His Sombre Rivals Part 39

"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 a.s.serted 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 embarra.s.s 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 pa.s.sed, 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, hoa.r.s.ely. "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 pa.s.sed under the apple-tree and recalled all that had occurred there, he was so overcome that once more he leaned against it for support.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX

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 ap.r.o.n 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 grat.i.tude 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, superst.i.tious 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.

Late at night footsteps approached, and the two physicians entered. "I first permitted Dr. Armand to form his own impressions, and since have told him everything," said Dr. Markham, "and he strongly inclines to my view. Realizing the gravity of the case, however, he has consented to remain a day or two longer. We will give you no hasty opinion, and you shall have time on your part to exercise the most deliberate judgment."

Dr. Armand confirmed his a.s.sociate's words, and added, "We will leave you now to the rest you must need sorely. Let me a.s.sure you, however, that I do not by any means consider Mrs. Hilland's case hopeless, and that I am strongly impressed with the belief that her recovery must come through you. A long train of circ.u.mstances has given you almost unbounded influence over her, as you enabled me to see this evening. It would be sad to place such a glorious creature in the care of strangers, for it might involve serious risk should she regain her memory and intelligence with no strong, sympathetic friend, acquainted with her past, near her. I am inclined to think that what is now little more than an instinct will again develop into a memory, and that the fact that she was committed to your care will fully reconcile her to the marriage--indeed, render her most grateful for it, if capable of understanding the reasons which led to it. If further observation confirms my present impressions, I and Dr. Markham will plainly state our opinions to her father and Mrs. Mayburn. As my colleague has said, you must comprehend the step in all its bearings. It is one that I would not ask any man to take. I now think that the probabilities are that it would restore Mrs. Hilland to health eventually. A year of foreign travel might bring about a gradual and happy change."

"Take time to satisfy yourselves, gentlemen, and give me your decision as requested. Then you have my permission to give your opinions to Major St. John."

Within a week this was done, and the poor old man bowed his head on Graham's shoulder and wept aloud in his grat.i.tude. Mrs. Mayburn also, wiping away her tears, faltered, "You know, Alford, how I schemed for this marriage years ago; you remember my poor blind strategy on that June day, do you not? How little I thought it would take place under circ.u.mstances like these! And yet, I've thought of it of late often, very often. I could not go on much longer, for I am old and feeble, and it just broke my heart to think of Grace, our Grace, pa.s.sing into the hands of some hired and indifferent stranger or strangers. I believe she will recover and reward your sacrifice."

"It is no sacrifice on my part, aunt, except she wakens only to reproach me."

"Well, devotion, then; and little sense she'd ever have," concluded the old lady, after her own brusque fashion, "if she does not fall on her knees and bless you. You could now take better care of her than I, for she trusts and obeys you implicitly. She is docile and gentle with me, but often strangely inattentive. She would be still more so with a stranger; and the idea of some strong, unfeeling hands forcing her into the routine of her life!" Thus almost completely was removed from his mind the unspeakable dread lest he was taking an unfair advantage of helplessness. He fully recognized also that the ordeal for himself would be a terrible one--that it would be the fable of Tantalus repeated for weeks, months, perhaps for years, or for life. The unfulfilled promise of happiness would ever be before him. His dark-visaged rivals, Grief and Death, would jeer and mock at him from a face of perfect beauty. In a blind, vindictive way he felt that his experience was the very irony of fate. He could clasp the perfect material form of a woman to his heart, and at the same time his heart be breaking for what could not be seen or touched.

The question, however, was decided irrevocably. He knew that he could not leave helpless Grace Hilland to the care of strangers, and that there was no place for him in the world but at her side; and yet it was with something of the timidity and hesitation of a lover that he asked her, as they paced a shady garden-walk, "Grace, dear Grace, will you marry me?"