Part 6 (1/2)

”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 pa.s.sed 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 rea.s.suringly. ”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 l.u.s.trous 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--”