Chapter 2

I could see Stephen through the low, open window of his library; he was
sitting by his table writing furiously at his new novel and he was all
snowed around with scribbled pages. It’s always very hard for me to
realize that Stephen is a famous author; he’s so nice and chummy and
approachable. To read his books you would think he was somebody far too
deep and clever for everyday people to know at all; and as for girls’
dresses, you’d never dream he thought of anything but their souls and
minds.

The minute he heard my call he dropped his pen and came running out.
When he came to where the little red paths make a cross, he stopped and
looked at me. I knew at that moment that no missionary’s wife was ever
going to frivol it in my green dress: he liked it—liked it immensely.
But I wanted to hear him say so; so I picked up my train and made a
curtsey and said, “Have I found favor in the king’s sight?”

Stephen drew a long breath.

“You are the spring itself, Sylvia,” he said. “Its very incarnation. I
thought when I saw you standing there by that bench as I came across the
garden that all the shimmer of young leaves and glow of young mornings
and evanescent sweetness of young blossoms in a thousand springs had
embodied themselves in you. Tell me, what is it like to be the soul of
all the springs that ever were?”

I laughed because I was so happy. What Stephen said didn’t make me vain.
I knew it was all the green dress, but men, even clever men, can never
understand this and it is just as well they don’t. If I had worn a red
dress had it been ever so pretty, Stephen would never have thought of
comparing me to the soul of spring.

“I’m so glad you like my dress,” I said—of course, he really didn’t
expect me to answer his question. I’m a very stupid little thing and
can’t talk up to clever speeches—“and I won’t keep you from your work
any longer. I’m sorry I had to interrupt you—but I _had_ to. You see,
it was an important question.”

“Much more important than any work could possibly be,” agreed Stephen,
smiling with his eyes. Stephen always smiles so; his lips are mostly a
little sorrowful and firmly set, but his deep gray eyes are always
kindly and merry. Stephen is a very handsome man. I never tell him so,
of course, but I think it every time I see him. Today I noticed a gray
hair in the dark curl over his temple. I’m afraid Stephen is working too
hard over those books of his. What earthly use is fame and money if a
man is going to turn gray at thirty-five? The trouble is that Stephen
has nobody to look after him and make him rest and coax him away from
work every once in so often and cosset him generally. All men need to be
cossetted and clever ones most of all, or else their brains will run
away with their comfort. When this book of his is finished I’m simply
going to make him take a good long rest and let his gray matter lie
fallow. Somebody has got to look after him and there is nobody but me. I
wish I were older because then I should probably have more influence
with him. He looks upon me merely as a little girl, I know. So he won’t
want to take my advice. Dear old Stephen! If he were my own brother I
couldn’t be fonder of him.

* * * * *

I don’t know what has come over me. I don’t feel a bit like myself. I
never felt so before. There’s a queer, horrid little ache in my heart
and I’d rather cry than not, only crying won’t do any good. I’ve nothing
to cry for—I know that—and I don’t see why I should want to. I don’t
even care about its being spring. Why, spring just seems commonplace. I
must have caught cold in the garden to-night. I suppose I shall have to
get Martha to make me a hot currant drink before I go to bed and I do so
hate hot currant drinks. But I just feel that I’d like to do something I
hate to do.

I oughtn’t to feel so—I ought to feel proud and happy, since Stephen
has honored me with his confidence. I try to feel so; but there’s
nothing except that horrid, funny ache that persists in aching. I want
to tell somebody about it and be comforted and patted. But there’s
nothing to tell and nobody to do the patting.

This evening I was sitting at my window that looks out over the cherry
copse down into the garden. It was such a pearl of an evening and there
was such a dear little silvery moon—the merest baby moon—shining over
the Golden Milestone birches. I was just wondering if Stephen were
looking at that moon, too, from his den window when I heard his call
from the garden. So I flung a white shawl over my shoulders and ran down
and out. Martha called after me to put on my rubbers. I wish now that I
had. I dare say I shouldn’t feel as I do if I had taken her advice. But
at the time it seemed perfectly impossible to fuss about rubbers with
spring and a new moon and Stephen all waiting for me. Martha is such a
sensible old soul. I wish I were sensible. I’m sure sensible people
never have senseless aches like this.

Stephen was sitting on the stone bench in his corner of it and I sat
down in mine. There was a great bed of daffodils in front of us,
gleaming out in the pale, silvery twilight like golden stars. Behind us
was a copse of dark fir and white cherry, and robins were whistling in
it as they never whistle at any time save just in the sweet o’ the year.

Stephen didn’t speak for a long while and neither did I. Stephen isn’t
one of those terrible people to whom you feel bound to talk all the
time. We are such good friends we can be silent just as much and as long
as we like. At least, it always has been so. But I believe that after
this I shall want to talk madly the whole time when I’m with Stephen. It
is dreadful to feel so.

Finally Stephen said, “May I tell you something, Sylvia?”

“Of course,” I said. “Is it a secret?”

I liked the notion of Stephen telling me secrets—then.

“Yes, a very great and sweet and wonderful secret,” he said, looking at
a daffodil spike he held in his hand. His profile came out dimly against
the white of the cherries and I loved to watch it. It’s such a good,
clean-cut profile, with a lovely chin and nose. “It is about the lady I
love Sylvia. May I tell you about my love for her?”

If you believe me the ache came then and there. Everything seemed
spoiled—moon and daffodils and spring evening. I suppose it was the
cold striking in. I remember that I shivered. That is always the way
with a cold; and it makes you feel so stupid and listless.