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.