At last, however, a new idea seemed born in her mind, for she laid down her pen, rose suddenly to her feet, and moving across the room, paused beside the window.
For a long, silent space she stood at this closed window, her gaze wandering over the scene that custom had rendered so familiar,—the hillside, cut into characteristic tiers of earth, until it sloped downwards almost like a flight of steps, from which the grey olive trees and the black cypresses rose sharply defined in the brilliant atmosphere; at its foot, Florence, with its suggestion of dark-roofed houses and clustering spires; and beyond all, encircling all, the low chain of mountains, blue and purple in the sun. Quite suddenly, with a swift, impulsive movement, she unfastened the latch and threw the window open.
In the added radiance that poured into the room, she stood more distinctly revealed, and the slight changes that even two years can make became visible in her face and figure. The pose of her body and the carriage of her head were precisely as they had been, but her cheeks were a little thinner, and some of her brilliant colouring was gone; but the fact that would most speedily have appealed to one who had not seen her for the two years was the circumstance that she wore deep mourning—a mourning that lent an unfamiliar, almost a fragile air to her whole appearance.
That would have been the first impression; and then, as one studied her more closely, it would have been borne in upon one that these were mere outward signs—that the true, the real alteration lay not in dress, not in the thinness of her face nor in the unwonted pallor of her skin, but in the very curious expression with which she gazed out over the distant hills; the look of kinship—of comprehension—of that illusive, subtle sentiment that we call anticipation, with which her eyes met the far-off sky line.
For many moments she stood as if fascinated by the sense of promise that breathed and vibrated in the spring air; then, at last, with a quickly taken breath, she turned away from the open window, and, recrossing the room, seated herself again at the bureau, picked up her pen, and with new inspiration began to write.
"Larry—dear cousin,—
"I, the worst correspondent in all the world, am going to write you a long letter—because my heart is so full of thoughts that I must unburden it to some one who will listen. Who better than my friend—my brother—of the old dear, dear days?
"It was good of you and Aunt Fan to write me those two long affectionate letters; and I needed them. For though there was no horror in James's death, death itself is—and always must be—terrible to me. Terrible—but also very, very wonderful! Wonderful beyond words, when one realises that somebody one has known as good and kind and unselfish—but ordinary, Larry, ordinary as oneself—is suddenly transformed into something infinitely wise and mysterious, with a mystery one can only think about and fear.
"One month ago, James was in his usual health, going about his little daily tasks, losing himself in his little daily interests. And now he understands the million things that puzzle you and me and the rest of the world of living people!
"His death—as I told you in my first short note—was painless and quiet, and unselfish like his life. He held my hand and knew me to the very end, and spoke to me quite lucidly of his affairs half an hour before he died. And, Larry—I think he was happy! You cannot imagine what it is to be able to say that! Death brings so many regrets. It frightens me when I look back now over the years, and think of our marriage. It was so terribly, cruelly unwise. A man of his age, a girl of mine! And, knowing what I know now, the first years must have been very bitter for him. Since then, things have been better—and worse. Two years ago we were perilously near disaster—he and I—when something—it does not matter what—saved us both.