Moreover, there was a certain aloofness about him—a curious air of detachment, that quickened her curiosity into something she had no name for. In their last conversation he had been wonderfully frank—had opened his heart to her in a way that touched her sympathies to the quick, yet she knew she had not fathomed him yet. She had a feeling all the time that he was greater than he appeared, that his reticence was much more marked than its opposite.
He had suffered wrong without a murmur, and suffered wrong for her sake. He had kept her name out of what he had called a sordid quarrel, and gone on his way in silence, asking no sympathy and seeking no revenge.
How was it possible, therefore, that she could fail to be interested in him? He was so different from most of the men she knew. So strong, so self-contained, so doggedly determined.
Some day he would find her out; she was sure of that. He was not the kind of man to remain in anyone's debt. She did not doubt for a moment that he guessed long ago who had sent him the money, but with the true instinct of chivalry he had not thrust himself upon her. He had allowed the months to go by, and had made no effort to find her; and during those months he had proved the stuff of which he was made. In an age of rush and greed and money-grabbing he had shown a fidelity to principle that even his detractors admired.
He might have "made his pile," in the slang phrase of the time, but he had shown no eagerness to do so. He had gambled once with life itself (though she did not know that); he would not gamble now with the things of life, with what men called "the world."
He had learnt his lesson and he would never forget it. To wrong a community was just as wicked as to wrong an individual. He refused to treat his employées as "hands"; they were men, not serfs to be exploited, but human beings to be protected and helped. He introduced a new industrial code and made himself one with his fellows.
Mr. Graythorne, who had followed his movements with great interest and curiosity, gave hints to Madeline every now and then, though he was never quite able to take the measure of Madeline's interest in him.
In truth, however, her interest had been a growing quantity. Silence and separation but quickened her imagination. The hints and fragments of news that reached her concerning him all helped in the same direction. His apparent indifference to her made her all the more curious to see him again.
"No, I cannot leave New York," she said to herself, at length. "If he comes I want to be here. He may think I have tried to discharge my debt with dollars and do not want to see him again. To convey such an impression would be to wrong myself, and—and—him, for there was a time——"
She did not finish the sentence, however, but the warm colour stole swiftly to her neck and face and a bright light came into her eyes.