“What is it, mother dear?” she inquired anxiously. “Tell me what has happened.”
Marjorie arose staggeringly, hastily dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “Noth—ing,” she stammered, “nothing at all—I’m nervous and overwrought—I——”
“You’re never nervous, mother,” Elinor interrupted. “You’re always calm and composed—I’ve never known you to give way like this before.”
“I know,” Marjorie replied, trying to regain her self-control. “I’ve never given way so foolishly before. I seemed to be under a tension, and it snapped suddenly.”
“But mother,” Elinor persisted, “something must have caused it—won’t you tell me—I’m so sorry.”
The mother only shook her head. Sympathetically as it was offered, she strangely found Elinor’s interest unbearable. Unconsciously she harbored the thought that her daughter had been responsible for Hugh’s introduction to the cause of her sorrow and a feeling akin to bitter resentment against even her own daughter rankled in her heart.
“I think I will retire, dear,” she sighed, slowly advancing toward the door. “Rest and absolute quiet are what I most require.”
“Very well, mother,” Elinor answered indifferently. She was stung to the quick by her mother’s cold repulsion.
CHAPTER XI
Locked securely in the sanctuary of her own rooms, the wife and mother undressed feverishly, without once permitting her eyes to wander toward a mirror. She knew that she would see there only a skeleton beneath the artifices she had permitted the French maid to gloss her with. She was feeling all about her the ghosts—of what once had been, what might have been.