Miss Grammer studied her gravely. Had the object of love died or had he been married? It was the former of these sorrows which she had suffered in her youth.
"You knew that you might come with me, surely, Ellen?"
"Oh, yes."
"You are tired," said Miss Grammer.
Spring breaks the best of resolutions of Ellen's particular variety. The willow branches turned a brighter yellow, the brook bubbled more and more loudly, crocuses and scilla enlivened the grass. Presently flowering shrubs bloomed; one walked in welcome shade where yesterday there had been sunshine; bees hummed in and out of classrooms where students nodded. Those who had studied ceased to be industrious and those who had been idle continued in their course. There was little talk of Avogadro's Law or of the Elizabethan spirit of Shelley; there was discussion of baseball games and boat-races. Envy was transferred from him who made high marks to him who, like the wise virgins, had provided against springtime by saving permitted absences.
On Memorial Day there was a boat-race and the students departed with few exceptions to the lakeside. A half-dozen, studious like Miss Grammer, worked in the library, their thoughts occupied with matters alien to boat-races, and others whose purses were empty sought points of vantage on distant hillsides. Only Ellen turned her back upon both work and play and went in an opposite direction. She meant this afternoon, while the struggle on the lake was in progress, to take herself to task.
She selected her battleground with poor judgment. One may win a victory over one's self as one walks on a frozen road or under the bare branches of wintry trees, but when one approaches the scene of conflict through beds of daisies and sweet clover one is weakened at the start. Even her physical strength seemed to be failing when at last she sat down on a fallen tree at the edge of a little wood and clasped her hands round her knees. The land fell in a gentle slope to the campus whose towers rose above the tree-tops. Beyond, and far below, the lake lay clear and blue. There was no house near by and there was no sound of the life of human beings, and nothing to take her attention away from her own problem.
She believed now that her obsession was a mortal sickness and that from it she could never escape; she hoped only to hide it and to proceed so that it might be unsuspected by others. She had tried since Christmas to put Stephen out of her mind and had failed. She had reminded herself that her affection was not and that it never would be returned. Indeed, it seemed to her that already Stephen's letters had grown more curt and businesslike; perhaps he understood and was trying to make clear to her the hopelessness of her situation.
She reproached herself for her blindness. It was upon the night when she had returned from the King Sanatorium that this had begun; she should have understood herself then, and not created for herself a fool's paradise. The effect of this emotion was like the effect of death, it colored everything. The universe had narrowed to a point. She did not realize how unlike most lives her life was, with its limited circle of acquaintances, and its intense affection for a few human beings.
The afternoon wore slowly on; far away the straining bodies of the rowers bent above their oars waiting the word to make a belated start, the thousands of spectators shouted, and presently the long observation train began to move with the boats. She should have been with her schoolmates in body and in spirit, but she did not even think of them.