Chapter 3

As for Stephen’s secret, I must say it surprised me. I had never thought
about his being in love with anybody. There is nobody around here. But
then, of course, Stephen goes to the city every winter for a visit and
he must meet dozens of lovely, clever women. The only wonder, when I
come to think of it, is that he hasn’t fallen in love with somebody long
ago. But I had simply never thought of it. Then I realized that Stephen
was waiting for an answer to his question. It surprised me that I wanted
to say no. I didn’t want to hear about her. I felt as if I were going to
be horribly hurt some way or another. I ought to have felt proud and
flattered to think that Stephen had chosen me for a confident. But oh,
how I wished he hadn’t!

So I said, “Yes,” dully and stupidly and shivered again. Stephen drew my
shawl closer around me. The tenderness of his motion went through me
like a knife. I thought of him gathering that other girl’s shawl about
her—of her sitting on that bench beside him—in _my_ corner!

“Thank you,” he said. “Did you ever suspect that I loved her, Sylvia?”

I shook my head.

“I loved her for years,” he went on.

That seems worse than ever. If it had only just happened recently it
really wouldn’t seem so bad. But to think he had been caring for her all
through these springs! Every spring seems spoiled now!

“I suppose she is very beautiful?” I said, because I had to say
something.

“She is as beautiful as the spring,” said Stephen softly. “Her eyes are
like that star just over the tip of the fir, Sylvia. Her hair has the
gloss of ripe nuts. Nothing was ever seen so white and curved as her
throat. There is a spot just under her chin that I must kiss some day.
And she is as good and sweet and true-womanly as she is beautiful.”

That ache of mine kept getting worse and worse as he talked. I had to
stop him so I asked the first question that came into my head.

“Does she—does she love you, Stephen?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I haven’t told her yet of my love for her.
I’ve—I’ve been afraid to. She is such a child still in many respects.
Sometimes I think her heart is sleeping yet and I have been afraid to
frighten her sweet friendship out of my life if I should speak to her of
love. What do you advise, Sylvia? Shall I tell her that I love her?”

“Yes. I think you should,” I said wearily. I felt, oh, so tired and old
and experienced.

“Do you think she could ever care for me?” asked Stephen bending
forward.

I stood up. I _had_ to get away.

“I—I think she must,” I said. “I’m sure she must. And now I think I
will go in, Stephen. It seems so cold and chilly out here.”

“Forgive me,” he said, springing up. “I should have remembered that
these spring evenings are rather damp yet. I’m afraid I’m a selfish
creature. Come, I’ll take you to your door. So you advise me to tell my
dear lady everything?”

I nodded because I knew it was the right advice to give him. He slipped
his arm through mine and we walked across his garden and ours. When we
came to our door he stuck the daffodil he carried in my hair and said
goodnight. I shall never care for daffodils again.

I hate that other girl! It’s dreadful of me. I have been such a good
friend of Stephen that I ought to be as fond of her as of him. But she
will spoil everything when she comes to Golden Milestone. She will walk
in the garden with Stephen and he will read his books to her before they
are published and pick the first flowers for her and teach her the
call—_our_ call—and he will praise _her_ dresses.

As for me, the missionaries will get my green dress after all. I shall
never wear it again. Oh, I wish my mother were alive. I shouldn’t feel
so lonely and lost then. To be sure, there’s daddy. But what would daddy
know about an ache like this?

* * * * *

[Illustration: _HE KNEW ALL ABOUT IT. HE IS SUCH A WISE OLD DAD._]

He knew all about it. He is such a wise old dad. I never knew how wise
before. I went to him last night. I had to go to somebody. He was in the
library, poring over a book, but he looked up when I went in.

“Dear me, how much you are like your mother, Sylvia! Why, my little
girl, what is the matter?”

I hadn’t said anything but I suppose my face looked funny.

“Oh, daddy, I’m so—so unhappy!” I said, “and I don’t know why—only I
wish it wasn’t spring.”

Daddy simply pulled me down on his knees and cuddled me. He knew just
what I needed. I suppose mother must have taught him long ago for how
could he have learned it out of his musty old classics?

“There—there—little girl. Now tell father all about it.”

All at once I knew that I could tell him—and I did. I told him
everything—about the dress and the new moon and Stephen’s being in
love.

“And, oh, daddy, everything is spoiled,” I sobbed.

“So you love Stephen?” said daddy musingly.

I sprang right up on my feet.

“_Love Stephen!_” I cried. “Why, daddy, I don’t—I don’t—yes, I _do_!”

I knew it at last. I knew why my heart ached so and why I hated that
other girl. I knew why all the promise and beauty had gone out of the
spring—out of all springs. Oh, it was so terrible! Why hadn’t I found
it out before? It was so plain now that I saw it at last. I crept back
into daddy’s arms and buried my head on his shoulder.

Daddy talked to me. I shall never forget what he said—how wise and
tender it was! He helped me to live through that terrible last
night—he’s going to keep on helping me. I’ve lost Stephen but I’ve
found father and we’re never going to lose each other again. I shall
always live here with him and be his comfort and stay. I mean to be very
careful and proud and never, _never_ let Stephen know. I shall try to
like his wife when he brings her to Golden Milestone but I shall not go
there very much ever again.

I think this will be easier to bear when spring is over.

No, no, it won’t—it never will! I shall just have this terrible ache
all my life—this terrible emptiness! Nothing can fill it, not even
daddy’s love—nothing but Stephen’s love and that belongs to another
woman. I shall see her at his side and her love for him in her eyes. How
can I bear that—how could any woman bear it? How could I ever have
thought that this was the sweet of the year? It’s the heartbreak of the
year! And all the pale-purply mornings and stars of daffodil and songs
of wind in the firs are just so many separate pangs of the heartbreak. I
cannot bear these things because Stephen and I have loved them
together—and I cannot love them apart!

But I shall not have to love them apart after all! We shall go on loving
them together and loving each other just as long as there are fair
mornings and fair springs and sweet wind-songs in this or any other
world.