She is paler than she was and her face looks thin. She says she is well and as strong as ever, but the elasticity is gone from her step, and the light has faded in her brown eyes, so that one might meet her in the street and hardly know her. As she sits by the window, behind the closed blinds, the softened light falls on her face, and it is sad and weary.

It was not until John Harrington was gone that she realized all. He had received the message he expected early on the morning after that memorable parting, and before mid-day he was on his way. Since then she had heard no word of tidings concerning him, save that she knew he had arrived in England. For anything she knew he might even now be in America again, but she would not believe it. If he had come back he would surely have come to see her, she thought. There were times when she would have given all the world to look on his face again, but for the most part she said to herself it was far better that she should never see him. Where was the use?

Joe was not of the women who have intimate confidants and can get rid of much sorrow by much talking about it. She was too proud and too strong to ask for help or sympathy in any real distress. She had gone to Sybil Brandon when she was about to tell Ronald of her decision, because she thought that Sybil would be kind to him and help him to forget the past; but where she herself was alone concerned, she would rather have died many deaths than confess what was in her heart.

She had gone bravely through the remainder of the season, until all was over, and no one had guessed her disappointment. Such perfect physical strength as hers was not to be broken down by the effort of a few weeks, and still she smiled and talked and danced and kept her secret. But as the long months crawled out their tale of dreary days, the pa.s.sion in her soul spread out great roots and grew fiercely against the will that strove to break it down. It was a love against which there was no appeal, which had taken possession silently and stealthily, with no outward show of wooing or sweet words; and then, safe within the fortress of her maidenly soul, it had grown up to a towering strength, feeding upon her whole life, and ruthlessly dealing with her as it would. But this love sought no confidence, nor help, nor a.s.sistance, being of itself utterly without hope, strong and despairing.

One satisfaction only she had daily. She rejoiced that she had broken away from the old ties, from Ronald and from her English life. To have found herself positively loving one man while she was betrothed to another would have driven her to terrible extremity; the mere idea of going back to her mother and to the old life at home with this wild thought forever gnawing at her heart was intolerable. She might bear it to the end, whatever the end might be, and in silence, so long as none of her former a.s.sociations made the contrast between past and present too strong. Old Miss Schenectady, with her books and her odd conversation, was as good a companion as any one, since she could not live alone. Sybil Brandon would have wearied her by her sympathy, gentle and loving as it would have been; and besides, Sybil was away from Boston and very happy; it would be unkind, as well as foolish, to disturb her serenity with useless confidences. And so the days went by and the hot summer was come, and yet Joe lingered in Boston, suffering silently and sometimes wondering how it would all end.

Sybil was staying near Newport with her only surviving relation, an uncle of her mother. He was an old man, upward of eighty years of age, and he lived in a strange old place six or seven miles from the town. But Ronald had been there more than once, and he was always enthusiastic in his description of what he had seen, and he seemed particularly anxious that Joe should know how very happy Sybil was in her country surroundings.

Ronald had traveled during the spring, making short journeys in every direction, and constantly talking of going out to see the West, a feat which he never accomplished. He would go away for a week at a time and then suddenly appear again, and at last had gravitated to Newport. Thence he came to town occasionally and visited Joe, never remaining more than a day, and sometimes only a few hours. Joe was indifferent to his comings and goings, but always welcomed him in a friendly way. She saw that he was amusing himself, and was more glad than ever that the relations formerly existing between them had been so opportunely broken off. He had never referred to the past since the final interview when Joe had answered him by bursting into tears, and he talked about the present cheerfully enough.

One morning he arrived without warning, as usual, to make one of his short visits. Joe was sitting by the window dressed all in white, and the uniform absence of color in her dress rather exaggerated the pallor of her face than masked it. She was reading, apparently with some interest, in a book of which the dark-lined binding sufficiently declared the sober contents. As she read, her brows bent in the effort of understanding, while the warm breeze that blew through the blinds fanned her tired face and gently stirred the small stray ringlets of her soft brown hair. Ronald opened the door and entered.

"Oh, Ronald!" exclaimed Joe, starting a little nervously, "have you come up? You look like the sunshine. Come in, and shut the door." He did as he was bidden, and came and sat beside her.

"Yes, I nave come up for the day. How are you, Joe dear? You look pale. It is this beastly heat--you ought to come down to Newport for a month. It is utterly idiotic, you know, staying in town in this weather."

"I like it," said Joe. "I like the heat so much that I think I should be cold in Newport. Tell me all about what you have been doing."

"Oh, I hardly know," said Ronald. "Lots of things."

"Tell me what you do in one day--yesterday, for instance. I want to be amused this morning."

"It is not so very amusing, you know, but it is very jolly," answered Ronald. "To begin with, I get up at unholy hours and go and bathe in the surf at the second beach. There are no end of a a lot of people there even at that hour."

"Yes, I dare say. And then?"

"Oh, then I go home and dress: and later, if I do not ride, I go to the club--casino, I beg its pardon!--and play tennis. They play very decently, some of those fellows."

"Are there any nice rides?"

"Just along the roads, you know. But when you get out to Sherwood there are meadows and things--with a brook. That is very fair."

"Do you still go to Sherwood often? How is Sybil?"

"Yes," said Ronald, and a blush rose quickly to his face, "I often go there. It is such a queer old place, you know, full of trees and old summer-houses and graveyards--awfully funny."

"Tell me, Ronald," said Joe, insisting a little, "how is Sybil?"

"She looks very well, so I suppose she is. But she never goes to anything in Newport; she has not been in the town at all yet, since she went to stay with her uncle."

"But of course lots of people go out to see her, do they not?"

"Oh, well, not many. In fact I do not remember to have met any one there,"

answered Ronald, as though he were trying to recall some face besides Miss Brandon's. "Her uncle is such an odd bird, you have no idea."

"I do not imagine you see very much of him when you go out there," said Joe, with a faint laugh.

"Oh, I always see him, of course," said Ronald, blushing again. "He is about a hundred years old, and wears all kinds of clothes, and wanders about the garden perpetually. But I do not talk to him unless I am driven to it"--

"Which does not occur often," interrupted Joe.

"Oh, well, I suppose not very often. Why should it?"

Ronald was visibly embarra.s.sed. Joe watched him with a look of amus.e.m.e.nt on her face; but affectionately, too, as though what he said pleased her as well as amused her. There was a short pause, during which Ronald rubbed his hat slowly and gently. Then he looked up suddenly and met Joe's eyes; but he turned away again instantly, blushing redder than ever.

"Ronald," Joe said presently, "I am so glad."

"Glad? Why? About what?"

"I am glad that you like her, and that she likes you. I think you like her very much, Ronald."

"Oh yes, very much," repeated Ronald, trying to seem indifferent.

"Do you not feel as though we were much more like brother and sister now?"

asked Joe, after a little while.

"Oh, much!" a.s.sented Ronald. "I suppose it is better, too, though I did not think so at first."

"It is far better," said Joe, laying her small, thin hand across her cousin's strong fingers and pressing them a little. "You are free now, and you will probably be very happy before long. Do you not think so?" she asked, looking affectionately into his eyes.

"I hope so," said Ronald, with a last attempt at indifference. Then suddenly his face softened, and he added in a gentler tone, "Indeed, Joe, I think I shall be very happy soon."

"I am so glad," said Joe again, still holding his hand, but leaning her head back wearily in the deep chair. "There is only one thing that troubles me."

"What is that?"

"That horrid will," said Joe. "I am sure we could get it altered in some way."

"We never thought about it before, Joe. Why should we think about it now?

It seems to me it is a very good will as things have turned out."

"But, my dear boy," said Joe, "if you are married to Sybil Brandon, you will need ever so much money."

Ronald blushed again.

"I have not asked her to marry me," he said quickly.

"That makes no difference at all," replied Joe. "As I was saying, when you have married her you will need money."

"What an idea!" exclaimed Ronald, indignantly. "As if any one wanted to be rich in order to be happy. Besides, between what I have of my own, and my share of the money, there is nearly four thousand a year; and then there is the place in Lanarkshire for us to live in. As if that were not enough!"

"It is not so very much, though," said Joe, reflecting. "I do not think Sybil has anything at all. You will be as poor as two little church mice; but I will come and stay with you sometimes," Joe added, laughing, "and help you about the bills."

"The bills would take care of themselves," said Ronald, gravely. "They always do. But whatever happens, Joe, my home is always yours. You will always remember that, will you not?"

"Dear Ronald," answered his cousin affectionately, "you are as good as it is possible to be--you really are."