He moved his hand feebly and patted her shoulder, and she, in a passion of pity, carried it to her lips. For the first time she ventured to look at him. Was this Simeon! She would have passed him in a hospital ward as an utter stranger, so completely was he changed. He had discarded his spectacles, and his eyes were dull and faded; pain had robbed them of that expression of concentrated wisdom she knew so well. He wore a short, curling beard and mustache, and his clothing, supplied from Stephen’s wardrobe, was luxurious; it was silk, of a faint color between blue and gray, and the handkerchief, protruding from the pocket, was delicately fine. Extreme neatness was characteristic of Simeon, but he disliked anything florid in dress or appearance, anything opposed to the austere simplicity that marked his manner of living. She wondered whether such things mattered to him now.
He noticed her start of surprise as her eyes met his, and fancied she was shocked by the ravages of illness, for he said, with a touch of his old irritation:
“Didn’t they tell you I was dying? Are you afraid to be left alone with me? You used to be a courageous person, Deena.”
The querulousness with which he began the sentence melted into a rallying smile.
“Oh, no,” she said, “I am not afraid. I am too sorry to be frightened.”
“There is a bell, in case you want to summon the doctor,” he continued, “but I should rather talk to you alone. I have been very homesick for you, and for the old house—sometimes the longing has been most acute—and then the anxiety of leaving you poorly provided for has been part of my distress. If I could have lived a few years more this would have been obviated, and possibly, even now, my book will add something to your income.” He made a visible effort to speak clearly. “Now, in regard to your future support; I have a life insurance of ten thousand dollars, and securities to about the same amount—and then, of course, the house. This is all I have been able to save, though I have cut our living down to bare necessities. You have been of great assistance to me, Deena—without you life would have had little flavor, but sometimes I fear that in the desire to provide for your future I was not considerate enough of your present. I ought to have been more mindful that young people need pleasure. You will have to forgive that and many other mistakes.” He looked at her almost wistfully.
Deena’s tears came, dripping plentifully over her clasped hands.
“It is I who should ask forgiveness,” she said, humbly, remembering how often she had scorned his economies. “The money is more than I shall need—don’t think of it again, Simeon. Isn’t there anything you want to tell me about your work—your book?”
His face lit up eagerly—the topic was congenial.
“My papers are safe,” he said. “All the initial work of classification and description that I did on the Tintoretto is in French’s keeping, and he and Sinclair—the man who has my place—are going to edit the book. We have had a great deal of talk about it on the way up, whenever I had a fairly quiet day. It is idle to try to put into words what I owe French.”