“I’ve never seen her cry,” said Stella pensively. “Until to-day.”
Michael forgot about his own distress in the thought of his mother, and he sat hushed all through the evening, while Stella played in the darkness. Mrs. Fane went up to her own room immediately she came in that night, and the next morning, which was Saturday, Michael listlessly took the paper out to read in the garden, while he waited for Stella to dress herself so that they could go out together and avoid the house over which seemed to impend calamity.
Opening the paper, Michael saw an obituary notice of the Earl of Saxby. He scanned the news, only half absorbing it:
“In another column will be found the details—enteric—adds another famous name to the lamentable toll of this war—the late nobleman did not go into society much of late years—formerly Captain in the Welsh Guards—born 1860—married Lady Emmeline MacDonald, daughter of the Earl of Skye, K.T.—raised corps of Mounted Infantry (Saxby’s Horse)—great traveller—unfortunately no heir to the title which becomes extinct.”
Michael guessed the cause of his mother’s unhappiness of yesterday. He went upstairs and told Stella.
“I suppose mother was in love with him,” she said.
“I suppose she was,” Michael agreed. “I wish I hadn’t refused to say good-bye to him. It seems rather horrible now.”
Mrs. Fane had left word that she would not be home until after dinner, and Michael and Stella sat apprehensive and silent in the drawing-room. Sometimes they would toss backwards and forwards to each other reassuring words, while outside the livid evening of ochreous oppressive clouds and ashen pavements slowly dislustred into a night swollen with undelivered rain and baffled thunders.
About nine o’clock Mrs. Fane came home. She stood for a moment in the doorway of the room, palely regarding her children. She seemed undecided about something, but after a long pause she sat down between them and began to speak:
“Something has happened, dear children, that I think you ought to know about before you grow any older.”