I went slowly. I was trembling and a little afraid.
I found the old lady sitting up in bed, and Cheneston with his arms round her supporting her at the back.
"Pam," she said, "I was frightened, dear—so frightened. I had to send for you. You and Cheneston had lost each other—I heard it in your wonderful voice, child, I saw it in the boy's face when he came to me. What is it? What is it?" she looked at us piteously. "I feel something is there. I know it! Something that shouldn't be there! I feel it!"
"Nonsense, dearest," Cheneston said.
"There is," she persisted. "I am frightened for you both. Why do I fear you losing each other?—you who were made for her, and she who was made for you."
"You are nervous," he said. "You are worrying yourself unnecessarily."
She caught his hands.
"I am afraid for you, my dears," she said. "Cheneston—let me see you married before I go. Let me be quite sure you have not missed the supreme happiness."
"We cannot do that, mother—there are many things to be thought of."
"White satin and bridesmaids, wedding bells and marriage settlements do not make a marriage, children. Pam, what is the obstacle?"