor
ole Aunt Sheba mus' hab faith for yer. An' so I will. I'se a wrastlin'
wid de Lord for yer all de time, an' I'se a-gwine to wrastle on till I
sees yer an' Missy Grace an' all comin' inter de light;" and she threw
her apron over her head, and went sobbing away.

He paused for a moment when she left him, touched deeply by the
strong, homely, human sympathy and gratitude of the kind old soul who
fed him--as he never forgot--when he was a fugitive in a hostile land.
That she had manifested her feeling after what he deemed her own
ignorant, superstitious fashion was nothing. It was the genuine
manifestation of the best human traits that touched him--pure gems
illumining a nature otherwise so clouded and crude.

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