“No,” she thought, “I will not stay. … I will not sacrifice myself. Tomorrow I shall tell Michael that when Sybil is gone, I will do whatever he wants me to do. …”
When she reached the house she found it dark save for the light which burned perpetually in the big hall illuminating faintly the rows of portraits; and silent save for the creakings which afflicted it in the stillness of the night.
III
She was wakened early, after having slept badly, with the news that Michael had been kept in Boston the night before and would not be able to ride with her as usual. When the maid had gone away she grew depressed, for she had counted upon seeing him and coming to some definite plan. For a moment she even experienced a vague jealousy, which she put away at once as shameful. It was not, she told herself, that he ever neglected her; it was only that he grew more and more occupied as the autumn approached. It was not that there was any other woman involved; she felt certain of him. And yet there remained that strange, gnawing little suspicion placed in her mind when John Pentland had said, “He’s a clever Irishman on the make … and such gentlemen need watching.”
After all, she knew nothing of him save what he had chosen to tell her. He was a free man, independent, a buccaneer, who could do as he chose in life. Why should he ruin himself for her?
She rose at last, determined to ride alone, in the hope that the fresh morning air and the exercise would put to rout this cloud of morbidity which had kept possession of her from the moment she left John Pentland in the library.
As she dressed, she thought, “Day after tomorrow I shall be forty years old. Perhaps that’s the reason why I feel tired and morbid. Perhaps I’m on the borderland of middle-age. But that can’t be. I am strong and well and I look young, despite everything. I am tired because of what happened last night.” And then it occurred to her that perhaps Mrs. Soames had known these same thoughts again and again during her long devotion to John Pentland. “No,” she told herself, “whatever happens I shall never lead the life she has led. Anything is better than that … anything.”
It seemed strange to her to awaken and find that nothing was changed in all the world about her. After what had happened the night before in the library and on the dark meadows, there should have been some mark left upon the life at Pentlands. The very house, the very landscape, should have kept some record of what had happened; and yet everything was the same. She experienced a faint shock of surprise to find the sun shining brightly, to see Higgins in the stable-yard saddling her horse and whistling all the while in an excess of high spirits, to hear the distant barking of the beagles, and to see Sybil crossing the meadow toward the river to meet Jean. Everything was the same, even Higgins, whom she had mistaken for a ghost as he crossed the mist-hung meadows a few hours earlier. It was as if there were two realities at Pentlands—one, it might have been said, of the daylight and the other of the darkness; as if one life—a secret, hidden one—lay beneath the bright, pleasant surface of a world composed of green fields and trees, the sound of barking dogs, the faint odor of coffee arising from the kitchen, and the sound of a groom whistling while he saddled a thoroughbred. It was a misfortune that chance had given her an insight into both the bright, pleasant world and that other dark, nebulous one. The others, save perhaps old John Pentland, saw only this bright, easy life that had begun to stir all about her.
And she reflected that a stranger coming to Pentlands would find it a pleasant, comfortable house, where the life was easy and even luxurious, where all of them were protected by wealth. He would find them all rather pleasant, normal, friendly people of a family respected and even distinguished. He would say, “Here is a world that is solid and comfortable and sound.”
Yes, it would appear thus to a stranger, so it might be that the dark, fearful world existed only in her imagination. Perhaps she herself was ill, a little unbalanced and morbid … perhaps a little touched like the old woman in the north wing.
Still, she thought, most houses, most families, must have such double lives—one which the world saw and one which remained hidden.
As she pulled on her boots she heard the voice of Higgins, noisy and cheerful, exchanging amorous jests with the new Irish kitchen-maid, marking her already for his own.
She rode listlessly, allowing the mare to lead through the birch thicket over the cool dark paths which she and Michael always followed. The morning air did not change her spirits. There was something sad in riding alone through the long green tunnel.
When at last she came out on the opposite side by the patch of catnip where they had encountered Miss Peavey, she saw a Ford drawn up by the side of the road and a man standing beside it, smoking a cigar and regarding the engine as if he were in trouble. She saw no more than that and would have passed him without troubling to look a second time, when she heard herself being addressed.
“You’re Mrs. Pentland, aren’t you?”
She drew in the mare. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Pentland.”
He was a little man, dressed rather too neatly in a suit of checkered stuff, with a high,
