“She would, you know—oh, so gladly!—she’d never think again of what’s happened. Only she fears—”
“Fears?”
“Well—that your feeling about Chris is still the same....”
Mrs. Clephane caught at the hand that lay on her arm. “Nollie! She knows where he is? She’s seen him?”
“No; but she means to. He’s been very ill—he’s had a bad time since the engagement was broken. And that makes her feel still more strongly—” The younger woman broke off and looked at Mrs. Clephane compassionately, as if trying to make her understand the hopelessness of the struggle. “Aunt Kate, really ... what’s the use?”
“The use? Where is he, Nollie? Here—now—in New York?”
Mrs. Tresselton was silent; the pity in her gaze had turned to a guarded coolness. Of course Nollie couldn’t understand—never would! Of course they were all on Anne’s side. Kate Clephane stood looking helplessly about her. The memory of old scenes under that same roof—threats, discussions, dissimulations and inward revolts—arose within her, and she felt on her shoulders the whole oppression of the past.
“Don’t think,” Nollie continued, her expression softening, “that Anne hasn’t tried to understand ... to make allowances. The boy you knew must have been so different from the Major Fenno we all like and respect—yes, respect. He’s ‘made good’, you see. It’s not only his war record, but everything since. He’s worked so hard—done so well at his various jobs—and Anne’s sure that if he had the chance he would make himself a name in the literary world. All that naturally makes it more difficult for her to understand your objection—or your way of asserting it.”
Mrs. Clephane lifted imploring eyes to her face. “I don’t expect Anne to understand; not yet. But you must try to, Nollie; you must help me.”
“I want to, Aunt Kate.” The young woman stood before her, affectionately perplexed. “If there’s anything ... anything really wrong ... you ought to tell me.”