so, for he's a real gentleman and she's as sweet a lady as ever stepped, which I should know if any one should, having seen her patience with poor master as was really called for through his long illness. She deserves a happy ending, and I'm sure I hope she may have it, poor lady."
"To-morrow at the usual time," meaning five o'clock or thereabouts, brought Kenneth for his last visit. Anne had been expecting him with an anxiety she was almost ashamed to own to herself, yet her manner was so calm and collected that no one could have guessed the tumult of hope and fear, of wild grief at his leaving, of intense longing for any word – were it but a word – to prove that all was not on her side only.
"I could bear his being away – for years even, if he thought it must be – if I could but look forward – if I had the right to look forward to his return," she said to herself.
But the evening passed on tranquilly, and to all appearance pleasantly, without a word or look more than might have been between real brother and sister. Kenneth talked kindly – tenderly even – of the past; repeated more than once the pleasure it had been to him to find again his old friend so little changed, so completely his old friend still. The boys came in to say good-night, and "good-bye, alas! my lads," added their tall friend with a sigh. "Don't forget me quite, Hal and Charlie, and don't let your mother forget me either, eh?" To which the little fellows replied solemnly, though hardly understanding why he patted their curly heads with a lingering hand this evening, or why mamma looked grave at his words.
And Anne bore it all without flinching, and smiled and talked a little more than usual perhaps, though all the time her heart was bursting, and Kenneth wondered more than ever if, after all, she had "much heart or feeling to speak of."
"You will be bringing back a wife with you perhaps," she said once. "Shall you tell her about your sister Anne, Kenneth?"
Major Graham looked at her earnestly for half an instant before he replied, but Anne's eyes were not turned towards him, and she did not see the look. And his words almost belied it.
"Certainly I shall tell her of you," he said, "that is to say, if she ever comes to exist. At present few things are less probable. Still I am old enough now never to say, 'Fontaine, je ne boirai jamais de ton eau.' But," he went on, "I may return to find you married again, Anne. You are still so young and you are rather lonely."
"No," said Anne with a sudden fierceness which he had never seen in her before, "I shall never marry again —never," and she looked him full in the face with a strange sparkle in her eyes which almost frightened him.
"I beg your pardon," he said meekly. And though the momentary excitement faded as quickly as it had come, and Anne, murmuring some half-intelligible excuse, was again her quiet self, this momentary glimpse of a fierier nature beneath gave him food for reflection.
"Can Medway have not been what he seemed on the surface, after all?" he thought to himself. "What can make her so vindictive against matrimony?"
But it was growing late, and Kenneth had still some last preparations to make. He rose slowly and reluctantly from his chair.
"I must be going, I fear," he said.
Anne too had risen. They stood together on the hearthrug. A slight, very slight shiver passed through her. Kenneth perceived it.
"You have caught cold, I fear," he said kindly; for the room was warm and the fire was burning brightly.
"No, I don't think so," she said indifferently.
"You will write to me now and then?" he said next.
"Oh, certainly – not very often perhaps," she replied lightly, "but now and then. Stay," and she turned away towards her writing-table, "tell me exactly how to address you. Your name – is your surname enough? – there is no other Graham in your regiment?"
"No," he said absently, "I suppose not. Yes, just my name and the regiment and Allagherry, which will be our headquarters. You might, if you were very amiable – you might write to Galles – a letter overland would wait for me there," for it was the days of "long sea" for all troops to India.
Anne returned to her former position on the hearthrug – the moment at the table had restored her courage. "We shall see," she said, smiling again.
Then Kenneth said once more, "I must go;" but he lingered still a moment.
"You must have caught cold, Anne, or else you are very tired. You are so white," and from his height above her, though Anne herself was tall, he laid his hand on her shoulder gently and as a brother might have done, and looked down at her pale face half inquiringly. A flush of colour rose for an instant to her cheeks. The temptation was strong upon her to throw off that calmly caressing hand, but she resisted it, and looked up bravely with a light almost of defiance in her eyes.
"I am perfectly well, I assure you. But perhaps I am a little tired. I suppose it is getting late."
And Kenneth stifled a sigh of scarcely realised disappointment, and quickly drew back his hand.
"Yes, it is late. I am very thoughtless. Good-bye then, Anne. God bless you."
And before she had time to answer he was gone.
Ambrose met him in the hall, with well-meaning officiousness bringing forward his coat and hat. His presence helped to dissipate an impulse which seized Major Graham to rush upstairs again for one other word of farewell. Had he done so what would he have found? Anne sobbing – sobbing with the terrible intensity of a self-contained nature once the strain is withdrawn – sobbing in the bitterness of her grief and the cruelty of her mortification, with but one consolation.
"At least he does not despise me. I hid it well," she whispered to herself.
And Kenneth Graham, as he drove away in his cab, repeated to himself, "She is so cold, this evening particularly. And yet, can it be that it was to hide any other feeling? If I thought so – good God!" and he half started up as if to call to the driver, but sat down again. "No, no, I must not be a fool. I could not stand a repulse from her– I could never see her again. Better not risk it. And then I am so poor!"
And in the bustle and hurry of his departure he tried to forget the wild fancy which for a moment had disturbed him. He sailed the next day.
But the few weeks which followed passed heavily for Anne. It was a dead time of year – there was no special necessity for her exerting herself to throw off the overwhelming depression, and strong and brave as she was, she allowed herself, to some extent, to yield to it.
"If only he had not come back – if I had never seen him again!" she repeated to herself incessantly. "I had in a sense forgotten him – the thought of him never troubled me all the years of my marriage. I suppose I had never before understood how I could care. How I wish I had never learnt it! How I wish he had never come back!"
It was above all in the afternoons – the dull, early dark, autumn afternoons – which for some weeks had been enlivened by the expectation, sure two or three times a week to be fulfilled, of Major Graham's "dropping in" – that the aching pain, the weary longing, grew so bad as to be well-nigh intolerable.
"How shall I bear it?" said poor Anne to herself sometimes; "it is so wrong, so unwomanly! So selfish, too, when I think of my children. How much I have to be thankful for – why should I ruin my life by crying for the one thing that is not for me? It is worse, far worse than if he had died; had I known that he had loved me, I could have borne his death, it seems to me."
She was sitting alone one afternoon about five weeks after Kenneth had left, thinking sadly over and over the same thoughts, when a tap at the door made her look up.
"Come in," she said, though the tap hardly sounded like that of her maid, and no one else was likely to come to the door of her own room where she happened to be. "Come in," and somewhat to her surprise the door half opened and old Ambrose's voice replied —
"If you please, ma'am – " then stopped and hesitated.
"Come in," she repeated with a touch of impatience. "What is it, Ambrose? Where is Seton?"
"If you please, ma'am, I couldn't find