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.