so distressed at not being able to see you. …”
She
rang off, and left me to draw my own conclusions.
They
were not of the pleasantest. I was perplexed by the apparent sequestration of
both my friends, still more so by the disquieting mystery of Mrs. Glenn’s
remaining with the Browns while Stephen had left them. Why had she not followed
her son? Was it because she had not been allowed to? I conjectured that Mrs.
Brown, knowing I was likely to put these questions to the persons concerned,
was manoeuvring to prevent my seeing them. If she could manoeuvre, so could I;
but for the moment I had to consider what line to take. The fact of her giving
me Stephen’s address made me suspect that she had taken measures to prevent my
seeing him; and if that were so there was not much use in making the attempt.
And Mrs. Glenn was in bed, and “feverish,” and not to be told of my arrival….
After
a day’s pondering I reflected that telegrams sometimes penetrate where letters
fail to, and decided to telegraph to Stephen. No reply came, but the following
afternoon, as I was leaving my hotel a taxi drove up and Mrs. Glenn descended
from it. She was dressed in black, with many hanging scarves and veils, as if
she either feared the air or the searching eye of some one who might be
interested in her movements. But for her white hair and heavy stooping lines
she might have suggested the furtive figure of a young woman stealing to her
lover. But when I looked at her the analogy seemed a
profanation.
To
women of Catherine Glenn’s ripe beauty thinness gives a sudden look of age; and
the face she raised among her thrown-back veils was emaciated. Illness and
anxiety had scarred her as years and weather scar some beautiful still image on
a church-front. She took my hand, and I led her into the empty reading-room.
“You’ve been ill!” I said.
“Not very; just a bad cold.” It was characteristic that
while she looked at me with grave beseeching eyes her words were trivial,
ordinary. “Chrissy’s so devoted—takes such care of me. She was afraid to have
me go out. The weather’s so unsettled, isn’t it? But really I’m all right; and
as it cleared this morning I just ran off for a minute to see you.” The
entreaty in her eyes became a prayer. “Only don’t tell her, will you? Dear
Steve’s been ill too—did you know? And so I just slipped out while Chrissy went
to see him. She sees him nearly every day, and brings me the news.” She gave a
sigh and added, hardly above a whisper: “He sent me your address. She doesn’t
know.”
I
listened with a sense of vague oppression. Why this mystery, this watching,
these evasions? Was it because Steve was not allowed to write to me that he had
smuggled my address to his mother? Mystery clung about us in damp fog-like
coils, like the scarves and veils about Mrs. Glenn’s thin body. But I knew that
I must let my visitor tell her tale in her own way; and, of course, when it was
told, most of the mystery subsisted, for she was in it, enveloped in it,
blinded by it. I gathered, however, that Stephen had been very unhappy. He had
met at St. Moritz a girl whom he wanted to marry: Thora Dacy—ah, I’d heard of
her, I’d met her? Mrs. Glenn’s face lit up. She had thought the child lovely;
she had known the family in Washington—excellent people; she had been so happy
in the prospect of Stephen’s happiness. And then something had happened … she
didn’t know , she had an idea that Chrissy hadn’t liked
the girl. The reason Stephen gave was that in his state of health he oughtn’t
to marry; but at the time he’d been perfectly well—the doctors had assured his
mother that his lungs were sound, and that there was no likelihood of a
relapse. She couldn’t imagine why he should have had such scruples; still less
why Chrissy should have
She
rang off, and left me to draw my own conclusions.
They
were not of the pleasantest. I was perplexed by the apparent sequestration of
both my friends, still more so by the disquieting mystery of Mrs. Glenn’s
remaining with the Browns while Stephen had left them. Why had she not followed
her son? Was it because she had not been allowed to? I conjectured that Mrs.
Brown, knowing I was likely to put these questions to the persons concerned,
was manoeuvring to prevent my seeing them. If she could manoeuvre, so could I;
but for the moment I had to consider what line to take. The fact of her giving
me Stephen’s address made me suspect that she had taken measures to prevent my
seeing him; and if that were so there was not much use in making the attempt.
And Mrs. Glenn was in bed, and “feverish,” and not to be told of my arrival….
After
a day’s pondering I reflected that telegrams sometimes penetrate where letters
fail to, and decided to telegraph to Stephen. No reply came, but the following
afternoon, as I was leaving my hotel a taxi drove up and Mrs. Glenn descended
from it. She was dressed in black, with many hanging scarves and veils, as if
she either feared the air or the searching eye of some one who might be
interested in her movements. But for her white hair and heavy stooping lines
she might have suggested the furtive figure of a young woman stealing to her
lover. But when I looked at her the analogy seemed a
profanation.
To
women of Catherine Glenn’s ripe beauty thinness gives a sudden look of age; and
the face she raised among her thrown-back veils was emaciated. Illness and
anxiety had scarred her as years and weather scar some beautiful still image on
a church-front. She took my hand, and I led her into the empty reading-room.
“You’ve been ill!” I said.
“Not very; just a bad cold.” It was characteristic that
while she looked at me with grave beseeching eyes her words were trivial,
ordinary. “Chrissy’s so devoted—takes such care of me. She was afraid to have
me go out. The weather’s so unsettled, isn’t it? But really I’m all right; and
as it cleared this morning I just ran off for a minute to see you.” The
entreaty in her eyes became a prayer. “Only don’t tell her, will you? Dear
Steve’s been ill too—did you know? And so I just slipped out while Chrissy went
to see him. She sees him nearly every day, and brings me the news.” She gave a
sigh and added, hardly above a whisper: “He sent me your address. She doesn’t
know.”
I
listened with a sense of vague oppression. Why this mystery, this watching,
these evasions? Was it because Steve was not allowed to write to me that he had
smuggled my address to his mother? Mystery clung about us in damp fog-like
coils, like the scarves and veils about Mrs. Glenn’s thin body. But I knew that
I must let my visitor tell her tale in her own way; and, of course, when it was
told, most of the mystery subsisted, for she was in it, enveloped in it,
blinded by it. I gathered, however, that Stephen had been very unhappy. He had
met at St. Moritz a girl whom he wanted to marry: Thora Dacy—ah, I’d heard of
her, I’d met her? Mrs. Glenn’s face lit up. She had thought the child lovely;
she had known the family in Washington—excellent people; she had been so happy
in the prospect of Stephen’s happiness. And then something had happened … she
didn’t know , she had an idea that Chrissy hadn’t liked
the girl. The reason Stephen gave was that in his state of health he oughtn’t
to marry; but at the time he’d been perfectly well—the doctors had assured his
mother that his lungs were sound, and that there was no likelihood of a
relapse. She couldn’t imagine why he should have had such scruples; still less
why Chrissy should have
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