Books: His Sombre Rivals

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As he approached Major St. John's dwelling he saw the object of his
thoughts standing by the window and reading a letter. A syringa shrub
partially concealed him and his umbrella, and he could not forbear
pausing a moment to note what a pretty picture she made. A sprig of
white flowers was in her light wavy hair, and another fastened by her
breastpin drooped over her bosom. Her morning wrapper was of the hue
of the sky that lay back of the leaden clouds. A heightened color
mantled her cheeks, her lips were parted with a smile, and her whole
face was full of delighted interest.

"By Jove!" muttered Graham. "Aunt Mayburn is half right, I believe. A
man must have the pulse of an anchorite to look often at such a vision
as that and remain untouched. One might easily create a divinity out
of such a creature, and then find it difficult not to worship. I could
go away now and make her my ideal, endowing her with all impossible
attributes of perfection. Very probably fuller acquaintance will prove
that she is made of clay not differing materially from that of other
womankind. I envy her correspondent, however, and would be glad if I
could write a letter that would bring such an expression to her face.
Well, I am reconnoitring true enough, and had better not be detected
in the act;" and he stepped rapidly forward.

She recognized him with a piquant little nod and smile. The letter was
folded instantly, and a moment later she opened the door for him
herself, saying, "Since I have seen you and you have come on so kind
an errand I have dispensed with the formality of sending a servant to
admit you."

"Won't you shake hands as a further reward?" he asked. "You will find
me very mercenary."

"Oh, certainly. Pardon the oversight. I should have done so without
prompting since it is so long since we have met."

"And having known each other so long also," he added in the same light
vein, conscious meantime that he held a hand that was as full of
vitality as it was shapely and white.

"Indeed," she replied; "did last evening seem an age to you?"

"I tried to prolong it, for you must remember that my aunt said that
she could not get me away; and this morning I was indiscreet enough to
welcome the rain, at which she reminded me of her rheumatism and your
father's wound."

"And at which I also hope you had a twinge or two of conscience.
Papa," she added, leading the way into the parlor, "here is Mr.
Graham. It was his fascinating talk about life in Germany that so
delayed me last evening."

The old gentleman started out of a doze, and his manner proved that he
welcomed any break in the monotony of the day. "You will pardon my not
rising," he said; "this confounded weather is playing the deuce with
my leg."

Graham was observant as he joined in a general condemnation of the
weather; and the manner in which Miss St. John rearranged the cushion
on which her father's foot rested, coaxed the fire into a more
cheerful blaze, and bestowed other little attentions, proved beyond a
doubt that all effort in behalf of the suffering veteran would be
appreciated. Nor was he so devoid of a kindly good-nature himself as
to anticipate an irksome task, and he did his utmost to discover the
best methods of entertaining his host. The effort soon became
remunerative, for the major had seen much of life, and enjoyed
reference to his experiences. Graham found that he could be induced to
fight his battles over again, but always with very modest allusion to
himself. In the course of their talk it also became evident that he
was a man of somewhat extensive reading, and the daily paper must have
been almost literally devoured to account for his acquaintance with
contemporary affairs. The daughter was often not a little amused at
Graham's blank looks as her father broached topics of American
interest which to the student from abroad were as little known or
understood as the questions which might have been agitating the
inhabitants of Jupiter. Most ladies would have been politely oblivious
of her guest's blunders and infelicitous remarks, but Miss St. John
had a frank, merry way of recognizing them, and yet malice and
ridicule were so entirely absent from her words and ways that Graham
soon positively enjoyed being laughed at, and much preferred her
delicate open raillery, which gave him a chance to defend himself, to
a smiling mask that would leave him in uncertainty as to the fitness
of his replies. There was a subtle flattery also in this course, for
she treated him as one capable of holding his own, and not in need of
social charity and protection. With pleasure he recognized that she
was adopting toward him something of the same sportive manner which
characterized her relations with his aunt, and which also indicated
that as Mrs. Mayburn's nephew he had met with a reception which would
not have been accorded to one less favorably introduced.

How vividly in after years Graham remembered that rainy May morning!
He could always call up before him, like a vivid picture, the old
major with his bushy white eyebrows and piercing black eyes, the smoke
from his meerschaum creating a sort of halo around his gray head, the
fine, venerable face often drawn by pain which led to half-muttered
imprecations that courtesy to his guest and daughter could not wholly
suppress. How often he saw again the fire curling softly from the
hearth with a contented crackle, as if pleased to be once more an
essential to the home from which the advancing summer would soon
banish it! He could recall every article of the furniture with which
he afterward became so familiar. But that which was engraven on his
memory forever was a fair young girl sitting by the window with a
background of early spring greenery swaying to and fro in the storm.
Long afterward, when watching on the perilous picket line or standing
in his place on the battlefield, he would close his eyes that he might
recall more vividly the little white hands deftly crocheting on some
feminine mystery, and the mirthful eyes that often glanced from it to
him as the quiet flow of their talk rippled on. A rill, had it
conscious life, would never forget the pebble that deflected its
course from one ocean to another; human life as it flows onward cannot
fail to recognize events, trivial in themselves, which nevertheless
gave direction to all the future.

Graham admitted to himself that he had found a charm at this fireside
which he had never enjoyed elsewhere in society--the pleasure of being
perfectly at ease. There was a genial frankness and simplicity in his
entertainers which banished restraint, and gave him a sense of
security. He felt instinctively that there were no adverse currents of
mental criticism and detraction, that they were loyal to him as their
invited guest, notwithstanding jest, banter, and good-natured satire.

The hours had vanished so swiftly that he was at a loss to account for
them. Miss St. John was a natural foe to dulness of all kinds, and
this too without any apparent effort. Indeed, we are rarely
entertained by evident and deliberate exertion. Pleasurable
exhilaration in society is obtained from those who impart, like
warmth, their own spontaneous vivacity. Miss St. John's smile was an
antidote for a rainy day, and he was loath to pass from its genial
power out under the dripping clouds. Following an impulse, he said to
the girl, "You are more than a match for the weather."

These words were spoken in the hall after he had bidden adieu to the
major.

"If you meant a compliment it is a very doubtful one," she replied,
laughing. "Do you mean that I am worse than the weather which gives
papa the horrors, and Mrs. Mayburn the rheumatism?"

"And me one of the most delightful mornings I ever enjoyed," he added,
interrupting her. "You were in league with your wood fire. The garish
sunshine of a warm day robs a house of all cosiness and snugness.
Instead of being depressed by the storm and permitting others to be
dull, you have the art of making the clouds your foil."

"Possibly I may appear to some advantage against such a dismal
background," she admitted.

"My meaning is interpreted by my unconscionably long visit. I now must
reluctantly retreat into the dismal background."

"A rather well-covered retreat, as papa might say, but you will need
your umbrella all the same;" for he, in looking back at the archly
smiling girl, had neglected to open it.

"I am glad it is not a final retreat," he called back. "I shall return
this evening reinforced by my aunt."

"Well," exclaimed that lady when he appeared before her, "lunch has
been waiting ten minutes or more."

"I feared as much," he replied, shaking his head ruefully.

"What kept you?"

"Miss St. John."

"Not the major? I thought you went to entertain him?"

"So I did, but man proposes--"

"Oh, not yet, I hope," cried the old lady with assumed dismay. "I
thought you promised to do nothing rash."

"You are more precipitate than I have been. All that I propose is to
enjoy my vacation and the society of your charming friend."

"The major?" she suggested.

"A natural error on your part, for I perceived he was very gallant to
you. After your remarks, however, you cannot think it strange that I
found the daughter more interesting--so interesting indeed that I have
kept you waiting for lunch. I'll not repeat the offence any oftener
than I can help. At the same time I find that I have not lost my
appetite, or anything else that I am aware of."

"How did Grace appear?" his aunt asked as they sat down to lunch.

"Like myself."

"Then not like any one else you know?"

"We agree here perfectly."

"You have no fear?"

"No, nor any hopes that I am conscious of. Can I not admire your
paragon to your heart's content without insisting that she bestow upon
me the treasures of her life? Miss St. John has a frank, cordial
manner all her own, and I think also that for your sake she has
received me rather graciously, but I should be blind indeed did I not
recognize that it would require a siege to win her; and that would be
useless, as you said, unless her own heart prompted the surrender. I
have heard and read that many women are capable of passing fancies of
which adroit suitors can take advantage, and they are engaged or
married before fully comprehending what it all means. Were Miss St.
John of this class I should still hesitate to venture, for nothing in
my training has fitted me to take an advantage of a lady's mood. I
don't think your favorite is given to fancies. She is too well poised.
Her serene, laughing confidence, her more than content, comes either
from a heart already happily given, or else from a nature so sound and
healthful that life in itself is an unalloyed joy. She impresses me as
the happiest being I ever met, and as such it is a delight to be in
her presence; but if I should approach her as a lover, something tells
me that I should find her like a snowy peak, warm and rose-tinted in
the sunlight, as seen in the distance, but growing cold as you draw
near. There may be subterranean fires, but they would manifest
themselves from some inward impulse. At least I do not feel conscious
of any power to awaken them."

Mrs. Mayburn shook her head ominously.

"You are growing very fanciful," she said, "which is a sign, if not a
bad one. Your metaphors, too, are so farfetched and extravagant as to
indicate the earliest stages of the divine madness. Do you mean to
suggest that Grace will break forth like a volcano on some fortuitous
man? If that be your theory you would stand as good a chance as any
one. She might break forth on you."

"I have indeed been unfortunate in my illustration, since you can so
twist my words even in jest. Here's plain enough prose for you. No
amount of wooing would make the slightest difference unless by some
law or impulse of her own nature Miss St. John was compelled to
respond."

"Isn't that true of every woman?"

"I don't think it is."

"How is it that you are so versed in the mysteries of the feminine
soul?"

"I have not lived altogether the life of a monk, and the history of
the world is the history of women as well as of men. I am merely
giving the impression that has been made upon me."

CHAPTER VI

PHILOSOPHY AT FAULT

If Mrs. Mayburn had fears that her nephew's peace would be affected by
his exposure to the fascinations of Miss St. John, they were quite
allayed by his course for the next two or three weeks. If she had
indulged the hope that he would speedily be carried away by the charms
which seemed to her irresistible, and so give the chance of a closer
relationship with her favorite, she saw little to encourage such a
hope beyond Graham's evident enjoyment in the young girl's society,
and his readiness to seek it on all fitting occasions. He played whist
assiduously, and appeared to enjoy the game. He often spent two or
three hours with the major during the day, and occasionally beguiled
the time by reading aloud to him, but the element of gallantry toward
the daughter seemed wanting, and the aunt concluded, "No woman can
rival a book in Alford's heart--that is, if he has one--and he is
simply studying Grace as if she were a book. There is one symptom,
however, that needs explanation--he is not so ready to talk about her
as at first, and I don't believe that indifference is the cause."

She was right: indifference was not the cause. Graham's interest in
Miss St. John was growing deeper every day, but the stronger the hold
she gained upon his thoughts, the less inclined was he to speak of
her. He was the last man in the world to be carried away by a Romeo-
like gust of passion, and no amount of beauty could hold his attention
an hour, did not the mind ray through it with a sparkle and power
essentially its own.

Miss St. John had soon convinced him that she could do more than look
sweetly and chatter. She could not only talk to a university-bred man,
but also tell him much that was new. He found his peer, not in his
lines of thought, but in her own, and he was so little of an egotist
that he admired her all the more because she knew what he did not, and
could never become an echo of himself. In her world she had been an
intelligent observer and thinker, and she interpreted that world to
him as naturally and unassumingly as a flower blooms and exhales its
fragrance. For the first time in his life he gave himself up to the
charm of a cultivated woman's society, and to do this in his present
leisure seemed the most sensible thing possible.

"One can see a rare flower," he had reasoned, "without wishing to
pluck it, or hear a wood-thrush sing without straightway thinking of a
cage. Miss St. John's affections may be already engaged, or I may be
the last person in the world to secure them. Idle fancies of what she
might become to me are harmless enough. Any man is prone to indulge in
these when seeing a woman who pleases his taste and kindles his
imagination. When it comes to practical action one may expect and
desire nothing more than the brightening of one's wits and the
securing of agreeable pastime. I do not see why I should not be
entirely content with these motives, until my brief visit is over,
notwithstanding my aunt's ominous warnings;" and so without any
misgivings he had at first yielded himself to all the spells that Miss
St. John might unconsciously weave.

As time passed, however, he began to doubt whether he could maintain
his cool, philosophic attitude of enjoyment. He found himself growing
more and more eager for the hours to return when he could seek her
society, and the intervening time was becoming dull and heavy-paced.
The impulse to go back to Germany and to resume his studies was slow
in coming. Indeed, he was at last obliged to admit to himself that a
game of whist with the old major had more attractions than the latest
scientific treatise. Not that he doted on the irascible veteran, but
because he thus secured a fair partner whose dark eyes were beaming
with mirth and intelligence, whose ever-springing fountain of
happiness was so full that even in the solemnity of the game it found
expression in little piquant gestures, brief words, and smiles that
were like glints of sunshine. Her very presence lifted him to a higher
plane, and gave a greater capacity for enjoyment, and sometimes simply
an arch smile or an unexpected tone set his nerves vibrating in a
manner as delightful as it was unexplainable by any past experience
that he could recall. She was a good walker and horsewoman, and as
their acquaintance ripened he began to ask permission to join her in
her rides and rambles. She assented without the slightest hesitancy,
but he soon found that she gave him no exclusive monopoly of these
excursions, and that he must share them with other young men. Her
absences from home were always comparatively brief, however, and that
which charmed him most was her sunny devotion to her invalid and often
very irritable father. She was the antidote to his age and to his
infirmities of body and temper. While she was away the world in
general, and his own little sphere in particular, tended toward a
hopeless snarl. Jinny, the colored servant, was subserviency itself,
but her very obsequiousness irritated him, although her drollery was
at times diverting. It was usually true, however, that but one touch
and one voice could soothe the jangling nerves. As Graham saw this
womanly magic, which apparently cost no more effort than the wood fire
put forth in banishing chilliness and discomfort, the thought would
come, "Blessed will be the man who can win her as the light and life
of his home!"

When days passed, and no one seemed to have a greater place in her
thoughts and interest than himself, was it unnatural that the hope
should dawn that she might create a home for him? If she had a favored
suitor his aunt would be apt to know of it. She did not seem
ambitious, or disposed to invest her heart so that it might bring
fortune and social eminence. Never by word or sign had she appeared to
chafe at her father's modest competency, but with tact and skill,
taught undoubtedly by army experience, she made their slender income
yield the essentials of comfort and refinement, and seemed quite
indifferent to non-essentials. Graham could never hope to possess
wealth, but he found in Miss St. John a woman who could impart to his
home the crowning grace of wealth--simple, unostentatious elegance.
His aunt had said that the young girl had already refused more than
one fortune, and the accompanying assurance that she would marry the
man she loved, whatever might be his circumstances, seemed verified by
his own observation. Therefore why might he not hope? Few men are so
modest as not to indulge the hope to which their heart prompts them.
Graham was slow to recognize the existence of this hope, and then he
watched its growth warily. Not for the world would he lose control of
himself, not for the world would he reveal it to any one, least of all
to his aunt or to her who had inspired it, unless he had some reason
to believe she would not disappoint it. He was prompted to
concealment, not only by his pride, which was great, but more by a
characteristic trait, an instinctive desire to hide his deeper
feelings, his inner personality from all others. He would not admit
that he had fallen in love. The very phrase was excessively
distasteful. To his friend Hilland he might have given his confidence,
and he would have accounted for himself in some such way as this:--

"I have found a child and a woman; a child in frankness and
joyousness, a woman in beauty, strength, mental maturity, and
unselfishness. She interested me from the first, and every day I know
better the reason why--because she _is_ interesting. My reason
has kept pace with my fancy and my deeper feeling, and impels me to
seek this girl quite as much as does my heart. I do not think a man
meets such a woman or such a chance for happiness twice in a lifetime.
I did not believe there was such a woman in the world. You may laugh
and say that is the way all lovers talk. I answer emphatically, No. I
have not yet lost my poise, and I never was a predestined lover. I
might easily have gone through life and never given to these subjects
an hour's thought. Even now I could quietly decide to go away and take
up my old life as I left it. But why should I? Here is an opportunity
to enrich existence immeasurably, and to add to all my chances of
success and power. So far from being a drag upon one, a woman like
Miss St. John would incite and inspire a man to his best efforts. She
would sympathize with him because she could understand his aims and
keep pace with his mental advance. Granted that my prospects of
winning her are doubtful indeed, still as far as I can see there
_is_ a chance. I would not care a straw for a woman that I could
have for the asking--who would take me as a _dernier ressort_.
Any woman that I would marry, many others would gladly marry also, and
I must take my chance of winning her from them. Such would be my lot
under any circumstances, and if I give way to a faint heart now I may
as well give up altogether and content myself with a library as a
bride."

Since he felt that he might have taken Hilland into his confidence, he
had, in terms substantially the same as those given, imagined his
explanation, and he smiled as he portrayed to himself his friend's
jocular response, which would have nevertheless its substratum of true
sympathy. "Hilland would say," he thought, "'That is just like you,
Graham. You can't smoke a cigar or make love to a girl without
analyzing and philosophizing and arranging all the wisdom of Solomon
in favor of your course. Now I would make love to a girl because I
loved her, and that would be the end on't.'"

Graham was mistaken in this case. Not in laughing sympathy, but in
pale dismay, would Hilland have received this revelation, for _he_ was
making love to Grace St. John because he loved her with all his heart
and soul. There had been a time when Graham might have obtained a hint
of this had circumstances been different, and it had occurred quite
early in his acquaintance with Miss St. John. After a day that had
been unusually delightful and satisfactory he was accompanying the
young girl home from his aunt's cottage in the twilight. Out of the
complacency of his heart he remarked, half to himself, "If Hilland
were only here, my vacation would be complete."

In the obscurity he could not see her sudden burning flush, and since
her hand was not on his arm he had no knowledge of her startled
tremor. All that he knew was that she was silent for a moment or two,
and then she asked quietly, "Is Mr. Warren Hilland an acquaintance of
yours?"

"Indeed he is not," was the emphatic and hearty response. "He is the
best friend I have in the world, and the best fellow in the world."

Oh, fatal obscurity of the deepening twilight! Miss St. John's face
was crimson and radiant with pleasure, and could Graham have seen her
at that moment he could not have failed to surmise the truth.

The young girl was as jealous of her secret as Graham soon became of
his, and she only remarked demurely, "I have met Mr. Hilland in
society," and then she changed the subject, for they were approaching
the piazza steps, and she felt that if Hilland should continue the
theme of conversation under the light of the chandelier, a telltale
face and manner would betray her, in spite of all effort at control. A
fragrant blossom from the shrubbery bordering the walk brushed against
Graham's face, and he plucked it, saying, "Beyond that it is fragrant
I don't know what this flower is. Will you take it from me?"

"Yes," she said, hesitatingly, for at that moment her absent lover had
been brought so vividly to her consciousness that her heart recoiled
from even the slightest hint of gallantry from another. A moment later
the thought occurred, "Mr. Graham is _his_ dearest friend; therefore
he is my friend, although I cannot yet be as frank with him as I would
like to be."

She paused a few moments on the piazza, to cool her hot face and quiet
her fluttering nerves, and Graham saw with much pleasure that she
fastened the flower to her breastpin. When at last she entered she
puzzled him a little by leaving him rather abruptly at the parlor door
and hastening up the stairs.

She found that his words had stirred such deep, full fountains that
she could not yet trust herself under his observant eyes. It is a
woman's delight to hear her lover praised by other men, and Graham's
words had been so hearty that they had set her pulses bounding, for
they assured her that she had not been deceived by love's partial
eyes.

"It's true, it's true," she murmured, softly, standing with dewy eyes
before her mirror. "He is the best fellow in the world, and I was
blind that I did not see it from the first. But all will yet be well;"
and she drew a letter from her bosom and kissed it.

Happy would Hilland have been had he seen the vision reflected by that
mirror--beauty, rich and rare in itself, but enhanced, illumined, and
made divine by the deepest, strongest, purest emotions of the soul.

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