It was not long before they were accepted as “going together.” With the ready forgiveness accorded a man who has transgressed against local codes of conduct, Carl’s derelictions of the past were forgotten, or, if not forgotten, thrust into that indefinite realm of things not to be mentioned again save in most intimate conversations. It was assumed that, now Jean was dead, Mimi would soon be marrying, and the assumption more or less naturally followed that she would marry Carl.
Between them, however, there was no thought of tomorrow nor, for some inexplicable reason, did there come to their ears the now friendly discussions regarding what they would do which were going on. They floated along happily on the stream of their newfound contentment, as oblivious of the future as two bits of wood held together by a string on the bosom of some placid pond. On rainy nights or evenings when Mimi did not feel like walking or going to a moving-picture show, they sat at home, Carl talking or reading some bit of verse, or some story he had come across, while Mimi sat and sewed or just sat. Carl’s restlessness had almost left him, he seemed more contented, he now actually took a deeper interest in the work his father wanted him to do. More and more there entered his conversations his plans, his hopes, his eagerness to please his father. Mimi learned that even under his former discontent there was a deep respect and a sort of affection that Carl had for his father. She saw that the older man’s will worked with great effect upon that of his son—too much so, she feared. …
Early in November she found that this was even more true than she had suspected. One morning she was awakened by a dream. In it she saw Jean again, standing beside her bed, his eyes sad, his finger pointing accusingly at her. No word came from his lips, but his face had on it an expression she had never seen in life, one that made her shrink from it into the warm, comforting embrace of the bedclothes. She lay awake and then fell again into troubled slumber.