“We’re not twenty … either of us. We can’t wait too long.”
“I can’t desert her yet. You don’t know how it is at Pentlands. I’ve got to save her, even if I lose myself. I fancy they’ll be married before winter … even before autumn … before he leaves. And then I shall be free. I couldn’t … I couldn’t be your mistress now, Michael … with Sybil still in there at Pentlands with me. … I may be quibbling. … I may sound silly, but it does make a difference … because perhaps I’ve lived among them for too long.”
“You promise me that when she’s gone you’ll be free?”
“I promise you, Michael. … I’ve told you that I love you … that you’re the only man I’ve ever loved … even the smallest bit.”
“Mrs. Callendar will help us. … She wants it.”
“Oh, Sabine. …” She was startled. “You haven’t spoken to her? You haven’t told her anything?”
“No. … But you don’t need to tell her such things. She has a way of knowing.” After a moment he said, “Why, even Higgins wants it. He keeps saying to me, in an offhand sort of way, as if what he said meant nothing at all, ‘Mrs. Pentland is a fine woman, sir. I’ve known her for years. Why, she’s even helped me out of scrapes. But it’s a pity she’s shut up in that mausoleum with all those dead ones. She ought to have a husband who’s a man. She’s married to a living corpse.’ ”
Olivia flushed. “He has no right to talk that way. …”
“If you could hear him speak, you’d know that it’s not disrespect, but because he worships you. He’d kiss the ground you walk over.” And looking down, he added, “He says it’s a pity that a thoroughbred like you is shut up at Pentlands. You mustn’t mind his way of saying it. He’s something of a horse-breeder and so he sees such things in the light of truth.”
She knew, then, what O’Hara perhaps had failed to understand—that Higgins was touching the tragedy of her son, a son who should have been strong and full of life, like Jean. And a wild idea occurred to her—that she might still have a strong son, with O’Hara as the father, a son who would be a Pentland heir but without the Pentland taint. She might do what Savina Pentland had done. But she saw at once how absurd such an idea was; Anson would know well enough that it was not his son.
They rode on slowly and in silence while Olivia thought wearily round and round the dark, tangled maze in which she found herself. There seemed no way out of it. She was caught, shut in a prison, at the very moment when her chance of happiness had come.
They came suddenly out of the thicket into the lane that led from Aunt Cassie’s gazeboed house to Pentlands, and as they passed through the gate they saw Aunt Cassie’s antiquated motor drawn up at the side of the road. The old lady was nowhere to be seen, but at the sound of hoofs the rotund form and silly face of Miss Peavey emerged from the bushes at one side, her bulging arms filled with great bunches of some weed.
She greeted Olivia and nodded to O’Hara. “I’ve been gathering catnip for my cats,” she called out. “It grows fine and thick there in the damp ground by the spring.”
Olivia smiled … a smile that gave her a kind of physical pain … and they rode on, conscious all the while that Miss Peavey’s china-blue eyes were following them. She knew that Miss Peavey was too silly and innocent to suspect anything, but she would, beyond all doubt, go directly to Aunt Cassie with a detailed description of the encounter. Very little happened in Miss Peavey’s life and such an encounter loomed large. Aunt Cassie would draw from her all the tiny details, such as the fact that Olivia looked as if she had been weeping.
Olivia turned to O’Hara. “There’s nothing malicious about poor Miss Peavey,” she said, “but she’s a fool, which is far more dangerous.”
IX
I
As the month of August moved toward an end there was no longer any doubt as to the “failing” of Aunt Cassie; it was confirmed by the very silence with which she surrounded the state of her health. For forty years one had discussed Aunt Cassie’s health as one discussed the weather—a thing ever present in the consciousness of man about which one could do nothing, and now Aunt Cassie ceased suddenly to speak of her health at all. She even abandoned her habit of going about on foot and took to making her round of calls in the rattling motor which she protested to fear and loathe, and she came to lean more and more heavily upon the robust Miss Peavey for companionship and support. Claiming a fear of burglars, she had Miss Peavey’s bed moved into the room next to hers and kept the door open between. She developed, Olivia discovered, an almost morbid terror of being left alone.
And so the depression of another illness came to add its weight to the burden of Jack’s death and the grief of John Pentland. The task of battling the cloud of melancholy which hung over the old house grew more and more heavy upon Olivia’s shoulders. Anson remained as usual indifferent to any changes in the life about him, living really in the past among all the sheaves of musty papers, a man not so much cold-blooded as bloodless, for there was nothing active nor calculating in his nature, but only a great inertia, a lack of all fire. And it was impossible to turn to Sabine, who in an odd way seemed as cold and detached as Anson; she appeared to stand at a little distance, waiting, watching them all, even Olivia herself. And it was of course unthinkable to cloud the happiness of Sybil by going to her for support.
There was
