Kate felt as if it were her own sobs that were shaking her daughter’s body. She held her fast, saying over and over, as a mother would to a child that has fallen and hurt itself: “There, there ... don’t cry.” She no longer knew what she herself was feeling. All her consciousness had passed into Anne. This young anguish, which is the hardest of all to bear, must be allayed: she was ready to utter any words that should lift that broken head from her breast.
“My Anne—how could I ever leave you?” she whispered. And as she spoke she felt herself instantly caught in the tight net of her renunciation. If she did not tell Anne now she would never tell her—and it was exactly on this that Chris had counted. He had known that she would never speak.
XXI.
IT had been decided that Mrs. Clephane must, of course, stay over the Sunday; on Monday morning she would return to town with Anne. Meanwhile Aline was summoned with week-end raiment; and Kate Clephane, after watching the house-party drive off to a distant polo match, remained alone in the great house with her sister-in-law.
Mrs. Drover’s countenance, though worn from the strain of incessant hospitality, had lost its look of perturbation. It was clear that the affectionate meeting between mother and daughter had been a relief to the whole family, and Mrs. Drover’s ingenuous eye declared that since now, thank heaven, that matter was settled, there need be no farther pretence of mystery. She invited her sister-in-law to join her in her own sitting-room over a quiet cup of tea, and as she poured it out observed with a smile that she supposed the wedding would take place before Christmas.
“The wedding? Anne’s wedding?”
“Why, my dear, isn’t everything settled? We all supposed that was what you’d come down for. She told us of her engagement as soon as she arrived.” Wrinkles of apprehension reluctantly reformed themselves on Mrs. Drover’s brow. “At least you might have let me have my tea without this new worry!” her look seemed to protest. “Hendrik has the highest opinion of Major Fenno, you know,” she continued, in a tone that amicably sought to dismiss the subject.
Kate Clephane put down her untasted cup. What could she answer? What was the use of answering at all?
Misled by her silence, Mrs. Drover pursued with a clearing brow: “Of course nowadays, with the cut of everything changing every six months, there’s no use in ordering a huge trousseau. Besides, Anne tells me they mean to go to Europe almost immediately; and whatever people say, it is more satisfactory to get the latest models on the spot....”
“Oh, Enid—Anne mustn’t marry him!” Kate Clephane cried, starting to her feet.