To this Baskerville only replied: “Tell me but this—one word will settle it forever. Do you love me?”
[Illustration: “THE NEXT MINUTE SHE WAS FAST IN BASKERVILLE’S ARMS.”]
Anne remained silent, but the silences of a woman who loves are more eloquent than words. The next minute she was fast in Baskerville’s arms, who would not let her go; and they had a foretaste of Paradise, such as only those know whose love is mingled with sacrifice, which is the ultimate height of the soul’s tenderness. But their time was of necessity short, and what Anne had told Baskerville required instant consideration. When Anne would have persisted in her refusal Baskerville would not listen, but turned to the matter of her interview with Clavering.
“This is a question which must be met at once, because I believe your father quite capable of carrying out his threat. And your mother must be the first one to be considered. What do you think she would wish?”
It was the first time in her life that Anne Clavering had ever heard any one say that her mother was to be considered at all. A great wave of gratitude surged up in her heart—the poor, helpless, ignorant, loving mother, who had no friend but her—and Baskerville. She looked at him with eyes shining and brimming and laid a timid, tender hand upon his shoulder.
“You can’t prevent it,” replied Baskerville.
But when lovers talk of gratitude it means more kisses. The pale dusk of winter now filled the room, and there was no light except the red glow of the fire. Baskerville would have asked nothing better in life than an hour in that quiet, twilighted room, nor would Anne either; but, woman–like, Anne remembered that there were some other persons in the world besides themselves, and made as if to go, nor would she heed Baskerville’s pleadings to remain longer.
As they reached the door Baskerville said: “Think over what you wish me to do, and write me when you determine. Of course I must see your father immediately. And we must take my aunt into our confidence, for it is through her that we must meet.”
Poor Anne had not had much time for that sweet trifling which is the joy of lovers, but at the idea of Mrs. Luttrell being taken into any one’s confidence a faint smile came to her quivering lips. “The whole town will know all about it.”
