All through this long, long day Mrs. Holland had borne herself gallantly, with pride and with fortitude; but they both failed her now. She leaned against the wall and covered her eyes with her hand, shaken by a dreadful weakness and pain.[Pg 417]
“I’m old,” she thought. “I’m old and selfish. I’ve shut Frank out. I haven’t appreciated him—and now I’ve lost him. It’s my own fault!”
A door opened in the basement, and she heard Hilda’s tread on the stairs. Hilda mustn’t see her like this! She was about to go upstairs to her own room when it occurred to her that Hilda might think that was “queer,” so she went into the drawing-room instead.
Frank came a few steps toward her, with his vague smile, but the girl did not rise. She looked at Mrs. Holland with a sort of defiance.
“She’s old!” thought Stella’s child. “There’s gray in her hair, and there are lines around her eyes. She never laughs; and he’s so jolly—much too nice for her!”
“She’s young,” thought Mrs. Holland. “So young, so pretty—and her music is magic!”
They looked and looked at each other, these two.
“Well, old girl!” said Frank.
Mrs. Holland turned, startled by his tone; and the sight of his face filled her with an intolerable emotion. All the old tenderness there, all the old kindliness and loyalty, not changed, not lost.
“Frank!” she cried.