Anne sat in her chair by the fireside, very still. She had turned out the light, for it hurt her eyes and made her head ache. She had felt very weak, and her knees shook under her as she crossed the room. Beyond that she felt nothing, no amazement, no sorrow, no anger, nor any sort of pang. If she had been aware of the trembling of her body, she would have attributed it to the agitation of a disagreeable encounter. She shivered. She thought there was a draught somewhere; but she did not rouse herself to shut the window.
At eight o'clock a telegram from Majendie was brought to her. She was not to wait dinner. He would not be home that night. She gave the message in a calm voice, and told Kate not to send up dinner. She had a bad headache and could not eat anything.
Kate had stood by waiting timidly. She had had a sense of things happening. Now she retired with curiosity relieved. Kate was used to her mistress's bad headaches. A headache needed no explanation. It explained everything.
Anne picked up the telegram and read it over again. Every week, for nearly three years, she had received these messages. They had always been sent from the same post office in Scale, and the words had always been the same: "Don't wait. May not be home to-night."
To-night the telegram struck her as a new thing. It stood for something new. But all the other telegrams had meant the same thing. Not a new thing. A thing that had been going on for three years; four, five, six years, for all she knew. It was six years since their separation; and that had been his wish.
She had always known it; and she had always put her knowledge away from her, tried not to know more. Her friends had known it too. Canon Wharton, and the Gardners, and Fanny. It all came back to her, the words, and the looks that had told her more than any words, signs that she had often wondered at and refused to understand. They had known all the depths of it. It was only the other day that Fanny had offered her house to her as a refuge from her own house in its shame. Fanny had supposed that it must come to that.
God knew she had been loyal to him in the beginning. She had closed her eyes. She had forbidden her senses to take evidence against him. She had been loyal all through, loyal to the very end. She had lied for him. If, indeed, she had lied. In denying Lady Cayley's statements, she had denied her right to make them, that was all.
Her mind, active now, went backwards and forwards over the chain of evidence, testing each link in turn. All held. It was all true. She had always known it.
Then she remembered that she and Peggy would be going away to-morrow. That was well. It was the best thing she could do. Later on, when they were home again, it would be time enough to make up her mind as to what she could do. If there was anything to be done.
Until then she would not see him. They would be gone to-morrow before he could come home. Unless he saw them off at the station. She would avoid that by taking an earlier train. Then she would write to him. No; she would not write. What they would have to say to each other must be said face to face. She did not know what she would say.