Then, for no apparent reason, Stephen ceased to come.
Anne, who had endured so much suspense about him, could surely endure a little more. But it seemed she could not. For a week he did not come. In that one week she aged perceptibly. The old pain took her again, the old anger and resentment at being made to suffer, the old fierceness, "which from tenderness is never far." She had thought that she had conquered these enemies so often, that she had routed them so entirely, that they could never confront her again. But they did. In the ranks of her old foes a new one had enlisted—Hope; and Hope, if he forces his way into the heart where he has been long a stranger, knows how to reopen many a deep and barely healed wound, which will bleed long after he is gone.
And where were Anne's patience, her old steadfastness and fortitude? Could they be worn out?
As she stood by the window, trying to summon her faithless allies to her aid, her father came in, with a newspaper in his hand.
"This is serious," he said, "about Vanbrunt."
She turned upon him like lightning.
The Duke tapped the paper.
"I knew Vanbrunt was in difficulties," he said. "A week ago, when he was last here, he advised me sell out certain shares. It seems he would not sell out himself. He said he would see it through, and now the smash has come. I'm afraid he's ruined."
A beautiful colour rose to Anne's face. Her eyes shone. She felt a sudden inrush of life. She became young, strong, alert.
Her father was too much preoccupied to notice her.