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Updated: June 21, 2025
On the deck, as we went out of the harbor, Eleanore stood by the rail. I felt her hand close tight on mine and I saw her eyes glisten a little with tears. "What a splendid place it has been," she said. We found every place splendid in those weeks as we let the wanderlust carry us on.
Daniel made unconscious effort to avoid the places where he had once walked with Eleanore. There came moments when Dorothea’s exuberance made him pensive and sad; he felt the weight of his forty years; they were inclined to make him hypochondriacal. Was it the vengeance of fate that made him slow up when they came to a hill, while Dorothea ran on ahead and waited for him, laughing?
She told the florist she knew a great deal about flowers and had had considerable experience in handling them. The man laughed at her, and told her he could find no sale for that kind of things, and that, even if he could, he would have to ask so little for them that it would not pay her to make them. Eleanore took her flowers back home; she was profoundly discouraged.
It seems sometimes," I added, "like a girl I'd fallen in love with but I couldn't even ask her because I'm so infernally poor." Over the tea cup at her lips Eleanore looked thoughtfully straight into and through and behind my eyes. "Fiction is such a broad field," she remarked. "What kind do you think you're going to try?" "I don't know," I answered. "It still seems so far ahead.
“Well, come then,” said Daniel, and helped Gertrude to get up. But her legs were without strength; she could not walk. She looked first at Daniel and then at Eleanore; she was plainly worried about something. “You won’t care, will you, Father, if I go home with them?” asked Eleanore in a tone of flattery. “No, go, child,” said Jordan, “it will do me good to be alone for a few minutes.”
What had I been thinking of; was I mad? With nothing more terrible in mind than a tender picture of the lovely cousins bowed in anguish over the remains of one who had been as dear as a father to them, I slowly rose, and upon demand being made for Miss Mary and Miss Eleanore Leavenworth, advanced and said that, as a friend of the family a petty lie, which I hope will not be laid up against me I begged the privilege of going for the ladies and escorting them down.
Gertrude watched by her bedside night and day; she sacrificed herself. Daniel, worried about Eleanore, went around in a dazed condition. When he came to her bed he never noticed Gertrude. After Eleanore had begun to recover, Gertrude lay down; for she was very tired. But she could not sleep; she got up again. She went into the kitchen in her bare feet, though she did not know why she went.
And up in the distant, inaccessible heights there rang out with deceiving clarity, like the last vision of earthly perfection, the melody of love, the melody of Eleanore. Yet, some one was calling him; but from where? His wife? The distant, gloomy, waiting one? He closed the piano; the echo of the noise made thereby rebounded from the church wall through his window.
He sprang up, and looked angrily into her face: “One has to be ashamed of one’s self,” he said, “human language becomes repulsive. Don’t you have a feeling of horror when you think? Don’t you shudder when you reflect on that caricature known as the heart, or the soul, or whatever it may be called?” “I don’t understand you, Daniel,” said Eleanore.
He is the last and youngest of the mighty race, born, as it were, out of due time, late, and into a feebler generation. There is a momentary echo of Donne, of Crashaw, nay, in his earliest pieces, even a touch of Leigh Hunt. You detect it in pieces like "Lilian" and "Eleanore," and the others of that kind and of that date. What is all this but the changeful mood of grief?
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