XVIII.
HER place was beside Anne—that was all she had got out of Fred Landers. And in that respect she was by no means convinced that her instinct was not surer than his, that she was not right in agreeing with her daughter that their experiment had been a failure.
Yet, even if it had, she could not leave Anne now; not till she had made sure there was no further danger from Chris. Ah—if she were once certain of that, it would perhaps be easiest and simplest to go! But not till then.
She did not know when Anne was coming back; no word had come from her. Mrs. Clephane had an idea that the house-keeper knew; but she could not ask the house-keeper. So for another twenty-four hours she remained on, with a curious sense of ghostly unconcern, while she watched Aline unpack her trunks and “settle” her into her rooms for the winter.
It was on the third day that Nollie Tresselton telephoned. She was in town, and asked if she might see Mrs. Clephane at once. The very sound of her voice brought reassurance; and Kate Clephane sat counting the minutes till she appeared.
She had come up from the Drovers’, as Kate had guessed; and she brought an embarrassed message of apology from Anne. “She couldn’t write—she’s too upset. But she’s so sorry for what she said ... for the way she said it. You must try to forgive her....”
“Oh, forgive her—that’s nothing!” the mother cried, her eyes searching the other’s face. But Nollie’s vivid features were obscured by the embarrassment of the message she had brought. She looked as if she were tangled in Anne’s confusion.
“That’s nothing,” Kate Clephane repeated. “I hurt her horribly too—I had to. I couldn’t expect her to understand.”
Mrs. Tresselton looked relieved. “Ah, you do see that? I knew you would! I told her so—” She hesitated, and then went on, with a slight tremor in her voice: “Your taking it in that way will make it all so much easier—”
But she stopped again, and Kate, with a sinking heart, stood up. “Nollie; she wants me to go?”
“No, no! How could you imagine it? She wants you to look upon this house as yours; she has always wanted it.”
“But she’s not coming back to it?”
The younger woman laid a pleading hand on Mrs. Clephane’s arm. “Aunt Kate—you must be patient. She feels she can’t; not now, at any rate.”
“Not now? Then it’sshewho hasn’t forgiven?”
“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 expressionsoftening, “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.”
“Idotell you,” Kate panted.
“Well—what is it?”
Silence fell—always the same silence. Kate glanced desperately about the imprisoning room. Every panel and moulding of its walls, every uncompromising angle or portly curve of its decorous furniture, seemed equally leagued against her, forbidding her, defying her, to speak.
“Ask Fred Landers,” she said, at bay.
“But I have; I saw him on my way here. Andhe says he doesn’t know—that you wouldn’t explain.”
“Why should I have to explain? I’ve said Major Fenno ought not to marry Anne. I’ve known him longer than any of you. Isn’t it likely that I know him better?”
The words came from her precipitate and shrill; she felt she was losing all control of her face and voice, and lifted her handkerchief to her lips to hide their twitching.
“Aunt Kate—!” Nollie Tresselton gasped it out on a new note of terror; then she too fell silent, slowly turning her eyes away.
In that instant Kate Clephane saw that she had guessed, or if not, was at least on the point of guessing; and fresh alarm possessed the mother. She tried to steady herself, to raise new defences against this new danger. “Some men are not meant to marry: they’re sure to make their wives unhappy. Isn’t that reason enough? It’s a question of character. In those ways, I don’t believe character ever changes. That’s all.”
“That’s all.” The word was said. She had been challenged again, and had again shrunk away from the challenge.
Nollie Tresselton drew a deep breath of relief. “After knowing him so well as a boy, you naturally don’t want to say anything more; but you think they’re unsuited to each other.”
“Yes—that’s it. You do see?”
The younger woman considered; then she took Mrs. Clephane by the hand. “I do see. And I’ll try to help—to persuade Anne to put off deciding. Perhaps after she’s seen him it will be easier....”
Nollie was again silent, and Mrs. Clephane understood that, whatever happened, the secret of Chris’s exact whereabouts was to be kept from her. She thought: “Anne’s afraid to have me meet him again,” and there was a sort of fierce satisfaction in the thought.
Nollie was gathering up her wrap and hand-bag. She had to get back to Long Island, she said; Kate understood that she meant to return to the Drovers’. As she reached the door a last impulse of avowal seized the older woman. What if, by giving Nollie a hint of the truth, she could make sure of her support and thus secure Anne’s safety? But what argument against the marriage would be more efficacious on Nollie’s lips than on her own? One only—the one that no one must ever use. The terror lest Nollie, possessed of that truth, and sickened by it, should after all reveal it in a final effort to prevent the marriage, prevailed over Mrs. Clephane’s other fears. Once Nollie knew, Anne would surely get to know; the horror of that possibility sealed the mother’s lips.
Nollie, from the threshold, still looked at her wistfully, expectantly, as if half-awaiting the confession;but Mrs. Clephane held out her hand without a word.
“I must find out where he is.” It was Kate’s first thought after the door had closed on her visitor. If he were in New York—and he evidently was—she, Kate Clephane, must run him down, must get speech with him, before he had been able to see her daughter.
But how was she to set about it? Fred Landers did not even know if he were still with Horace Maclew or not—for the mere fact of Maclew’s not alluding to him while they were together meant nothing, less than nothing. And even if he had left the Maclews, the chances were that Lilla knew where he was, and had already transmitted Anne’s summons.
Mrs. Clephane consulted the telephone book, but of course in vain. Then, after some hesitation, she rang up Horace Maclew’s house in Baltimore. No one was there, but she finally elicited from the servant who answered the telephone that Mrs. Maclew was away on a motor trip. Perhaps Mr. Maclew could be reached at his country-place.... Kate tried the country-place, but Mr. Maclew had gone to Chicago.
The sense of loneliness and helplessness closed in on her more impenetrably than ever. Night came, and Aline reminded her that she had askedto have her dinner brought up on a tray. Solitary meals in John Clephane’s dining-room were impossible to her.
“I don’t want any dinner.”
Aline’s look seemed to say that she knew why, and her mistress hastily emended: “Or just some bouillon and toast. Whatever’s ready—”
She sat down to it without changing her dress. Every gesture, every act, denoting intimacy with that house, or the air of permanence in her relation to it, would also have been impossible. Again she had the feeling of sitting in a railway station, waiting for a train to come in. But now she knew for what she was waiting.
At the close of her brief meal Aline entered briskly with fruit and coffee. Her harsh face illuminated with curiosity, she handed her mistress a card. “The gentleman is downstairs. He hopes Madame will excuse the hour.” Her tone seemed to imply: “Madame, in this case, will excuseeverything!” and Kate cast a startled glance at the name.
He had come to her, then—had come of his own accord! She felt dizzy with relief and fear. Fear uppermost—yes; was she not always afraid of him?