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Updated: June 17, 2025
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.
Ponsonby's death, and the house bills had shocked Simeon into seeking immediate aid. At twenty Deena was able to accommodate herself to her new life with something more than resignation; a wider experience would have made it intolerable. She was flattered by his selection, proud to have a house of her own, and not sorry to be freed from the burdens of her own home.
The gayety of the morning deserted Deena as they sped back to Harmouth. Her brain was busy fitting her ideas to this possible change that French had just foreshadowed, and though she was silent, her eyes shone with excitement and her color came and went in response to her unspoken thoughts.
"Because Stephen wouldn't stop long enough in New York for me to exchange ten words with him, and so I did the next best thing indeed, the only thing I could do to satisfy my affection I came with him; and upon my word, I do not think he wanted me! Now, how do you account for that, Mrs. Deena?"
Stephen found comfort in recalling the gay tone of Simeon's letter, his delight in his coming adventure, and the good feeling that evidently existed between him and the ship's company. Deena took exception to his remark. "You have strange ideas of safety!" she laughed.
This was first received in silence, and then in piercing whispers, the little sisters tried to inspire courage: "Go down, Deena; you don't look a bit funny really." "'Funny' ye gods!" thought French, as Deena turned and came slowly down the stairs. He only wished she did look funny, or anything, except the intoxicating, maddening contrast to her usual sober self that was descending to him.
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."
My time is often precious beyond what you can appreciate, and I happen to be exceptionally busy to-night even French will be an unwelcome interruption." "I shall remember your wish," Deena said, quietly, and returned to her room. A moment later she heard Stephen arrive, and the study door shut behind him. Her toilet was soon made.
From childhood Deena had loved to express herself in rhyme, and of late years she had found her rhyming so she modestly called it a safety valve to a whole set of repressed feelings which she was too simple to recognize as starved affections, and which she thought was nature calling to her from without.
The present generation seems to consider comfort the first aim of existence, though the trouble they take to insure it more than counterbalances the results in old-fashioned judgment. Stephen stopped to light his cigar behind the shelter of a tree, and then came running after Deena, who was walking slowly toward the vast plain of blue water stretching to the east.
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