this joy enough?

And yet he was with Helen. And Helen loved him.

She had asked him to go back to Helen. He had gone back. She had asked
him to do his part in life bravely. And he was doing it. Was not this
what she wished?

And yet--was it so hard to go back--to go back to beautiful Helen who
loved him so deeply? Did his part in life require bravery? Did he look
as though it was a sacrifice, a hardship? And here she tried to recall
how in truth he had looked--how, to the eyes of a stranger. He was
strong again and vigorous; but beyond that she could think only of how
he looked to her--the face she knew so well, the profile, the short
crisp hair, the heavy eyebrows and brown eyes. He was in citizen's
dress; only the bronzed skin and erect bearing betrayed the soldier. How
he would have looked to a stranger she could not tell; she only knew,
she only felt, how he looked to her. "He is at home on furlough," she
thought, with gladness, realizing the great joy it was that he should be
safe when so many had been taken. And then, in her memory, blotting out
all gladness, rose again the picture of the two figures, side by side,
and she hurried onward, she knew not whither. It was jealousy, plain,
simple, unconquerable jealousy, which was consuming her; jealousy,
terrible passion which the most refined and intellectual share with the
poor Hottentots, from which the Christian can not escape any more than
the pagan; jealousy, horrible companion of love, its guardian and
tormentor. God help the jealous! for they suffer the acutest tortures
the human mind can feel. And Anne was jealous.

If she had not admired Helen so deeply, and loved her (save for this one
barrier) so sincerely, she would not have suffered as she was suffering.
But to her Helen had always been the fairest woman on earth, and even
now this feeling could not be changed. All Helen's words came back to
her, every syllable of her clear, quietly but intensely uttered avowal;
and this man, whom she had loved so deeply, was now her husband.

It was nothing new. Why should she feel it, think of it, in this way?
But she was no longer capable of thinking or feeling reasonably. Of
course he loved her. In his mind she, Anne, was probably but a far-off
remembrance, even if a remembrance at all. Their meeting in West
Virginia had been a chance encounter; its impulses, therefore, had been
chance impulses, its words chance words, meaning nothing, already
forgotten. She, A