Ainslee's, Vol. 15, No. 5, June 1905

Stephen’s energies had been absorbed in editing Simeon’s book. He had the assistance of the botanical department of Harmouth, and the book was produced in a manner which would have given poor Ponsonby infinite pleasure. French spared no expense, especially in the color drawings from Simeon’s photographs and specimens, which were exceptionally valuable. The printing was done in Boston, and Stephen was there much of the time. During Deena’s illness he was glad of an excuse to be near enough to get daily reports of her progress, but as she became strong and resumed the routine of living, so that intercourse became unavoidable, he found the strain of silence more than he could bear. He resigned his professorship permanently, and went abroad, making the book his excuse. He wished to see that it was properly heralded by both English and Continental scientific periodicals, and he preferred to attend to it himself. To say that Deena missed him but feebly expresses the void his going made in her life, but, knowing her own heart, and suspecting the state of his, she was glad to be spared his presence in these early days of widowhood, and could not but approve his decision.

Dicky’s society was hardly calculated to stifle her longings for higher things, for his conduct called for constant repression. At first he had nearly driven her wild by his prying interest in what did not concern him, his way of unmasking her secret thoughts, his powers of seeing round corners, if not through sealed envelopes, but as time went on she grew fond of his honest boy-nature, and learned to laugh at his precocious acuteness. Perhaps with Stephen’s departure there were fewer occasions for her to resent the challenge of his intrusive eye. There were, also, alleviations coincident with the school year, for then she was free from his company from the time he slammed the front door, at five minutes to nine, till he returned at two, ravenous for dinner.

On the particular morning indicated at the beginning of the chapter, the season was the late autumn – the clock was pointing ominously near nine – the lady opposite to Master Shelton looked more beautiful than ever in her widow’s weeds. Dicky conveyed half a sausage and a wedge of buttered toast to the sustenance of boyhood before he asked – with some difficulty, if the truth were confessed:

“May I take a bunch of grapes to school, Deena?”

She was about to give a cheerful consent, when he defeated his own ends by adding:

“None of the other boys have hothouse grapes; it makes ’em think a lot of me. I guess they know where they come from, too!”

“In those circumstances, certainly not,” she answered, indignantly. “You can eat all you like at home.”

“Well, I call that low-down mean,” he said, stabbing another sausage, “and you gettin’ all the fruit and flowers from Mr. French’s place sent to you every day. I wish Polly and Ben were there still – they wouldn’t begrudge me a little fruit.”

Polly and Ben had taken Stephen’s place for the summer, during his protracted absence, and had but recently returned to New York.

“Polly and Ben would despise your snobbishness just as I do; besides, I do not approve of your taking eatables to school,” she added, disingenuously, for her objection was to furnishing food for Harmouth gossip – not to Dicky.

“Oh, pshaw!” he exclaimed. “As if I didn’t know why you won’t let me take ’em! Mr. French will give me anything I ask for when he gets home – that’s one comfort. Did you know he may be here any day? The man who brought the flowers told me so yesterday.”

Deena’s complexion flushed a lively pink, or else it was the reflection from the wood fire, leaping in tongues of flame behind the tall brass fender. She certainly looked singularly girlish as she sat behind the array of Ponsonby breakfast silver, her severe black frock, with the transparent bands of white at throat and wrists, only serving to mark her youthful freshness. Her beauty was of little consequence to her brother, who was busy considering the advantages that might accrue to himself from Stephen’s return.

“When Mr. French went away, he said I could ride his saddle horse, and though I’ve been there half a dozen times since Ben left, that old beast of a coachman won’t let me inside the stable. Will you tell Mr. French when he comes home what an old puddin’ head he’s got to look after his horses? The man ought to be kicked out!”

“I shall hardly venture to complain to Mr. French about his servants,” said Deena.

“You might be good-natured,” he urged; “here’s the whole autumn gone without my getting any riding, and Mr. French would do anything you asked – ”

“It is time for you to go to school,” said Deena, shortly.

“No, it isn’t; not for three minutes yet,” he contradicted. “‘Tenny rate, I don’t mean to be early this morning – it’s jography, and I don’t know my lesson; but I do think you might speak about the horse, Deena; I never get a bit of sport worth countin’” – this in a high, grumbling minor. “There was Ben; he had his automobile here the whole summer, and never offered it to me once! The fellows all think it was awfully mean – I had promised to take them out in it, and it made me feel deuced cheap, I can tell you. The idea of using a machine like that just to air a kid every day! I guess it pumped it full of wind, anyhow – that’s one comfort.”

“If you are going to say disagreeable things about the baby, I won’t listen to you,” said Deena, crossly, and then, ashamed of her petulance, added: “Run along to school, dear; the sooner you get some knowledge into that little red head of yours, the sooner you can have automobiles and horses of your own.”

“Those of my brothers-in-law will suit me just as well,” he said, favoring her with a horrid grimace, as he wiped his mouth on a rope of napkin held taut between his outstretched fists. “Perhaps I had better let Mr. French know myself what I expect in the future.”

“Perhaps you’ll mind your own business!” cried Deena, driven to fury.

He left the room singing in a quavering treble:

I’ll pray for you when on the stormy ocean

With love’s devotion. That’s what I’ll do.

It was a song with which a nursemaid of the Shelton children had been wont to rock the reigning baby to sleep, and had lurked in Dicky’s memory for many a year.

Poor Deena was thoroughly ruffled. It was maddening to have a love she held as the most sacred secret of her heart vulgarized by a boy’s coarse teasing, and, in addition, she was jealous of her own dignity – anxious to pay her dead husband proper respect – distressed at the possibility of Stephen’s thoughtful kindness becoming a subject of comment in the town. And yet what difference did it make?

This carefully guarded secret would be public property by her own consent before a week was over, for Dicky’s announcement of French’s return was no news to Deena – at that very moment her heart was beating against a letter which assured her he was following fast upon its tracks, and when he came he was not likely to prove a patient lover. All through that second summer his letters had been growing more tender, more urgent, till at last he had taken matters into his own hands, and decided that their separation must end. For aught she knew, his vessel might already have reached New York – he might be that blessed moment on his way to Harmouth! The thought sent little thrills of happiness bounding through her veins. She had a shrewd idea he would appear unannounced by letter or telegram, but not to-day – certainly not to-day – she reflected.

There were plenty of small duties waiting for her that morning, but in woman’s parlance she “couldn’t settle to anything”; there was an excitement in her mood that demanded the freedom of fresh air. She went up to her bedroom and stood for a moment at her window before yielding to the impulse that beckoned her out into the sunshine; and, drawing Stephen’s letter from her dress, she read it once more, to make sure she had missed no precious hint as to the time of his sailing. He wrote:

May I come back? You must know all I mean that to imply – to come back, my best beloved, to you – to order my life in accordance to your pleasure – to marry you the day I set foot in Harmouth – or to wait impatiently till you are pleased to give yourself to me. I trust your love too entirely to fear that you will needlessly prolong the time. You are too fair-minded to let mere conventions weigh with you as against my happiness. Between you and me there must be no shams, and yet I would not shock or hurry you for the world.

On second thoughts, I shall not wait for your permission to return – that is not the best way to gain one’s desires! No, I shall come before you can stop me, and while you are saying to yourself, “Perhaps he is on the ocean,” I may be turning in at your gate.

What did she mean to do? she asked herself, with a smile that was its own answer.

She went into her closet, and, fetching her crape hat from the shelf, began pinning it on before the glass. Its somber ugliness accorded ill with the brightness of her hair, and somehow her hair seemed to turn mourning into a mockery.

She couldn’t help recalling an incident that had happened two years before, when she had seen herself in that same glass transformed into sudden prettiness by Polly’s skillful fingers, and how her pleasure in her appearance had been turned into humiliation by Simeon’s petty tyranny, when she asked him to pay for her hat. And then she was ashamed of her own thoughts – distressed that she had let the paltry reminiscence force itself into her mind; for great happiness should put us in charity with all. Never again would she allow an unkind remembrance to lodge in her thoughts.

She shut the door of her room and hurried out into the street – there was so much indoors to remind her of what she most wished to forget. When Stephen came for her they would go away from Harmouth – just for a little while, till the memories faded – and, in a future of perfect love, think kindly, gratefully, pitifully, of Simeon.

You see, she was desperately in love, poor child, and at last heart and conscience were in accord.

Her feet fairly danced up the street; she moved so lightly she hardly rustled the carpet of fallen leaves that overspread the pavement. It was a glorious day, the sun was touching all prosaic things with gold, and up in heaven, against the interminable blue, little white clouds sailed in dapples, such as Raphael charged with angel faces, and every face seemed to smile.

Wandering across the campus, under the stately arches of the college elms, she finally reached the open country, and, realizing that even the wings of happiness are mortal, she turned homeward, choosing the avenue that led past French’s place. Perhaps she hoped for reassuring signs of his coming – doors and windows thrown open and gardeners at work upon the ground – but before she got beyond the high hedge that cut off her view, a carriage, which she recognized as Stephen’s, drove rapidly toward the gate, and in it sat a lady, stately and grand, but so closely veiled as to defy both sun and curiosity. At a sign from her the carriage stopped, and a voice exclaimed:

“I have just been to see you, Mrs. Ponsonby, and was so much disappointed to find you out – and so was some one else, I fancy, who I am sure has been at your house this morning! Pray get in and drive home with me. And I will send you back to town after you have paid me a little visit.”

Deena had by this time recognized Mrs. Star, and recovered sufficiently from her surprise to take the offered seat in the carriage, but she was in such a tumult of hope and fear she hardly dared trust herself to do more than greet her old friend. Mrs. Star understood quite well, and gave her time to recover her wits by a characteristic harangue.

“How am I?” she repeated, sardonically. “Lame for life! I have never got over McTorture’s treatment, and never shall. Oh, no, it was not the original accident – that was an innocent affair – it is the result of McTorture’s nonsense in keeping me chained to my sofa in one position till my leg stiffened. But never mind about doctors; they’re all alike – bad’s the best! You look handsome and healthy enough to keep out of their clutches; tell me all about yourself.”

“There is never anything to tell about me,” said Deena. “I am much more concerned to know why you are here.”

Mrs. Star’s eyes softened.

“Because Stephen wouldn’t stop long enough in New York for me to exchange ten words with him, and so I did the next best thing – indeed, the only thing I could do to satisfy my affection – I came with him; and upon my word, I do not think he wanted me! Now, how do you account for that, Mrs. Deena?”

Her expression was so insinuating that Deena might be excused a slight irritation in her tone as she answered:

“I don’t account for it.”

Here they reached the front door, for the approach was a short one, and Mrs. Star got out laboriously and ushered her guest into the hall.

“Do you know your way to the library?” she asked. “It is on the other side of this barn of a room, and if you will make yourself comfortable there, I will join you in a minute. The truth is, we are not in order, and I must give a message before I can have the conscience to sit down and enjoy a chat.”

Deena’s eyes were still blinded by the midday glare, but she managed to cross the great drawing room without stumbling over an ottoman, and, pushing aside the heavy curtain that shut off the library, she walked directly into Stephen’s arms.

As Mrs. Star saw fit to leave her undisturbed, it would be sheer presumption for a humble person like the writer to disregard that compelling example. Suffice it to say that for one hour Stephen’s horses stamped and champed in the stable, and that when finally Mrs. Star did appear, the occupants of the library were under the impression she had been gone barely long enough to take off her wraps.

Perhaps no mortals deserve happiness, and certainly few attain it, but if ever a man and a woman were likely to find satisfaction in each other’s companionship, it was the lovers sitting hand in hand before Stephen’s fire.

Most women of twenty-four have had some experience of love as a passion; they have known its fullness or its blight, or more often still, they have frittered it away in successive flirtations, but with Deena it had come as a revelation and been consecrated to one. To be sure, she had tried to crush and repress it, but it had persisted because of its inherent force. And with Stephen the passion was at once the delight and glory of his life. His was no boy’s love made up of sentiment and vanity; he had brought a man’s courage to follow duty to the borders of despair, and all the while he held the image of her he loved unsullied in his heart. At last they were free to take all that life had before withheld of sympathy and friendship and perfect understanding. What wonder that an hour should slip away before they realized the flight of time?