BOOK II.

VIII.

“Chris!” she said.

She felt herself trembling all over; then, abruptly, mysteriously,

and in the very act of uttering his name, she ceased to tremble, and

it came flooding in on her with a shock of wonder that the worst was

already over--that at last she was going to be free.

“Well, well,” she heard him saying, in that round full voice which

always became fuller and more melodious when it had any inner

uncertainty to mask; and “If only,” she thought, “it doesn’t all come

back when he laughs!”

He laughed. “I’m so glad ... _glad_,” he reiterated, as if explaining;

and with the laugh in her ears she still felt herself as lucidly, as

incredibly remote from him.

“Glad?” she echoed, a little less sure of her speech than of her

thoughts, and remembering how sometimes the smile in his eyes used to

break up her words into little meaningless splinters that she could

never put together again till he was gone.

“Of your good luck, I mean.... I’ve heard, of course.” And now she had

him, for the first time, actually reddening and stammering as she

herself used to do, and catching at the splinters of his own words! Ah,

the trick was done--she could even see, as they continued to face each

other in the searching spring light, that he had reddened, thickened,

hardened--as if the old Chris had been walled into this new one, and

were not even looking at her out of the windows of his prison.

“My good luck?” she echoed again, while the truth still danced in her

ears: the truth that she was free, free, free--away from him at last,

far enough off to see him and judge him!

It must have been his bad taste--the bad taste that could lead him

into such an opening as that--which, from the very first, she had felt

in him, and tried not to feel, even when she was worshipping him most

blindly.

But, after all, if she felt so free, why be so cruel? Ah, because the

terror was still there--it had only shifted its ground. What frightened

her now was not the thought of their past but of their future. And she

must not let him see that it frightened her. What had his last words

been? Ah, yes--. She answered: “Of course I’m very happy to be at home

again.”

He lowered his voice to murmur: “And I’m happy _for_ you.”

Yes; she remembered now; it was always in emotional moments that his

tact failed him, his subtlety vanished, and he seemed to be reciting

speeches learned by heart out of some sentimental novel--the very kind

he was so clever at ridiculing.

They continued to stand facing each other, their inspiration spent, as

if waiting for the accident that had swept them together to whirl them

apart again.

Suddenly she risked (since it was better to know): “So you’re living

now in New York?”

He shook his head with an air of melancholy. “No such luck. I’m back

in Baltimore again. Come full circle. For a time, after the war, I was

on a newspaper there; interviewing film-stars and base-ball fans and

female prohibitionists. Then I tried to run a Country Club--awful job!

All book-keeping, and rows between members. Now Horace Maclew has taken

pity on me; I’m what I suppose you’d call his private secretary. No

eight-hour day: he keeps me pretty close. It’s only once in a blue moon

I can get away.”

She felt her tightened heart dilating. Baltimore wasn’t very far away;

but it was far enough as long as he had anything to keep him there.

She knew about Horace Maclew, an elderly wealthy bibliophile and

philanthropist, with countless municipal and social interests in his

own town, and a big country-place just outside it. No; Mr. Maclew’s

private secretary was not likely to have many holidays. But how long

would Chris resign himself to such drudgery? She wanted to be kind and

say: “And your painting? Your writing?” but she didn’t dare. Besides,

he had probably left both phases far behind him, and there was no need,

really, for her to concern herself with his new hobbies, whatever they

might be. Of course she knew that he and she would have to stand there

staring at one another till she made a gesture of dismissal; but on

what note was she to make it? The natural thing (since she felt so safe

and easy with him) would have been to say: “The next time you’re in

town you must be sure to look me up--”. But, with him, how could one be

certain of not having such a suggestion taken literally? Now that he

had seen she was not afraid of him he would probably not be afraid of

_her_; if he wanted a good dinner, or an evening at the Opera, he’d be

as likely as not to call her up and ask for it.

And suddenly, as they hung there, she caught, over his shoulder, a

glimpse of another figure just turning into the Park from the same

direction; Anne, with her quick step, her intent inward air, as she

always moved and looked when she had just left her easel. In another

moment Anne would be upon them.

Mrs. Clephane held out her hand: for a fraction of a second it lay in

his. “Well, goodbye; I’m glad to know you’ve got a job that must be so

interesting.”

“Oh--interesting!” He dismissed it with a gesture. “But I’m glad to

see you,” he added; “just to _see_ you,” with a clever shifting of the

emphasis. He paused a moment, and then risked a smile. “You don’t look

a day older, you know.”

She threw her head back with an answering smile. “Why should I, when I

feel years younger?”

Thank heaven, an approaching group of people must have obstructed her

daughter’s view! Mrs. Clephane hurried on, wanting to put as much

distance as she could between herself and Chris’s retreating figure

before she came up with her daughter. When she did, she plunged

straight into the girl’s eyes, and saw that they were still turned on

her inward vision. “Dearest,” she cried gaily, “I can see by your look

that you’ve been doing a good day’s work.”

Anne’s soul rose slowly to the surface, shining out between deep

lashes. “How do you know, I wonder? I suppose you must have been a

great deal with somebody who painted. For a long time afterward one

carries the thing about with one wherever one goes.” She slipped her

arm in Kate’s, and turned unresistingly as the latter guided her back

toward Fifth Avenue.

“It’s dusty in the Park, and I feel as if I wanted a quick walk home. I

like Fifth Avenue when the lights are just coming out,” Mrs. Clephane

explained.

* * * * *

All night long she lay awake in the great bed of the Clephane

spare-room, and stared at Chris. While they still faced each other--and

after her first confused impression of his having thickened and

reddened--she had seen him only through the blur of her fears and

tremors. Even after they had parted, and she was walking home with

Anne, the shock of the encounter still tingling in her, he remained far

off, almost imponderable, less close and importunate than her memories

of him. It was as if his actual presence had exorcised his ghost. But

now--

He had not vanished; he had only been waiting. Waiting till she was

alone in her room in the sleeping house, in the unheeding city. How

alone, she had never more acutely felt. Who on earth was there to

intervene between them, when there was not a soul to whom she could

even breathe that she had met him? She lay in the darkness with

terrified staring eyes, and there he stood, his smile deriding her--a

strange composite figure, made equally of the old Chris and the new....

It was of no use to shut her eyes; he was between lid and ball. It was

of no use to murmur disjointed phrases to herself, conjure him away

with the language of her new life, with allusions and incantations

unknown to him; he just stood there and waited. Well, then--she would

face it out now, would deal with him! But how? What was he to her, and

what did he want of her?

Yes: it all came to the question of what he wanted; it always had. When

had there ever been a question of what _she_ wanted? He took what he

chose from life, gathered and let drop and went on: it was the artist’s

way, he told her. But what could he possibly want of her now, and why

did she imagine that he wanted anything, when by his own showing he was

so busy and so provided for?

She pulled herself together, suddenly ashamed of her own thoughts.

In pity for herself she would have liked to draw the old tattered

glamour over him; but there must always have been rents and cracks in

it, and now it couldn’t by any tugging be made to cover him. No; she

didn’t love him any longer; she was sure of that. Like a traveller who

has just skirted an abyss, she could lean over without dizziness and

measure the depth into which she had not fallen. But if that were so,

why was she so afraid of him? If it were a mere question of her own

social safety, a mean dread of having her past suspected, why, she was

more ashamed of that than of having loved him. She would almost rather

have endured the misery of still loving him than of seeing what he and

she looked like, now that the tide had ebbed from them. She had been a

coward; she had been stiff and frightened and conventional, when, from

the vantage-ground of her new security, she could so easily have been

friendly and generous; she felt like rushing out into the streets to

find him, to speak to him as she ought to have spoken, to tell him that

she was not in the least afraid of him.

And yet she _was_! She supposed it was the old incalculable element in

him, that profound fundamental difference in their natures which used

to make their closest nearness seem more like a spell than a reality.

She understood now that if she had always been afraid of him it was

just because she could never tell what she was afraid of....

If only there had been some one to whom she could confess herself,

some one who would laugh away her terrors! Fred Landers? But she

would frighten him more than he reassured her. And the others--the

kindly approving family? What would they do but avert their eyes and

beg her to be reasonable and remember her daughter? Well--and her

daughter, then? And Anne? Was there any one on earth but Anne who would

understand her?

The oppression of the night and the silence, and the rumour of her own

fears, were becoming intolerable. She could not endure them any longer.

She jumped up, flung on her dressing-gown, and stole out of her room.

The corridor was empty and obscure; only a faint light from the lower

hall cast its reflection upward on the ceiling of the stairs. From

below came the pompous tick of the hall clock, as loud as a knocking in

the silence.

She stole to her daughter’s door, and kneeling down laid her ear

against the crack. Presently, through the hush, she caught the soft

rhythmic breath of youthful sleep, and pictured Anne, slim and

motionless, her dark hair in orderly braids along the pillow. The

vision startled the mother back to sanity. She got up stiffly and stood

looking about her with dazed eyes.

Suddenly the light on the stairs, the nocturnal ticking, swept another

vision through her throbbing brain. In just such a silence, before the

first cold sounds of the winter daylight, she had crept down those

very stairs, unchained the front door, slipped back one after another

of John Clephane’s patent bolts, and let herself out of his house for

the last time. Ah, what business had she in it now, her hand on her

daughter’s door? She dragged herself back to her own room, switched on

the light, and sat hunched up in the great bed, mechanically turning

over the pages of a fashion-paper she had picked up on her sitting-room

table. Skirts were certainly going to be narrower that spring....

IX.

“Lilla--but of course he comes for Lilla!” she exclaimed.

She raised herself on her elbow, saw the bed-lamp still burning, and

the fashion-paper on the floor beside the bed. The night was not over;

there was no grayness yet between the curtains. She must have dropped

into a short uneasy sleep, from which Lilla’s loitering expectant

figure, floating away from her down an alley of the Park, had detached

itself with such emphasis that the shock awoke her.

Lilla and Chris ... but of course they had gone to the Park to meet

each other! Why should he have happened to turn in at that particular

gate, at that particular hour, unless to find some one who, a few yards

off, careless and unconcerned, was so obviously lingering there to be

found?

The discovery gave Kate Clephane a sensation of actual physical nausea.

She sat up in bed, pushed her hair back from her damp forehead, and

repeated the two names slowly, as if trying from those conjoined

syllables to disentangle the clue to the mystery. For mystery there

was; she was sure of it now! People like Lilla Gates and Chris did not

wander aimlessly through Central Park at the secret hour when the

winter dusk begins to blur its paths. Every moment of such purposeless

lives was portioned out, packed with futilities. Kate had seen enough

of that in her enforced association with the idlers of a dozen

watering-places, her dreary participation in their idling.

And how the clue, now she held it, explained everything! Explained,

first of all, why Chris, the ready, the resourceful, had been so

tongue-tied and halting when they met. Why had she not been struck

by that before? She saw now that, if she was afraid of him, he was a

thousand times more afraid of her! And how could she have imagined

that, to a man like Chris, the mere fact of running across a discarded

mistress would be disconcerting, or even wholly unpleasant? Who better

than he should know how to deal with such emergencies? His past must be

strewn with precedents. As her memory travelled back over their life

together she recalled their having met, one day at Hadrian’s Villa, a

little woman, a Mrs. Guy So-and-so--she had even forgotten the name!

She and Chris had been wandering, close-linked--for the tourist season

was over, and besides, they cared so little who saw them--through the

rich garlanded ruins, all perfume and enchantment; and there, in their

path, had stood a solitary figure, the figure of a young woman, pretty,

well-dressed, with a hungry melancholy face. A little way behind her,

a heavy elderly gentleman in blue goggles and an overcoat was having

archæological explanations shouted into his deaf ear and curved hand

by a guide with a rasping German accent--and Chris, exclaiming: “By

Jove, there are the So-and-sos!” had advanced with outstretched hand,

introduced the two women, and poured out upon the melancholy newcomer a

flood of laughing allusive talk, half chaff, half sentiment, and all as

easily, as unconcernedly as if her great eyes had not, all the while,

been pleading, pleading with him to remember.

And then, afterward, when Kate had said to him: “But wasn’t that

the woman you told me about once, who was so desperately unhappy,

and wanted to run away with you?” he had merely answered: “Oh, not

particularly with _me_, as far as I remember--” and she had hugged his

arm closer, and thought how funny he was, and luxuriously pitied the

other woman.

Yes; that was the real Chris; always on the spot, easy-going and gay.

The stammering evasive apparition in the Park had no resemblance to

that Chris; Kate knew instinctively that it was not the fact of meeting

her that had so disturbed him, but the fact that, for some reason, the

meeting might interfere with his plans. But what plans? Why, his plans

with Lilla--which would necessarily bring him in contact with the clan,

since they so resolutely backed Lilla up, and thus expose him to--to

what? To Kate’s betraying him? For a moment she half-laughed at the

idea.

For what could she do to injure him, after all? And, whatever his plans

were, how could he ever imagine her interfering with them, when to

do so would be to betray her own secret? She lay there in the dreary

dawn and tried to work her way through the labyrinth. And then, all at

once, it came to her: what if he wanted to marry Lilla? And what more

probable than that he did? It was evident that living with his people

and administering Mr. Maclew’s philanthropies was not a life that he

would have called “fit for a dog”. He liked money, she knew, for all

his careless way; he wanted to have it, but he hated to earn it. And

if he married Lilla there would be plenty of money. The Drovers would

see to that--Kate could imagine nothing more likely to unloose their

purse-strings than the possibility of “settling” Lilla, and getting rid

of the perpetual menace that her roving fancies hung over her mother’s

neatly-waved head. Chris, of course, was far too clever not to have

seen that, and worked out the consequences in his own mind. If Lilla

had been plain and dowdy he wouldn’t even have considered it--Kate did

him that justice. If he liked money he liked it in a large lordly way,

and only as one among several things which it was convenient but not

essential to have. He would never do a base thing for money; but, after

all, there was nothing base in marrying Lilla if he liked her looks

and was amused by her talk, as he probably was. There was one side of

Chris, the side Kate Clephane had least explored, and was least capable

of understanding, which might very well find its complement in Lilla....

Kate’s aching eyes continued to strain into the future. If that were

really his plan, of course he would be afraid of her! For he knew her

too, knew her ever so much better than she did him, and would be sure

to guess that, much as she would want to cover up their past, she would

not hesitate a moment between revealing it and doing what she called

her duty. Her duty--how he used to laugh at the phrase! He told her she

had run away from her real duties only for the pleasure of inventing

new ones, and that to her they were none the less duties because she

imagined them to be defiances. It was one of the paradoxes that most

amused him: the picture of her flying from her conscience and always

meeting it again in her path, barely disguised by the audacities she

had dressed it up in.

Yes; evidently he had asked himself, on the instant, what she would

do about Lilla; and the mere fact made her feel, with a fierce

desperation, that she must do something. Not that she cared a straw

about Lilla, or felt the least “call” to save her--but to have Chris in

the family, in the group, to have to smile at him across the Clephane

dinner-table, the Drover dinner-table, all the family dinner-tables,

to have to keep up, for all the rest of her life, the double pretence

of never having liked him too much, and of now liking him enough to

gratify the pride and allay the suspicions of the family--no, she could

not imagine herself doing it! She was right to be afraid of him; he was

right to be afraid of her.

* * * * *

The return to daylight made her nocturnal logic seem absurd; but

several days passed before her agitation subsided. It was only when she

found life continuing undisturbed about her, Anne painting for long

rapturous hours, Lilla following her same bored round of pleasure, the

others placidly engaged in their usual pursuits, and no one mentioning

Chris’s name, or apparently aware of his existence, that the shadow of

her midnight imaginings was lifted.

Once or twice, as the sense of security returned, she thought of

letting Chris’s name fall, ever so casually, in Fred Landers’s hearing.

She never got as far as that; but one day she contrived, in speaking of

some famous collection of books just coming into the market, to mention

Horace Maclew.

Landers’s eye kindled. “Ah, what books! His Italian antiphonals are

probably the best in the world.”

“You know him, then? How--is it long since you last saw his library?”

she stammered.

He considered. “Oh, years; not since before the war.”

Her heart rose on the mounting hope. “Oh, not since then?... I suppose

he must have a very good librarian?”

“Used to have; the poor chap was killed in the war, I believe. That

reminds me that I heard the other day he was looking for some one.”

“Looking for a librarian?” She heard her voice shake. “Not for a

private secretary?”

She thought he looked surprised. “I don’t think so; but I really don’t

remember. I know he always has a lot of scribes about him; naturally,

with so many irons in the fire. Did you happen to hear of any one who

was looking for that sort of job? It might be a kindness to let Maclew

know.”

She drew her brows together, affecting to consider. “Where did I hear

of some one? I can’t remember either. One is always hearing nowadays of

people looking for something to do.”

“Yes; but of few who can do anything. And Maclew’s the last man to put

up with incompetence. You must come and see him with me. He’s not an

easy customer, but he and I are old members of the Grolier Club and he

lets me bring a friend to see his library occasionally. I’ve always

promised to take Anne, some day when she’s going on to Washington.”

Kate’s heart gave a sharp downward plunge. That “Take Anne”

reverberated in her like a knell. What a fool she had been to bring the

subject up! If she had not mentioned Horace Maclew’s name Landers might

never have thought of his library again; at least not of the promise

to take Anne there. Well, it was a lesson to hold her tongue, to let

things follow their course without fearing or interfering. Happily

Anne, more and more absorbed in her painting, seemed to have no idea of

a visit to Washington; she had never mentioned such a plan, beyond once

casually saying: “Oh, the Washington magnolias ... some spring I must

go there and paint them.”

Some spring ... well, that was pleasantly indefinite. For Chris was not

likely to remain long with Horace Maclew. Where had Chris ever remained

long? Kate Clephane did not know, now, whether to tremble at that

impermanence or be glad of it. She did not know what to think about

anything, now that the thought of Chris had suddenly re-introduced

itself into the smooth-running wheels of her existence.

Then, as the days passed, her reassurance returned again, and it was

with a stupefied start that one afternoon, crossing the Park on her way

to the studio, she once more caught sight of Lilla Gates. This time

the person for whom she had presumably been waiting was with her, and

the two stood in close communion. The man’s back was turned, but his

figure, his attitude, were so familiar to Kate that she stopped short,

trembling lest she should see his face.

She did not see it. He and Mrs. Gates were in the act of leave-taking.

Their hands met, they lingered for a last word, and then separated,

each hastening away in a direction other than Kate’s. She continued to

stand motionless after they had vanished, uncertain yet certain. It was

Chris--but of course it was Chris! He came often to New York, then,

in spite of what he had said about the difficulty of getting away. If

he had said that, it was probably just because he wanted to keep his

comings and goings from Mrs. Clephane’s knowledge. And that again would

tally with what she suspected as to his motives. She turned sick, and

stood with compressed lips and lowered head, as if to close her senses

against what was coming. At length she roused herself and walked on.

Lilla.... Lilla.... Chris and Lilla!

She kept on her way northward, following the less frequented by-ways of

the Park. It was early yet, and she wanted to walk off her agitation

before joining Anne at the studio.

Lilla.... Lilla.... Chris and Lilla!

Something must be done about it, something must be said--it was

impossible that this affair, whatever it was, should go on unchecked.

But had she, Kate Clephane, any power to prevent it? Probably not--her

intervention might serve only to precipitate events. Well, at least

she must know what was coming--must find out what the others knew....

Her excitement increased instead of subsiding: as she walked on she

felt the tears running down her face. Life had seemed, at last, so

simple, so merciful, so soothing; and here were all the old mysteries

and duplicities pressing on her again. She stopped, out of breath,

and finding herself at the extreme northern end of the Park, with the

first street-lights beginning to gem the bare trees. The need to be

with Anne suddenly seized her. Perhaps, by dropping a careless word or

two, she might learn something from her daughter--learn at least if

the baleful Lilla were using the girl as a confidant, as that brief

scene in the studio had once suggested. On that point, at any rate, it

was the mother’s right, her duty even, to be informed. She had made no

appointment to meet Anne that afternoon; and she hastened her pace,

fearing to find that her daughter had already left the studio....

A light through the transom reassured her. She put her key in the lock,

threw off her cloak in the little entrance-hall, and pushed open the

door beyond. The studio was unlit except by the city’s constellated

lamps, hung like a golden vintage from an invisible trellising of

towers and poles, and by the rosy gleam of the hearth. Anne’s easel

had been pushed aside, and Anne and another person were sitting near

each other in low chairs, duskily outlined against the fire. As Mrs.

Clephane crossed the threshold a man’s voice was saying gaily: “What I

want is a rhyme for _astrolabe_. I must have it! And apparently there

is none; at least none except _babe_. And so there won’t be any poem.

That’s always my luck. I find something ... or somebody ... who’s just

what I want, and then....”

Kate Clephane stood still, enveloped by the voice. It was the first

time she had heard those laughing confiding inflexions addressed to any

ear but hers. Southern sunshine scorched her; the air seemed full of

flowers. She hung there for a moment, netted in tightening memories;

then she loosed her hold on the door-handle and advanced a few steps

into the room. Her heels clicked on the bare floor, and the two by the

fire rose and turned to her. She fancied her daughter’s glance conveyed

a faint surprise--was it even a faint annoyance at her intrusion?

“Mother, this is Major Fenno. I think you know him,” the girl said.

Chris came forward, simple, natural, unembarrassed. There was no trace

of constraint in his glance or tone; he looked at Mrs. Clephane almost

fraternally.

“Dear Mrs. Clephane--a rhyme for _astrolabe_!” he entreated, with that

half-humorous way he had of flinging the lasso of his own thought over

anybody who happened to stray within range; and then, with one of

his usual quick transitions: “I got a chance to run over to New York

unexpectedly, and I heard you were in town, and went to see you. At

your house they told me you might be here, so I came, and Miss Clephane

was kind enough to let me wait.”

“I was afraid you weren’t coming,” the girl added, looking gravely at

her mother.

In spite of the blood drumming in her head, and the way his airy fib

about having heard she was in town had drawn her again into the old net

of their complicities, Kate was steadied by his composure. She looked

from him to Anne; and Anne’s face was also composed.

“I had the luck,” Chris added, “to meet Miss Clephane after I was

invalided home. She took pity on me when I was in hospital on Long

Island, and I’ve wanted to thank her ever since. But my boss keeps me

on a pretty short chain, and I can’t often get away.”

“It’s wonderful,” said the girl, with her quiet smile, “how you’ve got

over your lameness.”

“Oh, well--” he had one of his easy gestures--“lameness isn’t the

hardest thing in the world to get over. Especially not with the care I

had.”

Silence fell. Kate struggled to break it, feeling that she was expected

to speak, to say something, anything; but there was an obstruction in

her throat, as if her voice were a ghost vainly struggling to raise

its own grave-stone.

Their visitor made the automatic motion of consulting his wrist-watch.

“Jove! I hadn’t an idea it was so late. I’ve got barely time to

dash for my train!” He stood looking in his easy way from mother to

daughter; then he turned once more to Kate.

“Aren’t you coming over to see the great Maclew library one of these

days? I was just telling Miss Clephane--”

“Uncle Fred has always promised to take me,” the girl threw in.

“Well, that settles it; doesn’t it, Mrs. Clephane?” This time

he wavered a second before the “Mrs.”, and then carried it off

triumphantly. “As soon as you can make a date, will you wire me? Good!”

He was holding out his hand. Kate put hers in it; she did not mind. It

was as if she had laid a stone in his palm.

“It’s a go, then?” he repeated gaily, as he shook hands with Anne; and

the door closed on him.

“Major Fenno”--. Kate repeated the name slowly as she turned back

toward the fire. She had never heard of his military rank. “Was he

wounded?” she asked her daughter suddenly.

“At Belleau Wood--didn’t you know? I thought you might have--he was

mentioned in despatches. He has the Legion of Honour and the D.S.M.”

Anne’s voice had an unwonted vibration. “But he never talks of all

that; all he cares about is his writing,” she added.

She was gathering up her brushes, rubbing her pallet with a rag, going

through all the habitual last gestures with her usual somewhat pedantic

precision. She found something wrong with one of the brushes, and bent

over the lamp with it, her black brows jutting. At that moment she

reminded her mother of old Mrs. Clephane; somehow, there was an odd

solace in the likeness.

“If he comes for anybody it’s for Lilla,” the mother thought, as her

eyes rested on her daughter’s stern young profile; and again she felt

the necessity of clearing up the mystery. On the whole, it might be

easier to question Anne, now that the name had been pronounced between

them.

Major Fenno--and he had been wounded.... And all he cared about was his

writing.

X.

After all, she was not going to be able to question Anne about Lilla.

As she faced the situation the next day--as she faced the new Chris in

her path--Kate Clephane saw the impossibility of using him as a key to

her daughter’s confidence. There was one thing much closer to her now

than any conceivable act of Chris’s could ever be; and that was her own

relation to Anne. She simply could not talk to Anne about Chris--not

yet. It was not that she regarded that episode in her life as a thing

to be in itself ashamed of. She was not going, even now, to deny or

disown it; she wanted only to deny and disown Chris. Quite conceivably,

she might have said to her daughter: “Yes, I loved once--and the man I

loved was not your father.” But to say it about Chris! To see the slow

look of wonder in those inscrutable depths of Anne’s eyes: a look that

said, not “I blame you”, or even “I disapprove you”, but, so much more

scathingly, just: “You, mother--and _Chris_?”

Yes; that was it. It was necessary for her pride and dignity, for her

moral safety almost, that what people like Enid Drover would have

called her “past” should remain unidentified, unembodied--or at least

not embodied in Chris Fenno. Yet to know--to know!

There were, of course, other sources of enlightenment; if there were

anything in her theory of a love-affair between Lilla and Chris, the

family were probably not unaware of it. Kate had the sense that they

never had their eyes off Lilla for long. But it was all very well to

plan to talk to them--the question remained, how to begin? Before

trying to find out about Lilla she would first have to find out about

them. What did she know of any one of them? Nothing more, she now

understood, than their glazed and impenetrable surfaces.

She was still a guest among them; she was a guest even in her

daughter’s house. It was the character she had herself chosen; in her

dread of seeming to assert rights she had forfeited, to thrust herself

into a place she had deserted, she had perhaps erred in the other

sense, held back too much, been too readily content with the easy part

of the week-end visitor.

Well--it had all grown out of the other choice she had made when, years

ago, she had said: “Thy gods shall _not_ be my gods.” And now she but

dimly guessed who their gods were. At the moment when her very life

depended on her knowing their passwords, holding the clue to their

labyrinth, she stood outside the mysterious circle and vainly groped

for a way in.

Nollie Tresselton, of course, could have put the clue in her hand;

but to speak to Nollie was too nearly like speaking to Anne. Not that

Nollie would betray a confidence; but to be divined and judged by her

would be almost as searing an experience as being divined and judged by

Anne. And so Kate Clephane continued to sit there between them, hugging

her new self in her anxious arms, turning its smooth face toward them,

and furtively regulating its non-committal gestures and the sounds that

issued from its lips.

Only the long nights of dreamless sleep were gone; and her heart stood

still each time she slipped the key into the studio door.

* * * * *

“Mother, Uncle Fred wants to take us to Baltimore next week to see the

Maclew library; you and Lilla and me.”

Anne threw it over her shoulder as she stood before her easel, frowning

and narrowing her lips at the difficulty of a branch of red pyrus

japonica in a brass pot, haloed with the light of the sunlit window.

Kate, behind her, was leaning back indolently in a deep wicker

armchair. She started, and echoed in a blank voice: “Next week?”

“Well, you see, I’ve promised to spend a few days in Washington with

Madge Glenver, who has taken a house at Rock Creek for the spring. This

is just the moment for the magnolias; and I thought we might stop at

Baltimore on the way, and Uncle Fred could bring you and Lilla back

from there.”

It sounded perfectly simple and sensible; Anne spoke of it in her usual

matter-of-course tone. Her mother tried for the same intonation in

answering, with a faint touch of surprise: “Lilla too?”

Anne turned around completely and smiled. “Oh, Lilla particularly! You

mustn’t speak of it yet, please--not even to Aunt Enid--but there’s a

chance ... a chance of Lilla’s marrying.”

Kate’s heart gave a great bound of relief or resentment--which? Why,

relief, she instantly assured herself. She had been right then--that

was the key to the mystery! And why not? After all, what did it matter

to her? Had she, Kate, ever imagined that Chris’s love-affairs would

cease when she passed from his life? Wasn’t it most probably in pursuit

of a new one that he had left her? To think so had been, at any rate,

in spite of the torturing images evoked, more bearable than believing

he had gone because he was tired of her. For years, as she now saw, she

had been sustained by her belief in that “other woman”; only, that she

should take shape in Lilla was unbelievably humiliating.

Anne continued to smile softly down on her mother. In her smile there

was something veiled and tender, as faint as sunlight refracted from

water--a radiance striking up from those mysterious depths that Kate

had never yet reached. “We should all be so glad if it happened,” the

girl continued; and Kate said to herself: “What she’s really thinking

of when she smiles in that way is her own marriage....” She remembered

the cryptic allusion of the football-faced youth at the Opera, and the

way those vigilant lids of Anne’s had shut down on her vision.

“Of course--poor Lilla!” Mrs. Clephane absently assented. Inwardly she

was saying to herself that it would be impossible for her to go to

Baltimore on that particular errand. Chris and Lilla--Chris and Lilla!

The coupled names began again to jangle maddeningly through her brain.

She stood up and moved away to the window. No, she couldn’t!

“Next week, dear? It doesn’t matter--but I think you’ll have to go

without me.” She spoke from the window, without turning her head toward

her daughter, who had gone back to the easel.

“Oh--.” There was distinct disappointment in Anne’s voice.

“The fact is I’ve made two or three dinner engagements; I don’t think I

can very well break them, do you? People have been so awfully kind--all

my old friends,” Kate stammered, while the “couldn’t, couldn’t” kept

booming on in her ears. “Besides,” she added, “why not take Nollie

instead? A young party will be more amusing for Mr. Maclew.”

Anne laughed. “Oh, I don’t believe he’ll notice Nollie and me,” she

said with a gay significance; but added at once: “Of course you must do

exactly as you please. That’s the foundation of our agreement, isn’t

it?”

“Our agreement?”

“To be the two most perfect pals that ever were.”

Mrs. Clephane sprang up impulsively and moved toward her daughter. “We

_are_ that, aren’t we, Anne?”

Anne’s lips dropped; she nodded, screwed her mouth up, and opened

her other eyes--her painter’s eyes--on the branch of pyrus with its

coral-like studding of red cups. “From the very first,” she agreed.

* * * * *

The young party went, Fred Landers beaming in attendance. The family

thought it a pity that Mrs. Clephane should miss such a chance,

for Horace Maclew was chary of exhibiting his books. But there was

something absent-minded and perfunctory in the tone of these regrets;

Kate could see that the family interest was passionately centred in

Lilla. And she felt, more and more, that in the circumstances she

herself was better out of the way. For, at the last moment, the party

had been invited to stay at Horace Maclew’s; and to have assisted, in

an almost official capacity, at the betrothal of Chris and Lilla, with

all the solemnity and champagne likely to ensue in such a setting, was

more than her newly healed nerves could have endured. It was easier

to sit at home and wait, and try to prepare herself for this new and

unbelievable situation. Chris and Lilla--!

It was on the third day that Aline, bringing in the breakfast-tray with

a bunch of violets (Anne’s daily attention since she had been gone),

produced also a telegram; as on that far-off morning, four months ago,

when the girl’s first message had come to her mother with the same

flowers.

Kate held the envelope for a moment before opening it, as she had done

on that other occasion--but not because she wanted to prolong her

illusion. This time there was no illusion in the thin envelope between

her fingers; she could feel through it the hard knife-edge of reality.

If she delayed she did so from cowardice. Chris and Lilla--

She tore open the envelope and read: “Engaged to Horace Maclew madly

happy Lilla.”

The telegram fluttered to the floor, and Kate Clephane leaned back on

her pillows, feeling a little light-headed.

“Is Madame not well?” Aline sharply questioned.

“Oh, yes; perfectly well. Perfectly well!” Kate repeated joyously. But

she continued to lean back, staring vacantly ahead of her, till Aline

admonished her, as she had done when the other message came, that the

chocolate would be getting cold.

A respite--a respite. Oh, yes, it was at least a respite!

XI.

There was something so established and reassuring in the mere look

of Enid Drover’s drawing-room that Kate Clephane, waiting there that

afternoon for her sister-in-law to come in, felt a distinct renewal of

confidence.

The house was old Mrs. Clephane’s wedding gift to her daughter, and

everything in it had obviously been selected by some one whose first

thought concerning any work of art was to ask if it would chip or fade.

Nothing in the solid and costly drawing-room had chipped or faded; it

had retained something of Enid’s invulnerable youthfulness, and, like

herself, had looked as primly old-fashioned in its first bloom as in

its well-kept maturity.

It was odd that so stable a setting should have produced that hurricane

of a Lilla; and Kate smiled at the thought of the satisfaction with

which the very armchairs, in their cushioned permanence, would welcome

her back to domesticity.

But Mrs. Drover, when she appeared, took it on a higher plane. Had

Lilla ever been unstable, or in any way failed to excel? If so, her

mother, and her mother’s background, showed no signs of remembering.

The armchairs stood there stolidly, as if asking what you meant by

such ideas. Enid was a little troubled--she confessed--by the fact

that Horace Maclew was a widower, and so much older than her child.

“I’m not sure if such a difference of age is not always a risk.... But

then Mr. Maclew is a man of such strong character, and has behaved so

generously.... There will be such opportunities for doing good....”

Opportunities for doing good! It was on the tip of Kate’s tongue to

say: “Ah, that must have been Lilla’s reason for accepting him!”; but

Mrs. Drover was serenely continuing: “He has given her all the pearls

already. She’s bringing them back tomorrow to be restrung.” And Kate

understood that, for the present, the opportunities for doing good lay

rather with the bridegroom than the bride.

“Of course,” Mrs. Drover went on, “it will be a great sacrifice for her

father and me to let her go; though luckily Baltimore is not far off.

And it will be a serious kind of life; a life full of responsibilities.

Hendrik is afraid that, just at first, Lilla may miss the excitements

of New York; but I think I know my child better. When Lilla is _really

happy_ no one cares less than she does for excitement.”

The phrase gave Kate’s nerves a sudden twist. It was just what Chris

used to say when she urged him to settle down to his painting--at least

on the days when he didn’t say that excitement was necessary to the

artist.... She looked at her sister-in-law’s impenetrable pinkness, and

thought: “It might be Mrs. Minity speaking.”

Fred Landers had telephoned that he had got back and was coming to

dine; she fancied he had it on his mind not to let her feel her

solitude while Anne was away; and she said to herself that from him at

least she would get a glimpse of the truth.

Fred Landers, as became a friend of the family, was also beaming; but

he called Lilla’s engagement a “solution” and not a “sacrifice”; and

this made it easier for Kate at last to put her question: “How did it

happen?”

He leaned back, pulling placidly at his after-dinner cigar, his

old-fashioned square-toed pumps comfortably stretched to the fire; and

for an instant Kate thought: “It might be pleasant to have him in that

armchair every evening.” It was the first time such a possibility had

occurred to her.

“How did she pull it off, you mean?” He screwed up his friendly blue

eyes in a confidential grin. “Well, I’m naturally not initiated; but

I suppose in one of the good old ways, Lilla probably knows most of

the tricks--and I rather think Nollie Tresselton’s been aiding and

abetting her. It’s been going on for the last six months, I know, and a

shooting-box in South Carolina is mixed up with it. Of course they all

have a theory that Lilla need only be happy to be good.”

“And what do you think about it?”

He shrugged. “Why, I think it’s an experiment for which Maclew is to

furnish the _corpus vile_. But he’s a thick-skinned subject, and it may

not hurt him much, and may help Lilla. We can only look on and hope.”

Kate sat pondering her next question. At length she said: “Was Mr.

Maclew’s private secretary there?”

“That fellow Fenno? Yes; he was on duty.” She fancied he frowned a

little.

“Why do you call him ‘that fellow’?”

He turned toward her, and she saw that his friendly brows were

beetling. “Is it necessary to speak of him more respectfully? The fact

is, I don’t fancy him--never did.”

“You knew him before, then?” She felt the blood creeping to her

forehead, and reached out for a painted hand-screen that she might seem

to hold between her eyes and the fire.

Landers reflected. “Oh, yes. I’ve run across him now and then. I rather

fancy he’s been mixed up in this too; stirring the brew with the

others. That’s my impression.”

“Yes.--I wonder why,” said Kate suddenly.

Landers smiled a little, though his brows continued to jut. “To please

Anne, perhaps.”

“Anne--_Anne_?”

The name, after she had uttered it, continued to ring on between them,

and she leaned back, pressing the screen against her closed lids.

“Why?” she managed to question.

“Well--a good many people have wanted to please Anne, first and last. I

simply conjectured that Fenno might be among them.”

“Oh, no; I’m sure you’re quite wrong. I wonder--.” She hesitated, and

then went on with a rush: “The fact is, I wonder you haven’t noticed

that he and Lilla--”

Landers sat up and flung his cigar-end into the embers. “Fenno and

Lilla? By Jove--you might be right. I hadn’t thought of it--”

“Well, I have; I’ve met them together; when they didn’t expect to be

met--.” She hurried it out with a kind of violence. Her heart was

beating to suffocation; she had to utter her suspicion, to give it life

and substance.

“The idea sheds floods of light--no doubt of that. Poor Maclew! I’m

beginning to be sorry for him. But I think the lot of them are capable

of taking pretty good care of themselves. On the whole,” Landers added

with a sudden sigh of relief, “I’m jolly glad it’s Lilla--if it’s

anybody.”

“I _know_ it’s Lilla.” Kate spoke with a passionate emphasis. She had

to prove to some one that Chris was Lilla’s lover in order to believe

it herself, and she had to believe it herself in order to dispel the

dreadful supposition raised by Landers’s words. She found herself,

now, able to smile away his suggestion quite easily, to understand

that he had meant it only as a random joke. People in America were

always making jokes of that kind, juvenile jokes about flirtations

and engagements; they were the staple topic of the comic papers. But

the shock of finding herself for a second over that abyss sent her

stumbling back half-dazed to the safe footing of reality. If she were

going to let her imagination run away at any chance word, what peace

would there ever be for her?

The next day Nollie Tresselton reappeared, smiling and fresh, like

a sick-nurse whose patient has “turned the corner”. With Lilla off

her hands her keen boyish face had lost its expression of premature

vigilance, and she looked positively rejuvenated. She was more

outspoken than Landers.

“At last we can talk about it--thank goodness!” And she began. Horace

Maclew and Lilla had met the previous autumn, duck-shooting in South

Carolina. Lilla was a wonderful shot when she wasn’t ... well, when

she was in training ... and Maclew, like most heavy solemn men of

his type, who theoretically admire helpless feminine women, had been

bowled over by the sight of this bold huntress, who damned up and

down the birds she missed, smoked and drank with the men, and in the

evening lay back silent, with lids half-dropped over smouldering

sullen eyes, and didn’t bore one with sporting chatter or sentimental

airs. It had been a revelation, the traditional thunderbolt; only,

once back in Baltimore, Maclew had been caught in the usual network of

habits and associations; or perhaps other influences had intervened.

No doubt, with a man like that, there would be a “settled attachment”

in the background. Then Lilla, for a while, was more outrageous than

ever, and when he came to New York to see her, dragged him to one of

her rowdiest parties, and went away from it in the small hours with

another man, leaving Maclew and his super-Rolls to find their way home

uncompanioned. After that the suitor had vanished, and it had taken the

combined efforts of all the family, and the family’s friends, to draw

him back. (“And no one helped us more than Major Fenno,” Nollie added

with a grateful sigh.)

The name, dropping suddenly into their talk, made Lilla and her wooer

and all the other figures in the tale shrivel up like toy balloons.

Kate Clephane felt her blood rising again; would she never be able to

hear Chris mentioned without this rush of the pulses?

“He was so clever and tactful about it,” Nollie was going on. “And he

really _believes_ in Lilla, just as I do. Otherwise, of course, he

couldn’t have done what he did--when Horace Maclew has been such a

friend to him. He believes she’ll keep straight, and that they’ll be

awfully happy. I fancy he knows a good deal about women, don’t you?”

“About women like Lilla, perhaps.” The words had flashed out before

Kate even knew the thought had formed itself. It must have welled up

from some depth of bitterness she had long thought dry.

Nollie’s eyes looked grieved. “Oh--you don’t like him?”

“I haven’t seen him for years,” Kate answered lifelessly.

“He admires you so much; he says he used to look up to you so when he

was a boy. But I daresay he wasn’t half as interesting then; he says

himself he was a sort of intellectual rolling stone, never sure of what

he wanted to be or to do, and always hurting and offending people in

his perpetual efforts to find himself. That’s how he puts it.”

Look up to her when he was a boy! Yes; that’s how he _would_ put it.

And the rest too; how often she had heard that old analogy of the

rolling stone and its victims!

“I think the war transformed him; made a man of him. He says so

himself. And now he believes he’s really found his vocation; he doesn’t

think of anything but his writing, and some of his poetry seems to me

very beautiful. I’m only sorry,” Nollie continued thoughtfully, “that

he feels obliged to give up his present job. It seems a pity, when he

has so little money, and has been looking so long for a post of the

sort--”

“Ah ... he’s giving it up?”

“Well, yes; he says he must have more mental elbow-room; for his

writing, I mean. He can’t be tied down to hours and places.”

“Ah, no; he never could--” Again the words had nearly slipped out. The

effort to suppress them left Kate dumb for a moment, though she felt

that Nollie was waiting for her to speak.

“Then of course he must go,” she assented. Inwardly she was thinking:

“After all, if I’m right--and this seems to prove I’m right--about him

and Lilla, it’s only decent of him to give up his job.” And her eyes

suddenly filled with tears at the thought of his making a sacrifice,

behaving at a crucial moment as her old ideal of him would have had him

behave. After all, he was perhaps right in saying that the war had made

a man of him.

“Yes; but it’s a pity. And not only for him, I mean. I think he had a

good influence on Lilla,” Nollie went on.

Ah, now, really they were too simple--even Nollie was! Kate could

hardly keep from shouting it out at her: “But can’t you see, you

simpleton, that they’re lovers, the two of them, and have cooked up

this match for their own convenience, and that your stupid Maclew is

their dupe, as all the rest of you are?”

But something in her--was it pride or prudence?--recoiled from such

an outburst, and from the need of justifying it. In God’s name, what

did it matter to her--what did it matter? The risk was removed, the

dreadful risk; she was safe again--as safe as she would ever be--unless

some suicidal madness drove her to self-betrayal.

With dry lips and an aching smile she said: “You must help me to choose

my wedding-present for Lilla.”

XII.

Anne’s sojourn in Washington prolonged itself for a fortnight. Her

letters to her mother, though punctual, were inexpressive; but that was

not her fault, Kate knew. She had inherited from her father a certain

heaviness of pen, an inability to convey on paper shades of meaning

or of feeling, and having said: “Isn’t it splendid about Lilla?” had

evidently exhausted the subject, or rather her power of developing it.

At length she returned, bringing with her some studies of magnolias

that were freer and more vigorous than any of her previous work. She

greeted her mother with her usual tenderness, and to Kate her coming

was like a lifting of clouds and opening of windows; the mother had

never supposed that anything in her life could ever again strike such

deep roots as this passion for her daughter. _Perfect love casteth out

fear!_ “Does it? _How does any one know?_” she had often incredulously

asked herself. But now, for the first time, love and security dwelt

together in her in a kind of millennial quiet.

She grudged having to dine out on the evening of Anne’s return; but

Mrs. Porter Lanfrey was celebrating Lilla’s betrothal by a big dinner,

with music afterward, and Anne, arriving by a late train, had barely

time to dress before the motor was announced. There was no way of

avoiding the festivity; its social significance was immeasurable. Mrs.

Lanfrey was one of the hostesses who had dropped Lilla from their lists

after the divorce, and Mrs. Lanfrey’s yea or nay was almost the last

survival of the old social code in New York. Those she invited, at any

rate, said that hers was the only house where there was a “tradition”

left; and though Lilla, at this, used to growl: “Yes, the tradition of

how to bore people,” her reinstatement visibly elated her as much as

it did her family. To Enid Drover--resplendent in all her jewels--the

event had already reversed the parts in her daughter’s matrimonial

drama, and relegated all the obloquy to the outraged Gates. “Of course

this evening shows what Jessie Lanfrey really thinks of Phil Gates,”

Enid whispered to Mrs. Clephane as the sisters-in-law took off their

cloaks in the marble hall; and Kate inwardly emended, with a faint

smile: “Or what she really thinks of Horace Maclew.”

Mrs. Clephane had entered the vast Lanfrey drawing-room with a

shrinking not produced by the presence of most of her own former

censors and judges--now transformed into staunch champions or

carelessly benevolent acquaintances--but by the dread of seeing, behind

Mr. Maclew’s momentous bulk, a slighter figure and more vivid face.

But the moment of suspense was not long; Chris was not there; nor was

his name announced after her arrival. The guests were all assembled;

the dining-room doors were thrown open, and Mrs. Lanfrey, taking Mr.

Maclew’s arm, majestically closed the procession from walnut-and-gold

to gold-and-marble--for the Lanfrey house was “tradition” made visible,

and even the _menu_ was exactly what a previous transmitter of the

faith had thought a _menu_ ought to be when Mrs. Lanfrey gave her first

dinner.

For a moment Kate Clephane felt herself in the faint bewildered world,

between waking and sleeping. There they all were, the faces that had

walled in her youth; she was not sure, at first, if they belonged to

the same persons, or had been handed on, as part of the tradition, to

a new generation. It even occurred to her that, by the mere act of

entering Mrs. Lanfrey’s drawing-room, the latter’s guests acquired a

facial conformity that belonged to the Lanfrey plan as much as the fat

prima-donna islanded in a sea of Aubusson who warbled an air from _La

Tosca_ exactly as a previous fat prima-donna had warbled it on the same

spot years before. It seemed as if even Lilla, seated on a gilt sofa

beside her betrothed, had smoothed her rebellious countenance to an

official smirk. Only Anne and Nollie Tresselton resisted the enveloping

conformity; Kate wondered if she herself were not stealthily beginning

to resemble Enid Drover. “This is what I ran away from,” she thought;

and found more reasons than ever for her flight. “And after all, I

have Anne back,” she murmured blissfully ... for that still justified

the rest. Ah, how fate, in creating Anne, had baffled its own designs

against Anne’s mother!

* * * * *

On the way home the girl was unusually silent. She leaned back against

the cushions and let her lids drop. Was it because she was tired after

her long day, or only because she was holding in her vision? Kate could

not tell. In the passing flashes of the arc-lights the head at her

side, bound about with dark braids, looked as firm and young as a Greek

marble; Anne was still at the age when neither weariness nor anxiety

mars the surface.

Kate Clephane always respected her daughter’s silences, and never felt

herself excluded from them; but she was glad when, as they neared

their door, Anne’s hand stole out to her. How many old breaches the

touch healed! It was almost as if the girl had guessed how often Kate

had driven up to that door inertly huddled in her corner, with her

husband’s profile like a wall between her and the world beyond the

windows.

“Dear! You seem to have been gone for months,” the mother said as they

reached her sitting-room.

“Yes. So much has happened.” Anne spoke from far off, as if she were

groping through a dream.

“But there’ll be time for all that tomorrow. You’re dead tired

now--you’re falling with sleep.”

The girl opened her eyes wide, in the way she had when she came out of

one of her fits of abstraction. “I’m not tired; I’m not sleepy.” She

seemed to waver. “Can’t I come in and sit with you a little while?”

“Of course, dear.” Kate slipped an arm through hers, and they entered

the shadowy welcoming room, lit by one veiled lamp and the faint red

of the hearth. “After all, this is the best hour of the twenty-four

for a talk,” the mother said, throwing herself back luxuriously on her

lounge. It was delicious, after her fortnight of solitude, to think of

talking things over with Anne. “And now tell me about everything,” she

said.

“Yes; I want to.” Anne stood leaning against the chimney-piece, her

head on her lifted arm. “There’s so much to say, isn’t there? Always, I

mean--now that you and I are together. You don’t know the difference it

makes, coming home to you, instead--” She broke off, and crossing the

hearth knelt down by her mother. Their hands met, and the girl leant

her forehead against Kate’s shoulder.

“I’ve been lonely too!” The confession sprang to Kate’s lips. Oh, if at

last she might say it! But she dared not. The bond between her and her

daughter was still too fragile; and how would such an avowal sound on

her lips? It was better to let Anne guess--

Anne did guess. “You _have_ been happy here, haven’t you?”

“Happy? Little Anne!”

“And what a beautiful mother you are! Nollie was saying tonight that

you’re younger looking every day. And nobody wears their clothes as

you do. I knew from that old photograph that you were lovely; but I

couldn’t guess that you hadn’t grown any older since it was taken.”

Kate lay still, letting the warmth of the words and the embrace flow

through her. What praise had ever seemed as sweet? All the past faded

in the sunset radiance of the present. “Little Anne,” she sighed again.

The three syllables summed it all up.

Anne was silent for a moment; then she continued, her cheek still

pressed against her mother: “I want you to stay here always, you know;

I want the house to belong to you.”

“The house--?” Kate sat up with a start. The girl’s shoulder slipped

from hers and they remained looking at each other, the space between

them abruptly widened. “This house--belong to me? Why, what in the

world--”

It was the first time such a question had arisen. On her arrival in

America, when Landers, at Anne’s request, had tentatively broached the

matter of financial arrangements, Kate had cut him short with the

declaration that she would gladly accept her daughter’s hospitality,

but preferred not to receive any money beyond the small allowance she

had always had from the Clephane estate. After some argument Landers

had understood the uselessness of insisting, and had doubtless made

Anne understand it; for the girl had never spoken of the subject to her

mother.

Kate put out an encircling arm. “What in the world should I do with

this house, dear? Besides--need we look so far ahead?”

For a moment Anne remained somewhat passively in her mother’s embrace;

then she freed herself and went back to lean against the mantel.

“That’s just it, dear; I think we must,” she said. “With such years and

years before you--and all that lovely hair!” Her eyes still lingered

smilingly on her mother.

Kate sat upright again, and brushed back the lovely hair from her

bewildered temples. What did Anne mean? What was it she was trying to

say? The mother began to tremble with an undefined apprehension; then

the truth flashed over her.

“Dearest--you mean you may be married?”

The girl nodded, with the quick drop of the lids that called up such

memories to her mother. “I couldn’t write it; I’m so bad at writing. I

want you to be happy with me, darling. I’m going to marry Major Fenno.”

XIII.

Baltimore--the conductor called it out as the train ground its way into

the station.

Kate Clephane, on her feet in the long swaying Pullman, looked about

her at the faces of all the people in the other seats--the people _who

didn’t know_. The whole world was divided, now, between people such as

those, and the only two who did know: herself and one other. All lesser

differences seemed to have been swallowed up in that....

She pushed her way between the seats, in the wake of the other

travellers who were getting out--she wondered why!--at Baltimore. No

one noticed her; she had no luggage; in a moment or two she was out of

the station. She stood there, staring in a dazed way at the meaningless

traffic of the streets. Where were all these people going, what could

they possibly want, or hope for, or strive for, in a world such as she

now knew it to be?

There was a spring mildness in the air, and presently, walking on

through the hurrying crowd, she found herself in a quiet park-like

square, with budding trees, and bulbs pushing up in the mounded

flower-beds. She sat down on a bench.

Strength had been given her to get through that first hour with Anne

... she didn’t know how, but somehow, all at once, the shabby years of

dissimulation, of manœuvring, of concealing, had leapt to her defence

like a mercenary army roused in a righteous cause. She had to deceive

Anne, to lull Anne’s suspicions, though she were to die in the attempt.

And she had not died--

That was the worst of it.

She had never been more quiveringly, comprehensively alive than as

she sat there, in that alien place, staring out alone into an alien

future. She felt strong and light enough to jump up and walk for

miles and miles--if only she had known where to go! They said grief

was ageing--well, this agony seemed to have plunged her into a very

Fountain of Youth.

No one could possibly know where she was. She had told her daughter

that one of the aunts at Meridia was very ill; dying, she believed she

had said. To reach Meridia one passed through Baltimore--it had all

been simple enough. Luckily she had once or twice talked of the aunts

to Anne; had said vaguely: “There was never much intimacy, but some

day I ought to go and see them”--so that now it seemed quite natural,

and Anne, like all her generation, was too used to sudden comings and

goings, and violent changes of plan, to do more than ring up the motor

to take her mother to the first train, and recommend carrying a warm

wrap.

The hush, the solitude, the sense of being alone and unknown in a

strange place to which no one knew she had gone, gradually steadied

Kate Clephane’s mind, and fragments torn from the last hours began to

drift through it, one by one. Curiously enough, it was Anne’s awkward

little speech about giving her the house that came first--perhaps

because it might so easily be the key to the rest.

Kate Clephane had never thought of money since she had been under her

daughter’s roof, save on the one occasion when she had refused to have

her allowance increased. Her disregard of the matter came not so much

from conventional scruples as from a natural gay improvidence. If

one were poor, and lived from hand to mouth, one had to think about

money--worse luck! But once relieved from the need of doing so, she

had dismissed the whole matter from her thoughts. Safely sheltered,

becomingly arrayed, she cared no more than a child for the abstract

power of possession. And the possession of money, in particular, had

always been so associated in her mind with moral and mental dependence

that after her break with Hylton Davies poverty had seemed one of the

chief attributes of freedom.

It was Anne’s suggestion of giving her the house which had flung a

sudden revealing glare on the situation. Anne was rich, then--very

rich! Such a house--one of the few surviving from the time when Fifth

Avenue had been New York’s fashionable quarter--must have grown

greatly in value with the invasion of business. What could it be worth?

Mrs. Clephane couldn’t conjecture ... could only feel that, to offer

it in that way (and with it, of course, the means of living in it),

Anne, who had none of her mother’s improvidence, must be securely and

immensely wealthy. And if she were--

The mother stood up and stared about her. What she was now on the verge

of thinking was worse, almost, than all the dreadful things she had

thought before. If it were the money he wanted, she might conceivably

buy him off--that was what she was thinking! And a nausea crept over

her as she thought it; for he had never seemed to care any more for

money than she did. His gay scorn of it, not only expressed but acted

upon, had been one of his chief charms to her, after all her years in

the Clephane atmosphere of thrifty wealth, and the showy opulence of

the months with Hylton Davies. Chris Fenno, quite simply and naturally,

had laughed with her at the cares of the anxious rich, and rejoiced

that those, at least, would never weigh on either of them. But that was

long ago; long at least in a life as full of chances and changes as

his. Compared with the reckless boy she had known he struck her now as

having something of the weight and prudence of middle-age. Might not

his respect for money have increased with the increasing need of it? At

any rate, she had to think of him, to believe it of him, if she could,

for the possibility held out her one hope in a welter of darkness.

Her mind flagged. She averted her sickened eyes from the thought, and

began to turn once more on the racking wheel of reiteration. “_I must

see him.... I must see him.... I must see him._”... That was as far as

she had got. She looked at her watch, and went up to a policeman to ask

the way.

* * * * *

He was not to be found at Horace Maclew’s, and to her surprise she

learned that he did not live there. Careless as he had always been of

money in itself, he was by no means averse to what it provided. No one

was more appreciative of the amenities of living when they came his way

without his having to take thought; and she had pictured him quartered

in a pleasant corner of Horace Maclew’s house, and participating in all

the luxuries of his larder and cellar. But no; a super-butler, summoned

at her request, informed her that Major Fenno had telephoned not to

expect him that day, and that, as for his home address, the fact was he

had never given it.

A new emotion shot through her, half sharper anguish, half relief. If

he were not lodged under the Maclew roof, if his private address were

not to be obtained there, might it not be because he was involved in

some new tie, perhaps actually living with some unavowable woman? What

a solution--Kate Clephane leapt on it--to be able to return to Anne

with that announcement! It seemed to clear the way in a flash--but as a

hurricane does, by ploughing its path through the ruins it makes. She

supposed she would never, as long as she lived, be able to think evil

of Chris without its hurting her.

She turned away from the wrought-iron and plate-glass portals that were

so exactly what she had known the Maclew portals would be. Perhaps

she would find his address at a post-office. She asked the way to the

nearest one, and vainly sought for his name in the telephone book.

Well, it was not likely that he would proclaim his whereabouts if what

she suspected were true. But as her eye travelled down the page she

caught his father’s name, and an address she remembered. Chris Fenno,

though so habitually at odds with his parents, was fond of them in his

easy way--especially fond of his mother. Kate had often posted letters

for him to that address. She might hear of him there--if necessary she

would ask for Mrs. Fenno.

A trolley carried her to a Quakerish quarter of low plain-faced brick

houses: streets and streets of them there seemed to be, all alike.

Here and there a tree budded before one; but the house at which she

rang had an unbroken view of its dispirited duplicates. Kate Clephane

was not surprised at the shabbiness of the neighbourhood. She knew

that the Fennos, never well-off according to Clephane standards,

had of late years been greatly straitened, partly, no doubt, through

their son’s own exigencies, and his cheerful inability to curtail

them. Her heart contracted as she stood looking down at Mrs. Fenno’s

dingy door-mat--the kind on which only tired feet seem to have wiped

themselves--and remembered her radiant idle months with Mrs. Fenno’s

son.

She had to ring twice. Then the door was opened by an elderly negress

with gray hair, who stood wiping her hands on a greasy apron, and

repeating slowly: “Mr. Chris?”

“Yes. I suppose you can tell me where he lives?”

The woman stared. “Mr. Chris? Where’d he live? Why, right here.”

Kate returned the stare. Through the half-open door came the smell of

chronic cooking; a mournful waterproof hung against the wall. “Major

Fenno--here?”

Major Fenno; yes; the woman repeated it. Mr. Chris they always called

him, she added with a toothless smile. Of course he lived there; she

kinder thought he was upstairs now. His mother, she added gratuitously,

had gone out--stepped round to the market, she reckoned. She’d go and

look for Mr. Chris. Would the lady please walk in?

Kate was shown into a small dull sitting-room. All she remembered of it

afterward was that there were funny tufted armchairs, blinds half down,

a rosewood “what-not,” and other relics of vanished ease. Above the

fireless chimney stood a too handsome photograph of Chris in uniform.

After all, it was natural enough to find that he was living there. He

had always hated any dependence on other people’s plans and moods;

she remembered how irritably he had spoken of his servitude as Mr.

Maclew’s secretary, light as the yoke must be. And it was like him,

since he was settled in Baltimore, to have returned to his parents.

There was something in him--on the side she had always groped for, and

occasionally known in happy glimpses--that would make him dislike to

live in luxury in the same town in which his father and mother were

struggling on the scant income his own follies had reduced them too. He

would probably never relate cause and effect, or be much troubled if

he did; he would merely say to himself: “It would be beastly wallowing

in things here, when it’s such hard sledding for the old people”--in

the same tone in which he used to say to Kate, on their lazy Riviera

Sundays: “If I were at home now I’d be getting ready to take the old

lady to church. I always go with her.” And no doubt he did. He loved

his parents tenderly whenever they were near enough to be loved.

There was a step in the passage. She turned with a start and he came

in. At sight of her he closed the door quickly. He was very pale.

“Kate!” he said, stopping on the threshold. She had been standing in

the window, and she remained there, the width of the room between them.

She was silenced by the curious deep shock of remembrance that his

actual presence always gave her, and began to tremble lest it should

weaken her resolve. “Didn’t you expect me?” she finally said.

He looked at her as if he hardly saw her. “Yes; I suppose I did,” he

answered at length in a slow dragging voice. “I was going to write; to

ask when I could see you.” As he stood there he seemed like some one

snatched out of a trance. To her surprise she felt him singularly in

her power. Their parts were reversed for the first time, and she said

to herself: “I must act quickly, before he can collect himself.” Aloud

she asked: “What have you got to say?”

“To say--” he began; and then, suddenly, with a quick change of voice,

and moving toward her with outstretched hands: “For God’s sake don’t

take that tone. It’s bad enough....”

She knew every modulation; he had pleaded with her so often before! His

trying it now only hardened her mind and cleared her faculties; and

with that flash of vision came the sense that she was actually seeing

him for the first time. There he stood, stripped of her dreams, while

she registered in a clear objective way all the strength and weakness,

the flaws and graces of his person, marked the premature thinning of

his smooth brown hair, the incipient crows’-feet about the lids, their

too tender droop over eyes not tender enough, and that slight slackness

of the mouth that had once seemed a half-persuasive pout, and was now

only a sign of secret uncertainties and indulgences. She saw it all,

and under the rich glaze of a greater prosperity, a harder maturity, a

prompter self-assurance and resourcefulness, she reached to the central

failure.

That was what she became aware of--and aware too that the awful fact of

actually seeing another human being might happen to one for the first

time only after years of intimacy. She averted her eyes as from a sight

not meant for her.

“It’s bad enough,” she heard him repeat.

She turned back to him and her answer caught up his unfinished phrase.

“Ah--you do realize how bad it is? That’s the reason why you’ve given

up your job? Because you see that you must go? Are you going now--going

at once?”

“Going--going?” He echoed the word in his flat sleep-walking voice.

“How on earth can I go?”

The question completely hardened whatever his appearance, the startled

beaten look of him, had begun to soften in her. She stood gazing at him

and laughed.

“How can you go? Are you mad? Why, what else on earth can you do?”

As he stood before her she began to be aware that he had somehow

achieved the attitude of dignity for which she was still struggling. He

looked like an unhappy man, a cowed man; but not a guilty one.

“If you’d waited I should myself have asked you to let me explain--” he

began.

“Explain? What is there to explain?”

“For one thing, why I can’t go away--go for good, as you suggest.”

“Suggest? I don’t suggest! I order it.”

“Well--I must disobey your order.”

They stood facing each other while she tried to gather up the shattered

fragments of her authority. She had said to herself that what lay

before her was horrible beyond human imagining; but never once had she

imagined that, if she had the strength to speak, he would have the

strength to defy her. She opened her lips, but no sound came.

“You seem ready to think the worst of me; I suppose that’s natural,” he

continued. “The best’s bad enough. But at any rate, before ordering me

to go, perhaps you ought to know that I _did_ go--once.”

She echoed the word blankly. “Once?”

He smiled a little. “You didn’t suppose--or did you?--that I’d drifted

into this without a fight; a long fight? At the hospital, where I first

met her, I hadn’t any idea who she was. I’m not a New Yorker; I knew

nothing of your set of people in New York. You never spoke to me of

her--I never even knew you had a daughter.”

It was true. In that other life she had led she had never spoken to any

one of Anne. She had never been able to. From the time when she had

returned to Europe, frustrated in her final attempt to get the child

back, or even to have one last glimpse of her, to the day when her

daughter’s cable had summoned her home, that daughter’s name had never

been uttered by her except in the depths of her heart.

A darkness was about her feet; her head swam. She looked around her

vaguely, and put out her hand for something to lean on. Chris Fenno

moved a chair forward, and she sat down on it without knowing what she

was doing.

He continued to stand in front of her. “You do believe me?” he repeated.

“Oh, yes--I believe you.” She was beginning to feel, now, the relief

of finding him less base than he had at first appeared. She lifted her

eyes to his. “But afterward--”

“Well; afterward--” He stopped, as if hoping she would help him to fill

in the pause. But she made no sign, and he went on. “As I say, we met

first in the hospital where she nursed me. It began there. Afterward

she asked me to come and see her at her grandmother’s. It was only then

that I found out--”

“Well, and then--?”

“Then I went away; went as soon as I found out.”

“Of course--”

“Yes; of course; only--”

“Only--you came back. You knew; and yet you came back.”

She saw his lips hardening again to doggedness. He had dropped into a

chair facing hers, and sat there with lowered head, his hands clenched

on his knees.

“Naturally you’re bound to think the worst of me--”

She interrupted him. “I’m still waiting to know what to think of you.

Don’t let it be the worst!”

He made a hopeless gesture. “What is the worst?”

“The worst is that, having gone, you should ever have come back. Why

did you?”

He stood up, and this time their eyes met. “You have the right to

question me about my own feelings; but not about any one else’s.”

“Feelings? _Your_ feelings?” She laughed again. “And my own

daughter’s--ah, but I didn’t mean to name her even!” she exclaimed.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve named her. You’ve answered your own question.”

He paused, and then added in a low voice: “You know what she is when

she cares....”

“Ah, don’t _you_ name her--I forbid you! You say you loved her, not

knowing. I believe you.... I pity you.... I want to pity you.... But

nothing can change the facts, can change the past. There’s nothing for

you now but to go.”

He stood before her, his eyes on the ground. At last he raised them

again, but only for the length of a quick glance. “You think then ... a

past like that ... irrevocable?”

She sprang to her feet, strong now in her unmitigated scorn.

“Irrevocable? Irrevocable? And you ask me this ... with _her_ in your

mind? Ah--but you’re abominable!”

“Am I? I don’t know ... my head reels with it. She’s terribly young;

she feels things terribly. She won’t give up--she wouldn’t before.”

“Don’t--don’t! Leave her out of this. I’m not here to discuss her with

you, I’m here to tell you to go, and to go at once.”

He made no answer, but turned and walked across the room and back. Then

he sank into his chair, and renewed his study of the carpet. Finally he

looked up again, with one of the tentative glances she knew so well:

those glances that seemed to meet one’s answer half-way in their desire

to say what one would expect of him. “Is there any use in your taking

this tone?”

Again that appeal--it was too preposterous! But suddenly, her eyes

on the huddled misery of his attitude, the weakness of his fallen

features, she understood that the cry was real; that he was in agony,

and had turned to her for help. She crossed the room and laid her hand

on his shoulder.

“No; you’re right; it’s of no use. If you’ll listen I’ll try to be

calm. I want to spare you--why shouldn’t I want to?”

She felt her hand doubtfully taken and laid for a moment against his

cheek. The cheek was wet. “I’ll listen.”

“Well, then; I won’t reproach you; I won’t argue with you. Why should

I,” she exclaimed with a flash of inspiration, “when all the power is

mine? If I came in anger, in abhorrence ... well, I feel only pity now.

Don’t reject it--don’t reject my pity. This awful thing has fallen on

both of us together; as much on me as on you. Let me help you--let us

try to help each other.”

He pressed the hand closer to his face and then dropped it. “Ah, you’re

merciful.... I think I understand the abhorrence better. I’ve been a

cad and a blackguard, and everything else you like. I’ve been living

with the thought of it day and night. Only, now--”

“Well, now,” she panted, “let me help you; let me--Chris,” she cried,

“let me make it possible for you to go. I know there may be all sorts

of difficulties--material as well as others--and those at least--”

He looked up at her sharply, as if slow to grasp her words. Then his

face hardened and grew red. “You’re bribing me? I see. I didn’t

at first. Well--you’ve the right to, I suppose; there’s hardly any

indignity you haven’t the right to lay on me. Only--it’s not so simple.

I’ve already told you--”

“Don’t name her again! Don’t make me remember.... Chris, I want to help

you as if this were ... were any other difficulty.... Can’t we look at

it together in that way?”

But she felt the speciousness of her words. How could one face the

Gorgon-image of this difficulty as if it were like any other? His

silence seemed to echo her thought. Slowly he rose again from his

chair, plunged his hands deeply into his pockets, with a gesture she

remembered when he was troubled, and went and leaned in the jamb of

the window. What was he thinking, she wondered, as he glanced vacantly

up and down the long featureless street? Smiling inwardly, perhaps, at

the crudeness of her methods, the emptiness of her threats. For, after

all--putting the case at its basest--if the money were really what had

tempted him, how, with that fortune at his feet, could any offer of

hers divert his purpose?

A clock she had not noticed began to tick insistently. It seemed to be

measuring out the last seconds before some nightmare crash that she

felt herself powerless to arrest. Powerless, at least--

She saw his expression change, and he turned and moved back quickly

into the room. “There’s my mother coming down the street. She’s been

to market--my mother does her own marketing.” He spoke with a faint

smile of irony. “But you needn’t be afraid of meeting her. She won’t

come in here; she never does at this hour. She’ll go straight to the

kitchen.”

Kate had begun to tremble again. “Afraid? Why should I be afraid of

your mother? Or she of me? It’s you who are afraid now!” she exclaimed.

His face seemed to age as she watched it. “Well, yes, I am,” he

acknowledged. “I’ve been a good deal of a nuisance to her first and

last; and she’s old and ill. Let’s leave her out too, if we can.”

As he spoke, they heard, through the thin wall, the fumbling of a

latch-key in the outer lock. Kate moved to the door; her decision was

taken.

“You want to leave her out? Then promise me--give me your word that

you’ll go. You know you can count on me if you need help. Only you must

promise now; if not, I shall call your mother in--I shall tell her

everything.” Her hand was on the doorknob when he caught it back.

“Don’t!”

The street door opened and closed again, a dragging step passed through

the narrow hall, and a door was opened into the region from which the

negress with the greasy apron had emerged in a waft of cooking.

“Phemia!” they heard Mrs. Fenno call in a tired elderly voice.

“I promise,” her son said, loosening his hold on Kate’s wrist.

The two continued to stand opposite each other with lowered heads. At

length Mrs. Clephane moved away.

“I’m going now. You understand that you must leave at once ...

tomorrow?” She paused. “I’ll do all I can for you as long as you keep

your word; if you break it I won’t spare you. I’ve got the means to

beat you in the end; only don’t make me use them--don’t make me!”

He stood a few feet away from her, his eyes on the ground. Decidedly,

she had beaten him, and he understood it. If there were any degrees

left in such misery she supposed that the worst of it was over.

XIV.

As Kate Clephane drove up late that night to the house in Fifth Avenue

she seemed to be reliving all her former anguished returns there, real

or imaginary, from the days when she had said to herself: “Shall I

never escape?” to those others when, from far off, she had dreamed of

the hated threshold, and yearned for it, and thought: “Shall I never

get back?”

She had said she might be late in returning, and had begged that no one

should stay up for her. Her wish, as usual, had been respected, and she

let herself into the hushed house, put out the lights, and stole up

past the door where Anne lay sleeping her last young sleep.

Ah, that thought of Anne’s awakening! The thought of seeing Anne’s face

once again in all its radiant unawareness, and then assisting helpless

at the darkening of its light! How would the blow fall? Suddenly and

directly, or gradually, circuitously? Would the girl learn her fate on

the instant, or be obliged to piece it together, bit by bit, through

all the slow agonies of conjecture? What pretext would Chris give for

the break? He was skilled enough in evasions and subterfuges--but what

if he had decided to practise them on Anne’s mother, and not on Anne?

What if the word he had given were already forfeited? What assurance

had any promise of his ever conveyed?

Kate Clephane sat in her midnight room alone with these questions.

She had forgotten to go to bed, she had forgotten to undress. She

sat there, in her travelling dress and hat, as she had stepped from

the train: it was as if this house which people called her own were

itself no more than the waiting-room of a railway station where she

was listening for the coming of another train that was to carry

her--whither?

Ah, but she had forgotten--forgotten that she had him in her power!

She had said to him: “I’ve got the means to beat you in the end,” and

he had bowed his head to the warning and given his word. Why, the mere

threat that she would tell his mother had thrown him on her mercy--what

would it be if she were to threaten to tell Anne? She knew him ...

under all his emancipated airs, his professed contempt for traditions

and conformities, lurked an uneasy fear of being thought less than his

own romantic image of himself.... No; even if his designs on Anne were

wholly interested, it would kill him to have her know. There was no

danger there.

The bitterness of death was passed; yes--but the bitterness of what

came after? What of the time to come, when mother and daughter

were left facing each other like two ghosts in a gray world of

disenchantment? Well, the girl was young--time would help--they would

travel.... Ah, no; her tortured nerves cried out that there could not

be, in any woman’s life, another such hour as the one she had just

lived through!

Toward dawn she roused herself, undressed, and crawled into bed; and

there she lay in the darkness, sharpening her aching wits for the

continuation of the struggle.

* * * * *

“A telegram--” Aline always said it with the same slightly ironic

intonation, as if it were still matter of wonder and amusement to her

that any one should be in such haste to communicate with her mistress.

Mrs. Clephane, in sables and pearls, with a great house at her orders,

was evidently a more considerable person than the stray tenant of the

little third-floor room at the Hôtel de Minorque, and no one was more

competent to measure the distance between them than Aline. But still--a

telegram!

Kate opened the envelope with bloodless fingers. “I am going.” That

was all--there was not even a signature. He had kept his word; and he

wanted her to know it.

She felt the loosening of the cords about her heart; a deep breath of

relief welled up in her. He had kept his word.

There was a tap on the door, and Anne, radiant, confident, came in.

“You’ve had a telegram? Not about Aunt Janey--”

Aunt Janey? For a second Kate could not remember, could not associate

the question with anything related to the last hours. Then she

collected herself, just in time to restrain a self-betraying clutch

at the telegram. With a superhuman effort at composure she kept her

hands from moving, and left the message lying, face up, on the coverlet

between herself and Anne. Yet what if Anne were to read the _Baltimore_

above the unsigned words?

“No; it’s not about Aunt Janey.” She made a farther effort at

recollection. “The fact is, the aunts had a panic ... an absurd

panic.... Aunt Janey’s failed a good deal, of course; it’s the

beginning of the end. But there’s no danger of anything sudden--not the

least.... I’m glad I went, though; it comforted them to see me.... And

it was really rather wrong of me not to have been before.”

Ah, now, at last she remembered, and how thankfully, that she had,

after all, been to Meridia; had, automatically, after leaving Chris,

continued her journey, surprised and flattered the aunts by her

unannounced appearance, and spent an hour with them before taking

the train back to New York. She had had the wit, at the time, to see

how useful such an alibi might be, and then, in the disorder of her

dreadful vigil, had forgotten about it till Anne’s question recalled

her to herself. The complete gap in her memory frightened her, and

made her feel more than ever unfitted to deal with what might still be

coming--what must be coming.

Anne still shed about her the reflected radiance of her bliss. “I’m so

glad it’s all right--so glad you went. And of course, dear, you didn’t

tell them anything, did you?”

“Tell them anything--?”

“About me.” The lids dropped, the lashes clasped her vision. How could

her mother have forgotten?--that flutter of the lids seemed to say.

“Darling! But of course not.” Kate Clephane brought the words out with

dry lips. Her hand stole out to Anne’s, then drew back, affecting to

pick up the telegram. She could not put her hand in her daughter’s just

yet.

The girl sat down beside her on the bed. “I want it to be our secret,

remember--just yours and mine--till he comes next week. He can’t get

away before.”

Ah, thank God for that! The mother remembered now that Anne had told

her this during their first talk--the talk of which, at the time, no

details had remained in her shattered mind. Now, as she listened, those

details came back, bit by bit, phantasmagorically mingled.

No one was to be told of the engagement; no, not even Nollie

Tresselton; not till Chris came to New York. And that was not to be

for another week. He could not get away sooner, and Anne had decreed

that he must see her mother before their betrothal was made public. “I

suppose I’m absurdly out-of-date--but I want it to be like that,” the

girl had said; and Kate Clephane understood that it was out of regard

for her, with the desire to “situate” her again, and once for all, as

the head of the house, that her daughter had insisted on this almost

obsolete formality, had stipulated that her suitor should ask Mrs.

Clephane’s consent in the solemn old-fashioned way.

The girl bent nearer, her radiance veiled in tenderness. “If you

knew, mother, how I want you to like him--” ah, the familiar cruel

words!--“You did, didn’t you, in old times, when you used to know him

so well? Though he says he was just a silly conceited boy then, and

wonders that anybody could endure his floods of nonsense....”

Ah, God, how long would it go on? Kate Clephane again reached out her

hand, and this time clasped her daughter’s with a silent nod of assent.

Speech was impossible. She moistened her parched lips, but no sound

came from them; and suddenly she felt everything slipping away from her

in a great gulf of oblivion.

“Mother! You’re ill--you’re over-tired....” She was just aware, through

the twilight of her faintness, that Anne’s arm was under her, that Anne

was ringing the bell and moistening her forehead.