A QUIET HOUR
When the journey was over and the offices inspected, Stephen sat in
his room. Fetzer, controlling her emotions in his presence, had gone
to the third story both to rejoice and to weep; Miss MacVane and Miss
Knowlton, moving about the office, worked with shining eyes. Stephen
had promised to see a few patients to-morrow; life would be, Miss
MacVane expected, if there was to be any change, happier. Miss Knowlton
did not put into words what she expected. Neither thought of Ellen
Levis; their household was complete.
The storm in the night had given the park a springlike greenness. The
river from Stephen's room was blue, with tiniest silver ripples. A soft
breeze stirred the curtains gently and a cool green light filled the
pleasant room. The familiar walls rested his eyes; though he had known
little but misery in this house, he loved its stateliness and it was
now a safe haven. He had begun to be curious about what had been said
and done in the medical world in his absence. He had not forgotten the
quest upon which he intended to go when he should be wholly relieved
from espionage. In the meantime, he thought, drowsily and childishly,
it was sufficient to be quiescent and humble. He believed that he
should never see Ellen nor desire greatly to see her.
Then he opened his eyes at a slight sound. Ellen was at hand; she had
crossed the street and her familiar figure which had a moment ago
startled the women in the office approached his door, though Miss
Knowlton had directed her with lofty kindness to Fetzer's room.
"She'll take you to see the doctor," Miss Knowlton promised.
"Is he still ill?" Ellen asked, astonished.
"He's not entirely well." Miss Knowlton spoke as though he were her
child. "But he'll see you, I'm sure."
If Miss MacVane's sight had been keener, she would have interpreted
the long look which Ellen gave Miss Knowlton. In it were astonishment,
resentment, and even defiance. She would break no resolutions, would
not endanger her self-control, her ticket for her journey was in her
purse, but she would not be escorted to Dr. Lanfair's room by Mrs.
Fetzer at Miss Knowlton's suggestion!
Stephen saw her at first dimly across the wide room--could she be a
deluding vision? He felt the injured resentment of a man hit when he is
down.
When he was convinced of her reality, he clutched the arm of his chair.
He did not rise to meet her, realizing that he would need all his
physical strength to support his resolution and his pride. When she
came toward him, and he saw that some harsh trouble had deepened her
eyes, he grew still more weak. He wished for Fetzer or Miss MacVane or
Miss Knowlton--he thought with confused rage of Miss Knowlton--if she
was worth anything she should have defended him from this!
"I didn't know you were here," said Ellen in her low voice. "Miss
MacVane and Miss Knowlton just told me."
"Or I suppose you wouldn't have come!" Had he said the foolish words or
merely thought them?
"I'm going to Ithaca to-night," went on Ellen.
She was halfway across the room on her way to shake hands with him when
she halted. "I'm going to--" She stood staring, incredulous, at his
maimed body. She could not move or speak. It is hard to say which she
felt more deeply, an anguished pity or a sharp resentment.
Stephen saw her horror; the theory which he had framed to account
for her absence was then quite proved. He even believed that he saw
her hands lifted to shield her eyes. Her repulsion and terror were
unendurable, they constituted the final insult of fate.
"Does it frighten you?" he asked, wishing to hurt her. She had no
business to come now!
Her gaze transferred itself to his eyes and held them for a second.
After a long moment she spoke slowly, looking down, with the slightest
emphasis on her last word.
"What did you say to me?"
Stephen leaned forward, hating himself.
"Didn't you know, Ellen?"
A dumb mouth answered.
"I had an infected hand. Won't you sit down?"
Ellen did not move. Her eyes lifted, regarded him steadily.
"Did you never wonder why I didn't come?"
Stephen could not endure her gaze. Alas, he was not cured, she was
dearer, more desirable than she had ever been. Perhaps if he were wise
and wary, if he did not betray himself, he could keep her childish
affection until some one won her away! He could then grow gradually
accustomed to that which now seemed worse than death.
"You wrote and I answered," he said lightly. "Did you say you were
going back to school? Why so early, Ellen?"
"I'm going to--"
"Do sit down!" he cried. Did she mean to flee? "I won't hurt you. I
can't hurt you!" With an effort of his will he looked at her again;
he saw her waving hair, her broad forehead, her dark eyes, her round
figure, all of sweet Ellen. He looked at her, steadily and long, in the
quiet room as though he should never see her again.
He saw not only her body; he saw with a clear vision her soul, and knew
that his journey northward would have been in vain, that he could never
in such fashion have made her his. In her gaze was all her father's
quiet dignity, all his self-respect, which could not be impaired though
all else were taken. She had gained, Stephen saw plainly, the resources
of maturity; though she had been cruelly hurt, she still lifted her
head.
But he saw more than the beauty of Ellen's body and the worth of her
soul; he read her heart and found there that what he desired was to be
given him. He rose to his feet without taking his eyes from her. The
energy of life returned; he felt no weakness; he knew that that which
he was to have was of inestimable value and he determined to be lacking
in no grateful return.
Ellen moved a little toward him, her eyes now downcast.
"I have come to say good-bye."
He made no answer. The edge of the awning was slightly lifted in the
breeze, the green light brightened, a shaft of sunlight struck across
the room, and he stood still. He would not say, "Ellen, I am too old,"
or, "Ellen, I am maimed." He would not hurt her more than she had been
hurt. She had, it was clear, no suspicion that Fate had given her less
than the best. He stood looking at her quizzically, almost merrily,
waiting for her to lift her eyes.