His thoughts had found a new channel and he was at their mercy. Was there something in human nature, in life, deeper, truer, stronger than he had ever known? He turned from the firelight and the trembling girl on the hearth and walked across the room. The bare branches of a sweet-brier outside tapped against the window-pane. The blinds were drawn, but he could hear the tapping, and in fancy see the bare, brown branches at the mercy of the wind. He sat down by the window and bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hand.
Had he all this time been dealing with the outer sham of life, deluded in the belief that he was living in the very heart of it? Had he been surfeiting himself with the husks, believing that he was feasting on the rare, sweet-flavored kernel?
For a time Geraldine remained by the hearth, then she crossed the room and stood beside him and laid her hand gently on his arm.
"Max," she said, "we have been friends, good friends--in our friendship we have been true to each other, we must be true to each other still, and true to ourselves--to the best that is in us. I cannot give you what you ask. Shall I be false and give you less? You desire a woman's heart, her life and love--shall I defraud you of this? Some day, perhaps, you will be glad that I have been true to myself--and to you, Max."
When Max stepped out into the night the wind had grown less boisterous; now and then a fitful gust went by like a wanderer in the night. The cold had become keener; overhead the clouds had rifted and a few stars kept watch with the night.
Geraldine lay awake long after she had sought her rest. The low moaning of the wind came to her in her upper room, and from her window she could see the rifted clouds and scattered stars. From a child she had looked from this same window at the face of the night, and the feeling had grown up with her that the great enfolding darkness was guarding and protecting her. Her trust and her simple faith had been as natural as her breathing or her existence. All her life before Faith and Trust had pillowed her head at night, and gently touched her eyelids, and whispered sweet dreams to her; but to-night dark, foreboding Doubt became her companion, and she tossed restlessly on her bed and looked down the long vista of years and saw herself alone, forgotten and unloved. With maidenly reserve and a woman's pride she had endeavored to shut out and debar from her thoughts one whom she believed had ceased to care for her, even as a friend; but when she had stood alone in the presence of her conscious self, the pleading of the man beside her had not seemed so real, so vital to her as did the vibrations of the wordless, evanescent message that came to her above the sobbing wind and the spirit of the tumultuous night.
Mrs. Mayhew noticed her heavy eyes and swelled lids the next morning, and Geraldine told her of Max's proposal and her rejection of him. Mrs. Mayhew had felt sure that Geraldine was to face this question, and in her heart she was glad of the girl's decision; yet her happiness came first, and it was evident that she was not happy, and she felt sure that there was something that Geraldine had not disclosed; yet she understood the fineness of the girl's nature too well to desire to force her confidence. And Geraldine could not speak of that about which she felt no woman has a right to speak. And so a barrier, subtle, thin as gauze, yet impenetrable, hung like a curtain between them. And Mrs. Mayhew, with rare wisdom, realizing that her girl had grown into a woman, was content to let her alone with her woman's secrets.
When Mr. Mayhew came home from his office that day his mood was not exactly a happy one. He had seen Max and knew the outcome of his proposal. He was both surprised and displeased; but he concealed the fact from Max and hinted that a woman's "no" often means "yes," and he determined to see Geraldine and speak plainly to her. When Max first spoke to him about Geraldine he had begun to look upon her as he might upon a commodity that had lain for years almost forgotten, but which had suddenly become of great value. Now, with her own hand she had shattered his plans for her, and refused one of the best fortunes in Edgerly.
After dinner he asked Geraldine to come to him in the library. He was seated near the fire reading when she entered the room. She did not disturb him, but went over and stood by the window and watched the sweet-brier as it tapped gently now against the window-pane.
Mr. Mayhew lowered his paper and looked at her, and his mind became reminiscent. He was impressed anew with Geraldine's likeness to her father; and this man seemed to come out of the shadowy past and confront him. Noble he had been, high-minded, conscientious and--poor. A musician, his artist's soul pure as the divine strains of his melodies, he seemed like one whom chance had placed in a wrong world, or a wrong age. Then his mind ran over the different members of the Vane family; scholars, musicians, professional men, high-minded and noble, but could anything excuse their poverty?