With Deena the spring moved drearily. Her position was strangely
anomalous; she was neither wife nor widow, without the right to be
glad or sad--only dumbly wretched. She could not mourn for a husband
who might be living, nor could she ignore the fact that he might be
dead, and all the while that parting scene with Stephen burned into
her conscience like a brand.
She shut herself up with Polly and the baby, and hardly went out of
the house while she remained in New York. Love for the child crept
deep into her heart and soothed her into patience when all else
failed.
In May the house in Harmouth returned to her keeping, the lease having
expired, and she left the Sixty-fifth Street household with reluctance
to take up her old life. In the great city she had been but a human
atom. Her conduct, her unhappiness, her very existence mattered to no
one there, except, perhaps, to Ben and Polly, who were as tender and
sympathetic as such vigorous people could be; but in Harmouth every
creature was interested in Simeon's fate, and watched Deena with a
curiosity she found maddening.
She felt herself the main topic of conversation; she never approached
two people talking in the street that they didn't break off in guilty
confusion, and comments upon her mode of dressing and daily
occupations were continually repeated to her in the form of censure.
Her own family were especially out of touch, for their assumption that
she mourned her husband as Polly would have done made her feel like an
impostor. They did not give her much of their company, for their newly
found fortune made them even more self-centered than their
misfortunes. Dicky was the exception; perhaps because he had started
in life hard as nails, and so couldn't grow any harder. At all events,
Deena thought she discerned a reluctant affection in his greeting that
was infinitely flattering.
Stephen wrote whenever he could catch the Chilian mail boats on their
way through the Straits. His letters were those of a man under the
strong hand of restraint; admirable letters, that filled her with
respect for him and shame at her own craving for "one word more."
On the twenty-fifth of May she had a cable that changed the face of
events. It was from Montevideo.
Have found Simeon. Desperately ill. On our way home.
S. FRENCH.
The news spread over the town like wildfire. The local paper issued an
extra; a thing it had not done since the assassination of Mr.
McKinley. As soon as Harmouth knew Mrs. Ponsonby's exact status it
became distinctly friendly. People are helpful by instinct, and offers
of neighborly assistance poured in from all sides.
Deena left nothing undone that could, by anticipation, add to Simeon's
comfort. His room was ready, a nurse engaged, and all the
paraphernalia belonging to the care of the sick collected long before
the time due for his arrival. She counted upon seeing him four weeks
from the date of the cable. The regular trip of the mail boats between
Rio and New York is twenty days; from Montevideo two days more; to
that must be added another day to reach Boston, and she was warned
that a yacht would go more slowly than a large steamer; she therefore
concluded the third week in June would bring them.
The lot of women is to wait, and they do it under a pressure of
nervous strain that makes it slow torture. No turn of fortune could
have surprised Deena at this crisis, for her imagination had pictured
every possibility.
When a summer storm blackened the sky she saw the yacht tempest-tossed
and sinking, driven before a tropical cyclone; when the sun shone, she
fancied it sailing gayly into port with Simeon restored to health,
expecting to find her as he left her--the willing slave, the careful
housewife--and she shivered and went pale at the thought; and then in
a revulsion of feeling she saw him dying, and she was ready to cast
herself at his feet, and tell him all--how she had tried to do right,
how she had struggled against her love for Stephen. Perhaps he would
have mercy upon her and let her go away, all by herself, to wrestle
with her heart.
She couldn't eat; she couldn't sleep. She grew so wan and thin she was
like a ghost of her old self.
Her mother said:
"My dear, you must stop fretting. I am sure, under the care of that
clever young doctor Mr. French took down, and with the comforts of the
yacht, your husband will be quite himself by the time he gets home."
And her father added:
"You must not be so impatient, Deena; it is mighty nasty sailing
through West Indian waters, and a boat of that size doesn't carry
enough fuel for a prolonged voyage; they will have to stop for coal
somewhere on their way up."
She was growing irritable under her dread. Like Elisha, she longed to
silence them with the answer:
"I know it; hold ye your peace."
The middle of June had passed, the fourth week of the voyage had
begun, and now any day, any hour, might bring news. Deena's anxiety
had made such inroads into her health that her father took alarm and
called in her old friend Dr. Hassan, and he, wise man, gave her a
sedative and ordered her to bed, though the afternoon was still young.
It was the first long sleep she had had for weeks, and the refreshment
came at the time of her direst need, for at daybreak the summons
roused her. She waked with a beating heart; wheels stopped in the
street, her gate clicked, there were footsteps coming up her
path--bold, hurried steps; they reached the veranda--the bell pealed.
She sprang from her bed, huddling her dressing gown round her as she
ran, and, slipping back the heavy, old-fashioned bolts of the front
door, she stood face to face with Stephen.
If she were pale, he was paler; his blood seemed turned to ice that
summer morning.
"The yacht is at Wolfshead," he said. "How soon can you be ready? We
must go by rail--I have a special waiting for you."
A glow from the first blush of day caught her as she stood in the
frame of the doorway. She was like a mediaeval saint, with her hair
wound in a crown about her head, her blue gown falling in stately
fold, and her bare feet showing under the hem of her nightgown. In
spite of her seeming calm, her eyes blazed with excitement.
To French she seemed something holy and apart--as if those bare feet
rested on a crescent, and the shadows of the old hall were floating
clouds. He had schooled himself during his hurried journey, in order
to meet her without emotion, but she was her own protection; to have
touched her would have seemed sacrilege. Her lips tried to frame the
question that consumed her with its terrors.
"Simeon----" she began, but her voice failed.
Stephen's haggard eyes softened.
"He is dying," he said. "But there is time--perhaps to-day--perhaps
to-morrow. His force of will has kept him alive to see you--he has
cared more than you knew."
She gave a little sob, and turned toward the staircase. Halfway up she
stopped.
"I forgot to ask you to come in," she said, "or whether you want
anything I can get you? But it doesn't matter, does it? All that
matters is to do Simeon's bidding. I shall be very quick."
In an incredibly short time she was back, fully dressed, and carrying
a bag, into which she had thrust what was indispensable to her comfort
for another day. She waked the servant, left a message for her father,
and then she and Stephen went out into the street, so gay with early
sunlight and twittering birds, so bare of human traffic. At first a
strange shyness kept her dumb; she longed to ask a thousand things,
but the questions that rose to her lips seemed susceptible of
misunderstanding, and Stephen's aloofness frightened her. Did he
think, she wondered, that she could forget her duty to Simeon at such
a moment, that he surrounded himself with this impenetrable reserve?
And all the time he was regarding her with a passionate reverence that
shamed him into silence.
At the railway station their train was waiting--the locomotive hissing
its impatience; they got into the car, for there was but one, and in a
moment were flying seaward. A man--the steward of the yacht--was busy
at the far end of the car with a cooking apparatus, and the aroma of
coffee came intoxicatingly to her nostrils. She remembered she had
eaten nothing since her early dinner the day before, and she was
exhausted with excitement, and then she despised herself for thinking
of her physical needs when Simeon lay dying. It was fortunate that
French had taken a saner view of the situation, for the coffee was
just what was needed to restore her equipoise.
She began to understand the delicacy of her companion's conduct, and
the simplicity of the whole situation when stripped of morbidness. The
only thing that behooved her was to soothe her husband's last hours on
earth--to give out the tenderness of a pitying heart. As her common
sense asserted itself she began plying Stephen with the questions that
had seemed so impossible half an hour before--would Simeon know
her--could he bear conversation--was he changed in appearance--had he
suffered beyond relief? She demanded the whole story of his rescue and
of the voyage home. She was gentle, womanly, infinitely sweet. By the
time they reached their destination all constraint was gone; they were
two comrades absorbed in a common interest, for Simeon occupied their
every thought.
There was a narrow pier at Wolfshead, sheltered by a point of rocky
shore that made a landing for small boats in good weather, and there
the steam launch was waiting with its two trim sailors and its gaudy
flag. The yacht was anchored about a mile from shore--her graceful
outlines clearly defined against the ocean's blue. If the purity of
her white paint had suffered in the long voyage it was not
apparent--red and white awnings were stretched over the deck. All
looked hospitably gay. Once more Deena shrank into herself, the
brilliant scene mocked the tragedy within.
All too quickly they crossed the intervening water; they were on the
deck--in the saloon. She was trembling so she could hardly stand, and
Stephen put her into a comfortable chair and left her, while he made
her coming known. She hardly glanced at the luxurious fittings of the
charming room; her eyes were fixed on the door, dreading, yet
impatient, for the message.
A small, sensitive-looking man came toward her and introduced himself.
"I am Dr. Miles," he said, "Mr. Ponsonby's physician, and, if you will
allow me, I will take you to him now. There is no question of saving
his strength, Mrs. Ponsonby. We have been nursing what is left to him
for days, in order that he could lavish it in this interview with you.
Don't try to curb him; let him have his say."
She followed him to a deck cabin almost under the bridge, and stood
for a moment at the threshold, to make sure of her composure. There
was a narrow brass bed, a chest of drawers, a washstand, and close to
the bed a wicker chair, with silk cushions, was drawn up, as if in
expectation of a guest. The head of the bed was toward her, so that
she couldn't see Simeon's face, but he heard the rustle of skirts, and
called her name, and she made a step forward and sank on her knees
beside him.
"Oh, Simeon," she gasped, "how you have suffered! I am so sorry!"
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."
"And he feels nothing but self-reproach for having urged you to go,"
said Deena, faintly. "Not that anyone could have foreseen the
miserable outcome."
"It isn't miserable!" Simeon answered, almost fiercely. "In many
respects it is all that I hoped. I have made a name for myself--there
will not be a scientific library in the world without my book, when
once it is issued. People have died for lesser achievements than
that." And then he added, more gently: "Not that it could be
considered as an achievement without French's aid."
His mind could not detach itself from its debt of gratitude, for he
suddenly broke out in passionate eulogy.
"He has sacrificed everything to me--his ambitions--his time--his
comfort--his money, though that is the last thing he would begrudge,
but you have no idea what it costs to run one of those large yachts!
It must have made an inroad even in his large fortune. He has been a
friend indeed!"
Deena turned away her face; it was hard for her to praise Stephen,
although her heart echoed her husband's words.
"He has high ideals in friendship as in everything else," she
answered, "but you must remember, Simeon, that the thought of your
sufferings agonized us at home. Who could have abandoned you to such a
fate? It makes me sick to think of it!"
A sort of shiver passed over him, while he said, simply:
"It was all in the day's work. French ran the same risks, only with
better luck." Presently he added:
"I feel tired, Deena--and a little oppressed. Perhaps you had better
ring the bell--but stay. Will you kiss me before you ring?"
She kissed him with a pity that wrung her heart, and he sighed
contentedly and shut his eyes. He only spoke once more, just as the
doctor came to his bedside.
"I should have been glad to see the old house before I die, but it is
just as well as it is."
He was dying all the afternoon, peacefully and gently, and at sunset
the end came.