A Young Girl's Wooing

by Edward Payson Roe

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  BROKEN LIGHTS AND SHADOWS

  Mr. Wildmere looked almost ten years older when he came down to whathe supposed would be a solitary breakfast; but something like hopeand gladness reappeared on his haggard face when he saw Arnault at histable as usual. He scarcely knew how he would be received, but Arnaultwas as affable and courteous as he would have been months previous,and no one in the breakfast-room would have imagined that anythinghad occurred to disturb the relations between the two gentlemen. Heinquired politely after the ladies, expressed regret that they wereindisposed, and changed the subject in a tone and manner natural to amere acquaintance.

  Although his courtesy would appear faultless to observers, it madeWildmere shiver.

  "Mr. Arnault," Mr. Wildmere said, a little nervously, as they left thebreakfast-room, "may I speak with you?"

  "Certainly," replied Arnault, with cool politeness, and he followedMr. Wildmere to a deserted part of the piazza.

  "You made a very kind and liberal offer to my daughter," the latterbegan.

  "And received my final answer last night," was the cold, decisivereply. "It would be impossible to imagine more definite assurance thatMiss Wildmere has no regard for me than was given within the time Istipulated. I have accepted such assurance as final. Good-morning,sir," and with a polite bow he turned on his heel and went to hisroom.

  Mr. Wildmere afterward learned that he took the first train to NewYork.

  "Arnault has a clear field now," Graydon had thought, cynically, whileat breakfast. "I can scarcely wish him anything worse than success;"and then he looked complacently around the family group to whichhe belonged, and felicitated himself that Wildmere traits wereconspicuously absent. His eyes dwelt oftenest on Madge. At this earlymeal she always made him think of a flower with the morning dew uponit. Even her evening costumes were characterized by quiet elegance;but during the earlier hours of the day she dressed with a simplicitythat was almost severe, and yet with such good taste, such harmonywith herself, that the eye of the observer was always rested andsatisfied. Gentlemen who saw her would rarely fail to speak about herafterward; few would ever mention her dress. Miss Wildmere affecteddaintiness and style; Madge sought in the most quiet and modest way toemphasize her own individuality. As far as possible she wished to bevalued for what she actually was. The very fact that there was so muchin her life that must be hidden led to a strong distaste for all thatwas misleading in non-essentials.

  "I am going to church with you to-day," said Graydon, "and I shall tryto behave."

  "Try to! You cannot sit with me unless you promise to behave."

  "That is the way to talk to men," said Mrs. Muir, who was completelyunder her husband's thumb. "They like you all the better for showingsome spirit."

  "I am not trying to make Graydon like me better, but only to insurethat he spends Sunday as should a good American."

  "There is no longer any 'better' about my liking for Madge. It's allbest. I admit, however, that she has so much spirit that she inspiresunaffected awe."

  "A roundabout way of calling me awful."

  "Since you won't ride or drive with me to-day, are you too 'awfullygood,' as Harry says, to take a walk after dinner?"

  "It depends on how you behave in church."

  They spent the afternoon in a very different manner, however, for soonafter breakfast Dr. Sommers told them that Tilly Wendall was at rest,and that the funeral would be that afternoon.

  With Dr. Sommers's tidings Graydon saw that a shadow had fallenon Madge's face, and his manner at once became gravely and gentlyconsiderate. There were allusions to the dead girl in the service atthe chapel, where she had been an attendant, and Graydon saw half-shedtears in Madge's eyes more than once.

  She drove out with him in the lovely summer afternoon to the gray oldfarmhouse. The thoughts of each were busy--they had not much to sayto each other--and Madge was grateful, for his quiet considerationfor her mood. It was another proof that the man she loved had not ashallow, coarse-fibred nature. With all his strength he could be agentle, sympathetic presence--thinking of her first, thoughtfullyrespecting her unspoken wishes, and not a garrulous egotist.

  He in turn wondered at his own deep content and at the strange andunexpected turn that his affairs had taken. He not only dwelt on whathad happened, but on what might have happened--what he had hoped forand sought to attain. He remembered with shame that he had evenwished that Madge had not been at the resort, so that he might be lessembarrassed in his suit to Miss Wildmere. From his first waking momentin the morning he had been conscious of an immeasurable sense ofrelief at his escape. He felt now that he had never deeply loved MissWildmere--that she had never touched the best feelings of his heart,because not capable of doing so. But he had admired her. He had been adevotee of society, and she had been to him the beautiful culminationof that phase of life. He saw he had endowed her with the womanlyqualities which would make her the light of a home as well as of theballroom, but he had also seen that the woman which his fancyhad created did not exist. There is a love which is the result ofadmiration and illusion, and this will often cling to its imperfectobject to the end. Such was not the case with Graydon, however. Hisfirst motive had been little more than an ambition to seek the mostbrilliant of social gems with which to crown a successful life; but hewas too much of a man to marry a belle as such and be content. He mustlove her as a woman also, and he had loved what he imagined StellaWildmere to be. Now he felt, however, like a lapidary who, whilegloating over a precious stone, is suddenly shown that it is worthlesspaste. He may have valued it highly an hour before; now he throws itaway in angry disgust. But this simile only in part explains Graydon'sfeelings. He not only recognized Miss Wildmere's mercenary characterand selfish spirit, but also the power she would have had to thwarthis life and alienate him from his brother and Madge. While she wasnot the pearl for which he might give all, she could easily havebecome the active poison of his life.

  "Oh," he thought, "how blessed is this content with sweet sisterMadge--sister in spite of all she says--compared with brief, feverishpleasure in an engagement with such a sham of a woman, or the madchaos of financial disaster which my suit might have brought about!"and he unconsciously gave a profound sigh of satisfaction.

  "Oh, Graydon, what a sigh!" Madge exclaimed. "Is your regret so great?You were indeed thinking very deeply."

  "So were you, Madge--so you have been during the last half hour. Mysigh was one of boundless relief and gratitude. If you will permitme, I will tell you the thoughts that occasioned it as a proof of myfriendly confidence. May I tell you?"

  "Yes, if you think it right," she said, with slightly heightenedcolor.

  "It seems to me both right and natural that I should tell you;" and heput the thoughts which preceded his sigh into words.

  "Yes," she replied, gravely; "I think you have escaped much that youwould regret. Please don't talk about it any more."

  "What were you thinking about, Madge?" he asked, looking into herflushed and lovely face.

  "I have thought a great deal about Tilly and what passed between us.That is the house there, and it will always remain in my mind as adistinct memory."

  Farm wagons and vehicles of all descriptions were gathering atthe dwelling. They were driven by men with faces as rugged andweather-beaten as the mountains around them. By their sides wereplain-featured matrons, whose rustic beauty had early faded under thestress of life's toil, and apple-cheeked boys and girls, with facescomposed into the most unnatural and portentous gravity. There was asprinkling of young men, with visages so burned by the sun that theymight pass for civilized Indians. They were accompanied by young womenwho, in their remote rural homes, had obtained hints from the world offashion, and after the manner of American girls had arrayed themselveswith a neatness and taste that was surprising; and the fresh pink andwhite of their complexions made a pleasing contrast with their swains.Although the occasion was one of solemnity, it was not without itspleasurable excitement. Th
ey all knew about poor Tilly, and to-daywas the culmination of the little drama of her illness, the details ofwhich had been discussed for weeks among the neighbors--not in callouscuriosity, but with that strange blending of gossip and sympathy whichis found in rural districts. The conclusion of all such talk had beena sigh and the words, "She is prepared to go."

  The people as yet were gathered without the door and in groups underthe trees. Tilly's remains were still in her own little room, Mrs.Wendall taking her farewell look with hollow, tearless eyes. A fewfavored ones, chiefly the watchers who had aided the stricken mother,were admitted to this retreat of sorrow.

  When Dr. Sommers saw Madge and Graydon he came to them and said, "Mrs.Wendall requested that when you came you and whoever accompanied youshould be brought to her. Tilly, before she died, expressed the wishthat you should sit with her mother during the funeral. No, no, Mr.Muir, Mrs. Wendall would have no objection to any of Miss Alden'sfriends. I can give you a seat here by this window. The other roomswill be very crowded with those who are strangers to you."

  Graydon found himself by the same window at which Madge had sat in herlong vigil. The bed had been removed, and in its place was a plainyet tasteful casket. Mr. Wendall, with his head bowed down, sat at itsfoot, wiping away tears from time to time with a bandana handkerchief.Two or three stanch friends and helpers sat also in the room, for itwould appear that the Wendalls had no relatives in the vicinity.

  As Madge sat down by Mrs. Wendall, so intent was the mother's gazeupon her dead child that she did not at first notice the young girl'spresence. Madge took a thin, toil-worn hand caressingly in both herown, and then the tearless eyes were turned upon her, and the lightof recognition came slowly into them, as if she were recalling herthoughts from an immense distance.

  "I'm glad you've come," she said, in a loud, strange whisper. "Shewanted you to be with me. She said you had trouble, and would know howto sustain me. She left a message for you. She said, 'Tell dear Madgethat the dying sometimes have clear vision--tell her I've prayed forher ever since, and she'll be happy yet, even in this world. Tell herthat I only saw her a little while, but she belongs to those I shallwait for to welcome.' You'll stay by me till it's all over, won'tyou?"

  Madge was deeply agitated, but she managed to say distinctly, "Tillyalso said something to me, and I want you to think of her wordsthrough all that is to come. She said, 'Think where I have gone, anddon't grieve a moment.'"

  "Yes, I'll come to that by and by; but now I can think of only onething--they are going to take away my baby;" and she laid her headon the still bosom with a yearning in her face which only God, whocreated the mother's heart, could understand.

  What followed need not be dwelt upon. The mother and father took theirlast farewell, the casket was carried to the outer room, the simpleservice was soon over, the tearful tributes paid, and then the slowprocession took its way to a little graveyard on a hillside among themountains.

  "I can't go and see Tilly buried," said Mrs. Wendall, in the sameunnatural whisper. "I will go to her grave some day, but not yet. Iam trying to keep up, but I don't feel that I could stand on my feet aminute now."

  "I'll stay with you till they come back," Madge answered, tenderly;and at last she was left alone in the house, holding the tearlessmother's hand. She soon bowed her young head upon it, bedewing it withher tears. The poor woman's deep absorption began to pass away. Thewarm tears upon her hand, the head upon her lap, began to waken theinstincts of womanhood to help and console another. She stroked thedark hair and murmured, "Poor child, poor child! Tilly was right.Trouble makes us near of kin."

  "You loved Tilly, Mrs. Wendall," Madge sobbed. "Think of where she'sgone. No more tears; no more pain; no more death."

  Her touch of sympathy broke the stony paralysis; her hot tears meltedthose which seemed to have congealed in the breaking heart, and themother took Madge in her arms and cried till her strength was gone.

  When Mr. Wendall returned with some of the neighbors, Madge met him atthe door and held up a warning finger. The overwrought woman had beensoothed into the blessed oblivion of restoring sleep, the first shehad for many hours. A motherly-looking woman whispered her intentionof remaining with Mrs. Wendall all night. Mr. Wendall took Madge'shand in both his own, and looked at her with eyes dim with tears.Twice he essayed to speak, then turned away, faltering, "When I meetyou where Tilly is, perhaps I can tell you."

  She went down the little path bordered by flowers which the dead girlhad loved and tended, and gathered a few of them. Then Graydon droveher away, his only greeting being a warm pressure of her hand.

  At last Madge breathed softly, "Think where I have gone. Where isheaven? What is it?"

  His eyes were moist as he turned toward her. "I don't know, Madge," hesaid. "I know one thing, however, I shall never, as you asked, say aword against your faith. I've seen its fruits to-day."