He continued through the spring to work all day and a part of the night. He had never felt more alert; after a while he attributed his alertness to freedom from anxiety. What might a man not accomplish under circumstances which were entirely favorable—with health and fortune and domestic happiness?
It was with a sense of amusement that he found himself thinking presently of the one creature in his house who was young. It was pleasant to meet her once or twice a day and see the color deepen in her cheeks. He did not realize that it was meeting him which made her flush; it was simply that she had color which came and went easily. She was always quiet, always unobtrusive, always low-voiced. She smiled, but he had never heard her laugh.
He began to be curious about her, but he asked no questions either of her or of Fetzer. He would learn, of course, that she was merely a dull country girl and the impression of intelligence given by a single instance of quick-wittedness would vanish when she began to talk. She seemed to have within her some spring of interest or satisfaction, but he could not guess what it was. But dull or not, she was very lovely.
Then one warm, bright night when sleeping seemed a waste of time, Stephen found his narrow bed pushed to the window. He smiled; then suddenly he grew pale and turned on his heel and began to walk up and down the room. He folded his arms across his breast as though to hold by force some leaping savage, unrighteous, thing. He was not so much appalled as astounded. He went down to his office and brought up Farmingham on the Muscles of the Eye. At three o'clock he laid the book down and turned out his light, smiling a little weakly at himself. He refused to connect this absurdity with any individual; he believed it was an effect of too close application to work.
In a third-story room neatly arranged was the overflow of his professional library, pamphlets and magazines which waited binding, and books which had passed their usefulness, but which he might still need for reference. On the day after his vigil, going thither to find a pamphlet, he passed Fetzer's room and came to the door of Ellen's room. There he saw Ellen's little bed, her table with its books, its neatly sharpened pencils, its vase of flowers. All was sweet and virginal and childlike. He remembered that Fetzer had said long ago that the girl studied; he was curious about her studies. He stepped in and lifted the three books from the table. The first was a geometry, the second a general history, the third a copy of "Vanity Fair" from his library. In the geometry lay several sheets of paper covered with neat triangles and circles.
He found his pamphlet and went downstairs slowly. He was indebted to this girl who had helped him in a hard place. Did she wish more education?—if so there was no reason why her ambition should not be gratified. He was positive now that she was superior to her present situation. His savings were large and his income constantly increasing; it would be pleasant to help an ambitious student. A comfortable philanthropic glow quite banished his lingering disgust at last night's unpleasant experience.
After dinner he rang for Ellen, who came to his study a little frightened. She had changed her black uniform for a white dress. Stephen knew her straight shoulders and her free step, but he had never realized quite the depth of her gaze when her eyes were squarely encountered.
"Sit down, Ellen."
Ellen took the chair indicated to her. The light shone full on her dark hair and her round chin and white neck. Something stirred again in Stephen's breast.
"Fetzer tells me you're a student."