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Itsoothed her at a moment when, all interest having departed from life,she wanted merely to be left in peace. She came to see for a certaintythat there was no tragedy in her son's death; the only tragedy had beenthat he had ever lived at all such a baffled, painful, hopelessexistence. And now, after so many years of anxiety, there was peace anda relaxation that seemed strange and in a way delicious... Momentswhen, lying in the chaise longue by the window overlooking the marshes,she was enveloped by deep and healing solitude. Even the visits of AuntCassie, who would have forced her way into Olivia's room in theinterests of "duty," made only a vague, dreamlike impression. The oldlady became more and more a droning, busy insect, the sound of whosebuzzing grew daily more distant and vague, like the sound of a flyagainst a window-pane heard through veils of sleep.
In her look, as in the sound of her voice, she managed tolaunch a flood of disapproval upon the behavior of old John Pentland andold Mrs. Soames. "Yes," replied Olivia from the terrace, "he's playing bridge with Mrs.Soames." There was a great bustle about getting the two old ladies under way, agreat search for cloaks and scarfs and impedimenta; but at last theywent off, Aunt Cassie saying over her thin, high shoulder, "Will you saygood-by to your dear father-in-law, Olivia? I suppose he's playingbridge with Mrs. Soames." "Ah," she said, in her hard voice, "Ihaven't begun to give up yet. I am still good for years." And she fell to speculating for the hundredth time on the little-knowncircumstances of Sabine's unhappy marriage and divorce, turning themorsels over and over again with a variety of speculation and theinterjection of much pious phraseology; for in Aunt Cassie's speech Godseemed to have a hand in everything.
And he looked at her with the quick, pitiful helplessness of a strongman who has suddenly grown weak and old, as if at last he had come tothe end of his strength and was turning now to her. It was then for thefirst rime that she began to see how she was in a way a prisoner, thatfrom now on, as one day passed into another, the whole life at Pentlandswould come to be more and more her affair. When Miss Peavey was not at hand to run errands for her, she made Ansonher messenger.... Anson, who wandered about helpless and lost andtroubled because death had interrupted the easy, eventless flow of alife in which usually all moved according to a set plan. It was impossible to know how Anson Pentland feltover the death of his son.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have told you allthis.... I've told Sybil. She understands." She was wakened early, after having slept badly, with the news thatMichael had been kept in Boston the night before and would not be ableto ride with her as usual. When the maid had gone away she grewdepressed, for she had counted upon seeing him and coming to somedefinite plan.
She had a sudden feeling ofvictory, of intoxication such as she had not known in years, not sinceshe was a young girl; and at the same time she wanted to laugh, wildly,hysterically, at the sight of Anson, so tall and thin, prancing up anddown. "Aunt Cassie does, too. She's beentelling all the neighborhood that I seem to be unhappy. Perhaps it'sbecause I'm a little tired. I've not had much rest for a long timenow... from Jack, from Aunt Cassie, from your father... and... fromher." At the last word she made a curious little half-gesture in thedirection of the dark north wing of the big house. At this speech Olivia's brows arched ever so slightly with a look whichmight have been interpreted either as one of surprise or one of mockeryor perhaps a little of both.
She thought, "He meant, then, what he said.He's given up everything here." She understood now why it was that theold man had talked to her as if he were very near to death, and shethought, "He did it in a way that none would ever discover. He trustedHiggins, and Sabine was an accident. Perhaps... perhaps... he did itto keep me here... to save the thing he believed in all his life." At such times all hercold-blooded detachment made of her a person of great value, and Oliviaknew that she could be trusted to find them because she wanted her motoragain desperately. Remembering her promise to the old man, she wentacross to see Mrs. Soames, but nothing came of it, for the old lady hadfallen into a state of complete unconsciousness. She would, they toldOlivia, probably die without ever knowing that John Pentland had gonebefore her.
O'Hara turned over to him a canoe and arowing-scull and told him that whenever his leg was better he might havea horse from his stables. As he talked to Sabine of New York, he would rise to that pitch ofexcitement and enthusiasm which comes to people keenly alive. He evenconfided in her that he had left Europe never to return there to live.
Afeeling which, strangely enough, seemed to increase rather than diminishas the years passed. In the beginning, a long while ago, it had seemed to hergreen and peaceful and full of quiet, a place where she might find restand peace... But she had come long since to see it as it was, as Sabinehad seen it while she stood in the window of the writing-room,frightened by the sudden queer apparition of the little groom--acountry beautiful, hard and cold, and a little barren. Beneath the inscription were cut the names of those families who hadmade the journey to found a new town which had since surpassed sleepyDurham a hundred times in wealth and prosperity. There was no Pentlandname among them, for the Pentlands had been rich even in the yeareighteen hundred and eighteen, and lived in winter in Boston and insummer at Durham, on the land claimed from the wilderness by the firstof the family.
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There were evenings when Mrs. Soames sent word that she was feeling tooill to play, and on those occasions John Pentland drove over to see her,and the bridge was played instead at Brook Cottage with O'Hara and afourth recruited impersonally from the countryside. To Sabine, thechoice was a matter of indifference so long as the chosen one could playwell. Once when Olivia said to her, "We'll all be old some day. Perhaps we'llbe worse than old Mrs. Soames," Sabine replied with a shrug ofbitterness, "Old age is a bore. That's the trouble with us, Olivia.We'll never give up and become old ladies. It used to be the beautieswho clung to youth, and now all of us do it. We'll probably be paintedold horrors... like her." She rose and, winding the chiffon scarf about her throat, opened heryellow parasol, saying, "I know I'm right. She's a virgin. At least,"she added, "in the technical sense, she's a virgin. I know nothing abouther mind." Olivia and Miss Egan ignored her, as if part of her--the vaguelyrational old woman--had disappeared, leaving in her place this pitifulchattering creature who was a stranger.
And then with the return to Pentlands (a return advised by her mother onaccount of Jack's health) the image dimmed a little in the belief thateven by the wildest flights of imagination there was no chance of herseeing him again. It became a hopeless passion; she prepared herself toforget him and, in the wisdom of her young mind, grow accustomed to theidea of marrying one of the tame young men who were so much moresuitable and whom her family had always known. She had watched heradmirers carefully, weighing them always against the image of the youngman with red hair, dressed in the black and silver of the cuirassiers,and beside that image they had seemed to her--even the blond,good-looking Mannering boy--like little boys, rather naughty and nothalf so old and wise as herself. She had reconciled herself secretly andwith gravity to the idea of making one of the matches common in herworld--a marriage determined by property and the fact that her fiancéwould be "the right sort of person." And then almost at once he had gone away to the Argentine, without evenseeing her again, on a trip to learn the business of cattle-raisingbecause he had the idea that one day he might settle himself as arancher. But he left behind him a vivid image which with the passing oftime grew more and more intense in the depths of a romantic nature whichrevolted at the idea of Thérèse choosing a father scientifically for herchild.
In her look, as in the sound of her voice, she managed tolaunch a flood of disapproval upon the behavior of old John Pentland andold Mrs. Soames. "Yes," replied Olivia from the terrace, "he's playing bridge with Mrs.Soames." There was a great bustle about getting the two old ladies under way, agreat search for cloaks and scarfs and impedimenta; but at last theywent off, Aunt Cassie saying over her thin, high shoulder, "Will you saygood-by to your dear father-in-law, Olivia? I suppose he's playingbridge with Mrs. Soames." "Ah," she said, in her hard voice, "Ihaven't begun to give up yet. I am still good for years." And she fell to speculating for the hundredth time on the little-knowncircumstances of Sabine's unhappy marriage and divorce, turning themorsels over and over again with a variety of speculation and theinterjection of much pious phraseology; for in Aunt Cassie's speech Godseemed to have a hand in everything.
- She saw that Anson Pentlandwas never lonely, for he had his friends who were so like him as to bevery nearly indistinguishable, and he had all the traditions andfetishes which he shared with Aunt Cassie.
- For a moment the old woman considered this, and at last she said, "Youwouldn't give it to me if you found it. I'm sure you wouldn't. You'retoo afraid of them all."
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- The day was hot, but here on the great hill, remotefrom the damp, low-lying meadows, there was a fresh cool wind, almost agale, blowing in from the open sea.
And he looked at her with the quick, pitiful helplessness of a strongman who has suddenly grown weak and old, as if at last he had come tothe end of his strength and was turning now to her. It was then for thefirst rime that she began to see how she was in a way a prisoner, thatfrom now on, as one day passed into another, the whole life at Pentlandswould come to be more and more her affair. When Miss Peavey was not at hand to run errands for her, she made Ansonher messenger.... Anson, who wandered about helpless and lost andtroubled because death had interrupted the easy, eventless flow of alife in which usually all moved according to a set plan. It was impossible to know how Anson Pentland feltover the death of his son.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have told you allthis.... I've told Sybil. She understands." She was wakened early, after having slept badly, with the news thatMichael had been kept in Boston the night before and would not be ableto ride with her as usual. When the maid had gone away she grewdepressed, for she had counted upon seeing him and coming to somedefinite plan.
She had a sudden feeling ofvictory, of intoxication such as she had not known in years, not sinceshe was a young girl; and at the same time she wanted to laugh, wildly,hysterically, at the sight of Anson, so tall and thin, prancing up anddown. "Aunt Cassie does, too. She's beentelling all the neighborhood that I seem to be unhappy. Perhaps it'sbecause I'm a little tired. I've not had much rest for a long timenow... from Jack, from Aunt Cassie, from your father... and... fromher." At the last word she made a curious little half-gesture in thedirection of the dark north wing of the big house. At this speech Olivia's brows arched ever so slightly with a look whichmight have been interpreted either as one of surprise or one of mockeryor perhaps a little of both.
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She thought, "He meant, then, what he said.He's given up everything here." She understood now why it was that theold man had talked to her as if he were very near to death, and shethought, "He did it in a way that none would ever discover. He trustedHiggins, and Sabine was an accident. Perhaps... perhaps... he did itto keep me here... to save the thing he believed in all his life." At such times all hercold-blooded detachment made of her a person of great value, and Oliviaknew that she could be trusted to find them because she wanted her motoragain desperately. Remembering her promise to the old man, she wentacross to see Mrs. Soames, but nothing came of it, for the old lady hadfallen into a state of complete unconsciousness. She would, they toldOlivia, probably die without ever knowing that John Pentland had gonebefore her.
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O'Hara turned over to him a canoe and arowing-scull and told him that whenever his leg was better he might havea horse from his stables. As he talked to Sabine of New York, he would rise to that pitch ofexcitement and enthusiasm which comes to people keenly alive. He evenconfided in her that he had left Europe never to return there to live.
Afeeling which, strangely enough, seemed to increase rather than diminishas the years passed. In the beginning, a long while ago, it had seemed to hergreen and peaceful and full of quiet, a place where she might find restand peace... But she had come long since to see it as it was, as Sabinehad seen it while she stood in the window of the writing-room,frightened by the sudden queer apparition of the little groom--acountry beautiful, hard and cold, and a little barren. Beneath the inscription were cut the names of those families who hadmade the journey to found a new town which had since surpassed sleepyDurham a hundred times in wealth and prosperity. There was no Pentlandname among them, for the Pentlands had been rich even in the yeareighteen hundred and eighteen, and lived in winter in Boston and insummer at Durham, on the land claimed from the wilderness by the firstof the family.
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There were evenings when Mrs. Soames sent word that she was feeling tooill to play, and on those occasions John Pentland drove over to see her,and the bridge was played instead at Brook Cottage with O'Hara and afourth recruited impersonally from the countryside. To Sabine, thechoice was a matter of indifference so long as the chosen one could playwell. Once when Olivia said to her, "We'll all be old some day. Perhaps we'llbe worse than old Mrs. Soames," Sabine replied with a shrug ofbitterness, "Old age is a bore. That's the trouble with us, Olivia.We'll never give up and become old ladies. It used to be the beautieswho clung to youth, and now all of us do it. We'll probably be paintedold horrors... like her." She rose and, winding the chiffon scarf about her throat, opened heryellow parasol, saying, "I know I'm right. She's a virgin. At least,"she added, "in the technical sense, she's a virgin. I know nothing abouther mind." Olivia and Miss Egan ignored her, as if part of her--the vaguelyrational old woman--had disappeared, leaving in her place this pitifulchattering creature who was a stranger.
And then with the return to Pentlands (a return advised by her mother onaccount of Jack's health) the image dimmed a little in the belief thateven by the wildest flights of imagination there was no chance of herseeing him again. It became a hopeless passion; she prepared herself toforget him and, in the wisdom of her young mind, grow accustomed to theidea of marrying one of the tame young men who were so much moresuitable and whom her family had always known. She had watched heradmirers carefully, weighing them always against the image of the youngman with red hair, dressed in the black and silver of the cuirassiers,and beside that image they had seemed to her--even the blond,good-looking Mannering boy--like little boys, rather naughty and nothalf so old and wise as herself. She had reconciled herself secretly andwith gravity to the idea of making one of the matches common in herworld--a marriage determined by property and the fact that her fiancéwould be "the right sort of person." And then almost at once he had gone away to the Argentine, without evenseeing her again, on a trip to learn the business of cattle-raisingbecause he had the idea that one day he might settle himself as arancher. But he left behind him a vivid image which with the passing oftime grew more and more intense in the depths of a romantic nature whichrevolted at the idea of Thérèse choosing a father scientifically for herchild.
Public Last updated: 2022-03-24 06:26:52 PM
