Books: His Sombre Rivals

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Mrs. Mayburn seemed her plain-spoken, cheery self, intent only on
making the most of this genial hour in the autumn of her life, and yet
she was watching over a hope that she felt might make her last days
her best days. She was almost praying that the fair girl whom she had
so learned to love might become the solace of her age, and fill, in
her childless heart, a place that had ever been an aching void. Miss
St. John was too preoccupied to see any lover but one, and he was ever
present, though thousands of miles away. But she saw in Graham his
friend, and had already accepted him also as her most agreeable
friend, liking him all the better for his apparent disposition to
appeal only to her fancy and reason, instead of her heart. She saw
well enough that he liked her exceedingly, but Hilland's impetuous
wooing and impassioned words had made her feel that there was an
infinite difference between liking and loving; and she pictured to
herself the pleasure they would both enjoy when finding that their
seemingly chance acquaintance was but preparation for the closer ties
which their several relations to Hilland could not fail to occasion.

The object of this kindly but most temperate regard smiled into her
eyes, chatted easily on any topic suggested, and appeared entirely
satisfied; but was all the while conscious of a growing need which,
denied, would impoverish his life, making it, brief even as he deemed
it to be, an intolerable burden. But on this summer afternoon hope was
in the ascendant, and he saw no reason why the craving of all that was
best and noblest in his nature should not be met. When a supreme
affection first masters the heart it often carries with it a certain
assurance that there must be a response, that when so much is given by
a subtle, irresistible, unexpected impulse, the one receiving should,
sooner or later, by some law of correspondence, be inclined to return
a similar regard. All living things in nature, when not interfered
with, at the right time and in the right way, sought and found what
was essential to the completion of their life, and he was a part of
nature. According to the law of his own individuality he had yielded
to Miss St. John's power. His reason had kept pace with his heart. He
had advanced to his present attitude toward her like a man, and had
not been driven to it by the passion of an animal. Therefore he was
hopeful, self-complacent, and resolute. He not only proposed to win
the girl he loved, cost what it might in time and effort, but in the
exalted mood of the hour felt that he could and must win her.

She, all unconscious, smiled genially, and indeed seemed the very
embodiment of mirth. Her talk was brilliant, yet interspersed with
strange lapses that began to puzzle him. Meanwhile she scarcely saw
him, gave him but the passing attention with which one looks up from
an absorbing story, and all the time the letter against which her
heart pressed seemed alive and endowed with the power to make each
throb more glad and full of deep content.

How isolated and inscrutable is the mystery of each human life! Here
were four people strongly interested in each other and most friendly,
between whom was a constant interchange of word and glance, and yet
their thought and feeling were flowing in strong diverse currents,
unseen and unsuspected.

As the day declined they all grew more silent and abstracted. Deeper
shadows crept into the vistas of memory with the old, and those who
had become but memories were with them again as they had been on like
June days half a century before. With the young the future, outlined
by hope, took forms so absorbing that the present was forgotten.
Ostensibly they were looking off at the wide and diversified
landscape; in reality they were contemplating the more varied
experiences, actual and possible, of life.

At last the major complained querulously that he was growing chilly.
The shadow in which he shivered was not caused by the sinking sun.

The hint was taken at once, and in a few moments they were on their
way homeward. The old sportive humor of the morning did not return.
The major was the aged invalid again. Mrs. Mayburn and Graham were
perplexed, for Grace had seemingly become remote from them all. She
was as kind as ever; indeed her manner was characterized by an unusual
gentleness; but they could not but see that her thoughts were not with
them. The first tumultuous torrent of her joy had passed, and with it
her girlhood. Now, as an earnest woman, she was approaching the hour
of her betrothal, when she would write words that would bind her to
another and give direction to all her destiny. Her form was at
Graham's side; the woman was not there. Whither and to whom had she
gone? The question caused him to turn pale with fear.

"Miss Grace," he said at last, and there was a tinge of reproach in
his voice, "where are you? You left us some time since," and he turned
and tried to look searchingly into her eyes.

She met his without confusion or rise in color. Her feelings had
become so deep and earnest, so truly those of a woman standing on the
assured ground of fealty to another, that she was beyond her former
girlish sensitiveness and its quick, involuntary manifestations. She
said gently, "Pardon me, Mr. Graham, for my unsocial abstraction. You
deserve better treatment for all your efforts for our enjoyment to-
day."

"Please do not come back on compulsion," he said. "I do not think I am
a natural Paul Pry, but I would like to know where you have been."

"I will tell you some day," she said, with a smile that was so
friendly that his heart sprang up in renewed hope. Then, as if
remembering what was due to him and the others, she buried her
thoughts deep in her heart until she could be alone with them and
their object. And yet her secret joy, like a hidden fire, tinged all
her words with a kindly warmth. Graham and his aunt were not only
pleased but also perplexed, for both were conscious of something in
Grace's manner which they could not understand. Mrs. Mayburn was
sanguine that her June-day strategy was bringing forth the much-
desired results; her nephew only hoped. They all parted with cordial
words, which gave slight hint of that which was supreme in each mind.

CHAPTER IX

THE REVELATION

Graham found letters which required his absence for a day or two, and
it seemed to him eminently fitting that he should go over in the
evening and say good-by to Miss St. John. Indeed he was disposed to
say more, if the opportunity offered. His hopes sank as he saw that
the first floor was darkened, and in answer to his summons Jinny
informed him that the major and Miss Grace were "po'ful tired" and had
withdrawn to their rooms. He trembled to find how deep was his
disappointment, and understood as never before that his old self had
ceased to exist. A month since no one was essential to him; now his
being had become complex. Then he could have crossed the ocean with a
few easily spoken farewells; now he could not go away for a few hours
without feeling that he must see one who was then a stranger. The
meaning of this was all too plain, and as he walked away in the June
starlight he admitted it fully. Another life had become essential to
his own. And still he clung to his old philosophy, muttering, "If this
be true, why will not my life become as needful to her?" His theory,
like many another, was a product of wishes rather than an induction
from facts.

When he returned after a long ramble, the light still burning in Miss
St. John's window did not harmonize with the story of the young girl's
fatigue. The faint rays, however, could reveal nothing, although they
had illumined page after page traced full of words of such vital
import to him.

Mrs. Mayburn shared his early breakfast, and before he took his leave
he tried to say in an easy, natural manner:

"Please make my adieus to Miss St. John, and say I called to present
them in person, but it seemed she had retired with the birds. The
colored divinity informed me that she was 'po'ful tired,' and I hope
you will express my regret that the day proved so exceedingly
wearisome." Mrs. Mayburn lifted her keen gray eyes to her nephew's
face, and a slow rising flush appeared under her scrutiny. Then she
said gently, "That's a long speech, Alford, but I don't think it
expresses your meaning. If I give your cordial good-by to Grace and
tell her that you hope soon to see her again, shall I not better carry
out your wishes?"

"Yes," was the grave and candid reply.

"I believe you are in earnest now."

"I am, indeed," he replied, almost solemnly, and with these vague yet
significant words they came to an understanding.

Three days elapsed, and still Graham's business was not completed. In
his impatience he left it unfinished and returned. How his heart
bounded as he saw the familiar cottage! With hasty steps he passed up
the path from the street. It was just such another evening as that
which had smiled upon his first coming to his aunt's residence, only
now there was summer warmth in the air, and the richer, fuller promise
of the year. The fragrance that filled the air, if less delicate, was
more penetrating, and came from flowers that had absorbed the sun's
strengthening rays. If there was less of spring's ecstasy in the song
of the birds, there was now in their notes that which was in truer
accord with Graham's mood.

At a turn of the path he stopped short, for on the rustic seat beneath
the apple-tree he saw Miss St. John reading a letter; then he went
forward to greet her, almost impetuously, with a glow in his face and
a light in his eyes which no one had ever seen before. She rose to
meet him, and there was an answering gladness in her face which made
her seem divine to him.

"You are welcome," she said cordially. "We have all missed you more
than we dare tell you;" and she gave his hand a warm, strong pressure.

The cool, even-pulsed man, who as a boy had learned to hide his
feelings, was for a moment unable to speak. His own intense emotion,
his all-absorbing hope, blinded him to the character of her greeting,
and led him to give it a meaning it did not possess. She, equally
preoccupied with her one thought, looked at him for a moment in
surprise, and then cried, "He has told you--has written?"

"He! who?" Graham exclaimed with a blanching face.

"Why, Warren Hilland, your friend. I told you I would tell you, but I
could not before I told him," she faltered.

He took an uncertain step or two to the tree, and leaned against it
for support.

The young girl dropped the letter and clasped her hands in her
distress. "It was on the drive--our return, you remember," she began
incoherently. "You asked where my thoughts were, and I said I would
tell you soon. Oh! we have both been blind. I am so--so sorry."

Graham's face and manner had indeed been an unmistakable revelation,
and the frank, generous girl waited for no conventional acknowledgment
before uttering what was uppermost in her heart.

By an effort which evidently taxed every atom of his manhood, Graham
gained self-control, and said quietly, "Miss St. John, I think better
of myself for having loved you. If I had known! But you are not to
blame. It is I who have been blind, for you have never shown other
than the kindly regard which was most natural, knowing that I was
Hilland's friend. I have not been frank either, or I should have
learned the truth long ago. I disguised the growing interest I felt in
you from the first, fearing I should lose my chance if you understood
me too early. I am Hilland's friend. No one living now knows him
better than I do, and from the depths of my heart I congratulate you.
He is the best and truest man that ever lived."

"Will you not be my friend, also?" she faltered.

He looked at her earnestly as he replied, "Yes, for life."

"You will feel differently soon," said the young girl, trying to smile
reassuringly. "You will see that it has all been a mistake, a
misunderstanding; and when your friend returns we will have the
merriest, happiest times together."

"Could you soon feel differently?" he asked.

"Oh! why did you say that?" she moaned, burying her face in her hands.
"If you will suffer even in a small degree as I should!"

Her distress was so evident and deep that he stood erect and stepped
toward her. "Why are you so moved, Miss St. John?" he asked. "I have
merely paid you the highest compliment within my power."

Her hands dropped from her face, and she turned away, but not so
quickly as to hide the tears that dimmed her lustrous eyes. His lip
quivered for a moment at the sight of them, but she did not see this.

"You have merely paid me a compliment," she repeated in a low tone.

The lines of his mouth were firm now, his face grave and composed, and
in his gray eyes only a close observer might have seen that an
indomitable will was resuming sway. "Certainly," he continued, "and
such compliments you have received before and would often again were
you free to receive them. I cannot help remembering that there is
nothing unique in this episode."

She turned and looked at him doubtingly, as she said with hesitation,
"You then regard your--your--"

"My vacation experience," he supplied.

Her eyes widened in what resembled indignant surprise, and her tones
grew a little cold and constrained as she again repeated his words.

"You then regard your experience as a vacation episode."

"Do not for a moment think I have been insincere," he said, with
strong emphasis, "or that I should not have esteemed it the chief
honor of my life had I been successful--"

"As to that," she interrupted, "there are so many other honors that a
man can win."

"Assuredly. Pardon me, Miss St. John, but I am sure you have had to
inflict similar disappointments before. Did not the men survive?"

The girl broke out into a laugh in which there was a trace of
bitterness. "Survive!" she cried. "Indeed they did. One is already
married, and another I happen to know is engaged. I'm sure I'm glad,
however. Your logic is plain and forcible, Mr. Graham, and you relieve
my mind greatly. Men must be different from women."

"Undoubtedly."

"What did you mean by asking me, 'Could you soon feel differently?'"

He hesitated a moment and flushed slightly, then queried with a smile,
"What did you mean by saying that I should soon learn to feel
differently, and that when Hilland returned we should have the
merriest times together?"

It was her turn now to be confused now; and she saw that her words
were hollow, though spoken from a kindly impulse.

He relieved her by continuing: "You probably spoke from an instinctive
estimate of me. You remembered what a cool and wary suitor I had been.
Your father would say that I had adopted an-army-of-observation
tactics, and I might have remembered that such armies rarely
accomplish much. I waited for you to show some sign of weakness, and
now you see that I am deservedly punished. It is ever best to face the
facts as they are."

"You appear frank, Mr. Graham, and you certainly have not studied
philosophy in vain."

"Why should I not take a philosophical view of the affair? In my
policy, which I thought so safe and astute, I blundered. If from the
first I had manifested the feeling"--the young girl smiled slightly at
the word--"which you inspired, you would soon have taught me the
wisdom of repressing its growth. Thus you see that you have not the
slightest reason for self-censure; and I can go on my way, at least a
wiser man."

She bowed gracefully, as she said with a laugh, "I am now beginning to
understand that Mr. Graham can scarcely regret anything which adds to
his stores of wisdom, and certainly not so slight an 'affair' as a
'vacation episode.' Now that we have talked over this little
misunderstanding so frankly and rationally, will you not join us at
whist to-night?"

"Certainly. My aunt and I will come over as usual."

Her brow contracted in perplexity as she looked searchingly at him for
a moment; but his face was simply calm, grave, and kindly in its
expression, and yet there was something about the man which impressed
her and even awed her--something unseen, but felt by her woman's
intuition. It must be admitted that it was felt but vaguely at the
time; for Grace after all was a woman, and Graham's apparent
philosophy was not altogether satisfactory. It had seemed to her as
the interview progressed that she had been surprised into showing a
distress and sympathy for which there was no occasion--that she had
interpreted a cool, self-poised man by her own passionate heart and
boundless love. In brief, she feared she had been sentimental over an
occasion which Graham, as he had suggested, was able to view
philosophically. She had put a higher estimate on his disappointment
than he, apparently; and she had too much of her father's spirit, and
too much womanly pride not to resent this, even though she was
partially disarmed by this very disappointment, and still more so by
his self-accusation and his tribute to Hilland. But that which
impressed her most was something of which she saw no trace in the
calm, self-controlled man before her. As a rule, the soul's life is
hidden, except as it chooses to reveal itself; but there are times
when the excess of joy or suffering cannot be wholly concealed, even
though every muscle is rigid and the face marble. Therefore, although
there were no outward signals of distress, Graham's agony was not
without its influence on the woman before him, and it led her to say,
gently and hesitatingly, "But you promised to be my friend, Mr.
Graham."

His iron will almost failed him, for he saw how far removed she was
from those women who see and know nothing save that which strikes
their senses. He had meant to pique her pride as far as he could
without offence, even though he sank low in her estimation; but such
was the delicacy of her perceptions that she half divined the trouble
he sedulously strove to hide. He felt as if he could sit down and cry
like a child over his immeasurable loss, and for a second feared he
would give way. There was in his eyes a flash of anger at his
weakness, but it passed so quickly that she could scarcely note, much
less interpret it.

Then he stepped forward in a friendly, hearty way, and took her hand
as he said: "Yes, Miss St. John, and I will keep my promise. I will be
your friend for life. If you knew my relations to Hilland, you could
not think otherwise. I shall tell him when we meet of my first and
characteristic siege of a woman's heart, of the extreme and prudent
caution with which I opened my distant parallels, and how, at last,
when I came within telescopic sight of the prize, I found that he had
already captured it. My course has been so perfectly absurd that I
must laugh in spite of myself;" and he did laugh so naturally and
genially that Grace was constrained to join him, although the trouble
and perplexity did not wholly vanish from her eyes.

"And now," he concluded, "that I have experienced my first natural
surprise, I will do more than sensibly accept the situation. I
congratulate you upon it as no one else can. Had I a sister I would
rather that she married Hilland than any other man in the world. We
thus start on the right basis for friendship, and there need be no
awkward restraint on either side. I must now pay my respects to my
aunt, or I shall lose not only her good graces but my supper also;"
and with a smiling bow he turned and walked rapidly up the path, and
disappeared within Mrs. Mayburn's open door.

Grace looked after him, and the perplexed contraction of her brow
deepened. She picked up Hilland's letter, and slowly and musingly
folded it. Suddenly she pressed a fervent kiss upon it, and murmured:
"Thank God, the writer of this has blood in his veins; and yet--and
yet--he looked at first as if he had received a mortal wound, and--
and--all the time I felt that he suffered. But very possibly I am
crediting him with that which would be inevitable were my case his."

With bowed head she returned slowly and thoughtfully through the
twilight to her home.

CHAPTER X

THE KINSHIP OF SUFFERING

When Graham felt that he had reached the refuge of his aunt's cottage,
his self-control failed him, and he almost staggered into the dusky
parlor and sank into a chair. Burying his face in his hands, he
muttered: "Fool, fool, fool!" and a long, shuddering sigh swept
through his frame.

How long he remained in this attitude he did not know, so overwhelmed
was he by his sense of loss. At last he felt a hand laid upon his
shoulder; he looked up and saw that the lamp was lighted and that his
aunt was standing beside him. His face was so altered and haggard that
she uttered an exclamation of distress.

Graham hastily arose and turned down the light. "I cannot bear that
you should look upon my weakness," he said, hoarsely.

"I should not be ashamed of having loved Grace St. John," said the old
lady, quietly.

"Nor am I. As I told her, I think far better of myself for having done
so. A man who has seen her as I have would be less than a man had he
not loved her. But oh, the future, the future! How am I to support the
truth that my love is useless, hopeless?"

"Alford, I scarcely need tell you that my disappointment is bitter
also. I had set my heart on this thing."

"You know all, then?"

"Yes, I know she is engaged to your friend, Warren Hilland. She came
over in the dusk of last evening, and, sitting just where you are,
told me all. I kept up. It was not for me to reveal your secret. I let
the happy girl talk on, kissed her, and wished her all the happiness
she deserves. Grace is unlike other girls, or I should have known
about it long ago. I don't think she even told her father until she
had first written to him her full acknowledgment. Your friend,
however, had gained her father's consent to his addresses long since.
She told me that."

"Oh, my awful future!" he groaned. "Alford," Mrs. Mayburn said, gently
but firmly, "think of _her_ future. Grace is so good and kind that she
would be very unhappy if she saw and heard you now. I hope you did not
give way thus in her presence."

He sprang to his feet and paced the room rapidly at first, then more
and more slowly. Soon he turned up the light, and Mrs. Mayburn was
surprised at the change in his appearance.

"You are a strong, sensible woman," he began.

"Well, I will admit the premise for the sake of learning what is to
follow."

"Miss St. John must never know of my sense of loss--my present
despair," he said, in low, rapid speech. "Some zest in life may come
back to me in time; but, be that as it may, I shall meet my trouble
like a man. To make her suffer now--to cloud her well-merited
happiness and that of my friend--would be to add a bitterness beyond
that of death. Aunt, you first thought me cold and incapable of strong
attachments, and a few weeks since I could not have said that your
estimate was far astray, although I'm sure my friendship for Hilland
was as strong as the love of most men. Until I met you and Grace it
was the only evidence I possessed that I had a heart. Can you wonder?
He was the first one that ever showed me any real kindness. I was
orphaned in bitter truth, and from childhood my nature was chilled and
benumbed by neglect and isolation. Growth and change are not so much
questions of time as of conditions. From the first moment that I saw
Grace St. John, she interested me deeply; and, self-complacent, self-
confident fool that I was, I thought I could deal with the supreme
question of life as I had dealt with those which half the world never
think about at all. I remember your warning, aunt; and yet, as I said
to myself at the time, there was more of incentive than warning in
your words, flow self-confidently I smiled over them! How perfectly
sure I was that I could enjoy this rare girl's society as I would look
at a painting or listen to a symphony! Almost before I was aware, I
found a craving in my heart which I now know all the world cannot
satisfy. That June day which you arranged so kindly in my behalf made
all as clear as the cloudless sun that shone upon us. That day I was
revealed fully unto myself, but my hope was strong, for I felt that by
the very law and correspondence of nature I could not have such an
immeasurable need without having that need supplied. In my impatience
I left my business unfinished and returned this evening, for I could
not endure another hour of delay. She seemed to answer my glad looks
when we met; she gave her hand in cordial welcome. I, blinded by
feeling, and thinking that its very intensity must awaken a like
return, stood speechless, almost overwhelmed by my transcendent hope.
She interpreted my manner naturally by what was uppermost in her mind,
and exclaimed: 'He has told you--he has written.' In a moment I knew
the truth, and I scarcely think that a knife piercing my heart could
inflict a deeper pang. I could not rally for a moment or two. When
shall I forget the sympathy--the tears that dimmed her dear eyes! I
have a religion at last, and I worship the divine nature of that
complete woman. The thought that I made her suffer aroused my manhood;
and from that moment I strove to make light of the affair--to give the
impression that she was taking it more seriously than I did. I even
tried to pique her pride--I could not wound her vanity, for she has
none--and I partially succeeded. My task, however, was and will be a
difficult one, for her organization is so delicate and fine that she
feels what she cannot see. But I made her laugh in spite of herself at
my prudent, wary wooing. I removed, I think, all constraint, and we
can meet as if nothing had happened. Not that we can meet often--that
would tax me beyond my strength--but often enough to banish solicitude
from her mind and from Hilland's. Now you know the facts sufficiently
to become a shrewd and efficient ally. By all your regard for me--what
is far more, by all your love for her--I entreat you let me bring no
cloud across her bright sky. We are going over to whist as usual to-
night. Let all be as usual."

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