I found the old lady sitting up in bed, and Cheneston with his arms
round her supporting her at the back.
"Pam," she said, "I was frightened, dear--so frightened. I had to send
for you. You and Cheneston had lost each other--I heard it in your
wonderful voice, child, I saw it in the boy's face when he came to me.
What is it? What is it?" she looked at us piteously. "I feel something
is there. I know it! Something that shouldn't be there! I feel it!"
"Nonsense, dearest," Cheneston said.
"There is," she persisted. "I am frightened for you both. Why do I
fear you losing each other?--you who were made for her, and she who was
made for you."
"You are nervous," he said. "You are worrying yourself unnecessarily."
She caught his hands.
"I am afraid for you, my dears," she said. "Cheneston--let me see you
married before I go. Let me be quite sure you have not missed the
supreme happiness."
"We cannot do that, mother--there are many things to be thought of."
"White satin and bridesmaids, wedding bells and marriage settlements do
not make a marriage, children. Pam, what is the obstacle?"
"Nothing," I said desperately. "Nothing."
She looked at Cheneston; Cheneston laid her down very gently.
"You are worn out, dearest," he said. "You must rest now."
She did not refer to it when I saw her the next morning. She looked
frailer than ever by day, a wraith woman with jewelled eyes.
I breakfasted alone; a thin, fine rain drove against the windows like
sea-spray. In the garden I could see the michaelmas daisies bowed,
great clumps of amethyst, the chrysanthemums gleamed tawny red. Autumn
was later here, but in the rain gold leaves kept falling, and the pearly
white of the jasmine from the front of the house strewed the path, and
here and there the petal of a passion-flower, like an exotic beetle's
wing.