XXVI.

XXVI.

NOW that a day for the wedding was fixed, the preparations went on more rapidly. Soon there was only a fortnight left; then only ten days; then a week.

Chris Fenno’s parents were to have come to New York to make the acquaintance of their son’s betrothed; but though a date had several times been appointed for their visit, Mrs. Fenno, whose health was not good, had never been well enough to come, and finally it was arranged that Anne should go to Baltimore to see them. She was to stay with the Maclews, who immediately seized the opportunity to organize a series of festivities in celebration of the event.

Lilla invited Mrs. Clephane to come with her daughter; but Kate declined, on the plea that she herself was not well. People were beginning to notice how tired and thin she looked. Her glass showed streaks of gray in her redundant hair, and about her lips and eyes the little lines she had so long kept at bay. Everybody in the family agreed that it would be a good thing for her to have a few days’ rest before the wedding.

With regard to her own future she had sworn Anne to unconditional secrecy. She explained that she did not intend to give Fred Landers a definite answer till after the wedding, and Anne, who had all the Clephane reticence, understood her wish to keep the matter quiet, and even in her guardian’s presence was careful not to betray that she knew of his hopes. She only made him feel that he was more than ever welcome, and touched him by showing an added cordiality at a moment when most girls are deaf and blind to all human concerns but their own.

“It’s so like Anne to find time to remember an old derelict just when she might be excused for forgetting that any of us exist.” He said it with a gentle complacency as he sat in Mrs. Clephane’s sitting-room one evening during Anne’s absence. “She’s like you—very like you,” he added, looking at Kate Clephane with shy beseeching eyes.

She smiled back at him, wondering if she would ever have the courage to tell him that she meant to marry him. He was thinking of that too, she knew. Why not tell him now, at once? She had only to lean forward and lay her hand on his. No words would be necessary. And surely she would feel less alone.... But she remained silent; it was easier to think of speaking than to speak.

It was he who questioned: “And afterward—have you decided what you’re going to do?”

She continued to smile. “There’ll be time to decide afterward.”

“Anne tells me you’ve definitely refused to remain in this house.”

“This house hasn’t many pleasant associations for me.”

He coloured as if she had caught him in a failure of tact. “I understand that. But with the young people here ... or next door ... she hoped you’d feel less lonely.”

Again she perceived that he was trying to remind her of a possible alternative, and again she let the allusion drop, answering merely: “I’m used to being lonely. It’s not as bad as people think.”

“You’ve known worse, you mean?” He seldom risked anything as direct as that. “And it would be worse for you, being with Anne after she’s married? You still hate the idea as much as ever?”

She rose impatiently and went to lean against the mantelpiece. “Fred, what’s the use? I shall never hate it less. But that’s all over—I’ve accepted it.”

“Yes, and made Anne so happy.”

“Oh, love is what is making Anne happy!” She hardly knew how she brought the word from her lips.

“Well—loving Fenno hasn’t made her cease to love you.”

“Anne is perfect. But suppose we talk of something else. At my age I find this bridal atmosphere a little suffocating. I shall go abroad again, probably—I don’t know.”

She turned and looked at herself in the glass above the mantel, seeing the gray streaks and the accusing crows’-feet. And as she stood there, she remembered how once, when she was standing in the same way before a mirror, Chris had come up behind her, and they had laughed at seeing their reflections kiss. How young she had been then—how young! Now, as she looked at herself, she saw behind her the reflection of Fred Landers’s comfortable bulk, sunk in an armchair in after-dinner repose, his shirt-front bulging a little, the lamplight varnishing the top of his head through the thinning hair. A middle-aged couple—perfectly suited to each other in age and appearance. She turned back and sat down beside him.

“Shall we try a Patience?” she said.

He accepted with a wistful alacrity which seemed to say it was the most he hoped for, and they drew up a table and sat down opposite each other, calmly disposing the little cards in elaborate patterns.

They had been playing for about half an hour when she rumpled up the cards abruptly, and sweeping them together into a passionate heap cried out: “I want it to be a gay wedding—the gayest weddingthat ever was! I’m determined it shall be a gay wedding.”

She dropped her face into her hands, and sat there propping her elbows on the card-table, and laughing out between her intercrossed fingers: “A really gay wedding, you know....”

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