1Toward morning the still, breathless heat broke without warning into a fantastic storm which filled all the sky with blinding light and enveloped the whole countryside in a wild uproar of wind and thunder, leaving the dawn to reveal fields torn and ravaged and strewn with broken branches, and the bright garden bruised and battered by hail.

2At breakfast Anson appeared neat and shaven and smooth, as though there had been no struggle a few hours before in the drawing-room, as if the thing had made no impression upon the smooth surface which he turned toward the world. Olivia poured his coffee quietly and permitted him to kiss her as he had done every day for twenty years—a strange, cold, absent-minded kiss—and stood in the doorway to watch him drive off to the train. Nothing had changed; it seemed to her that life at Pentlands had become incapable of any change.

3And as she turned from the door Peters summoned her to the telephone to receive the telegram from Jean and Sybil; they had been married at seven in Hartford.

4She set out at once to find John Pentland and after a search she came upon him in the stable-yard talking with Higgins. The strange pair stood by the side of the red mare, who watched them with her small, vicious red eyes; they were talking in that curious intimate way which descended upon them at the mention of horses, and as she approached she was struck, as she always was, by the fiery beauty of the animal, the pride of her lean head, the trembling of the fine nostrils as she breathed, the savagery of her eye. She was a strange, half-evil, beautiful beast. Olivia heard Higgins saying that it was no use trying to breed her ... an animal like that, who kicked and screamed and bit at the very sight of another horse....

5Higgins saw her first and, touching his cap, bade her good-morning, and as the old man turned, she said, “I’ve news for you, Mr. Pentland.”

6A shrewd, queer look came into his eyes and he asked, “Is it about Sybil?”

7“Yes.... It’s done.”

8She saw that Higgins was mystified, and she was moved by a desire to tell him. Higgins ought to know certainly among the first. And she added, “It’s about Miss Sybil. She married young Mr. de Cyon this morning in Hartford.”

9The news had a magical effect on the little groom; his ugly, shriveled face expanded into a broad grin and he slapped his thigh in his enthusiasm. “That’s grand, Ma’am.... I don’t mind telling you I was for it all along. She couldn’t have done better ... nor him either.”

10Again moved by impulse, she said, “So you think it’s a good thing?”

11“It’s grand, Ma’am. He’s one in a million. He’s the only one I know who was good enough. I was afraid she was going to throw herself away on Mr. O’Hara.... But she ought to have a younger man.”

12She turned away from him, pleased and relieved from the anxiety which had never really left her since the moment they drove off into the darkness. She kept thinking, “Higgins is always right about people. He has a second sight.” Somehow, of them all, she trusted him most as a judge.

13John Pentland led her away, out of range of Higgins’ curiosity, along the hedge that bordered the gardens. The news seemed to affect him strangely, for he had turned pale, and for a long time he simply stood looking over the hedge in silence. At last he asked, “When did they do it?”

14“Last night.... She went for a drive with him and they didn’t come back.”

15“I hope we’ve been right ...” he said. “I hope we haven’t connived at a foolish thing.”

16“No.... I’m sure we haven’t.”

17Something in the brilliance of the sunlight, in the certainty of Sybil’s escape and happiness, in the freshness of the air touched after the storm by the first faint feel of autumn, filled her with a sense of giddiness, so that she forgot her own troubles; she forgot, even, that this was her fortieth birthday.

18“Did they go in Sabine’s motor?” he asked.

19“Yes.”

20Grinning suddenly, he said, “She thought perhaps that she was doing us a bad turn.”

21“No, she knew that I approved. She did think of it first. She did propose it....”

22When he spoke again there was a faint hint of bitterness in his voice. “I’m sure she did. I only hope she’ll stop her mischief with this. In any case, she’s had a victory over Cassie ... and that’s what she wanted, more than anything....” He turned toward her sharply, with an air of anxiety. “I suppose he’ll take her away with him?”

23“Yes. They’re going to Paris first and then to the Argentine.”

24Suddenly he touched her shoulder with the odd, shy gesture of affection. “It’ll be hard for you, Olivia dear ... without her.”

25The sudden action brought a lump into her throat, and yet she did not want to be pitied. She hated pity, because it implied weakness on her part.

26“Oh,” she said quickly, “they’ll come back from time to time.... I think that some day they may come back here to live.”

27“Yes.... Pentlands will belong to them one day.”

28And then for the first time she remembered that there was something which she had to tell him, something which had come to seem almost a confession. She must tell him now, especially since Jean would one day own all of Pentlands and all the fortune.

29“There’s something I didn’t tell you before,” she began. “It’s something which I kept to myself because I wanted Sybil to have her happiness ... in spite of everything.”

30He interrupted her, saying, “I know what it is.”

31“You couldn’t know what I mean.”

32“Yes; the boy told me himself. I went to him to talk about Sybil because I wanted to make sure of him ... and after a time he told me. It was an honorable thing for him to have done. He needn’t have told. Sabine would never have told us ... never until it was too late.”

33The speech left her feeling weak and disconcerted, for she had expected anger from him and disapproval. She had been fearful that he might treat her silence as a disloyalty to him, that it might in the end shatter the long, trusting relationship between them.

34“The boy couldn’t help it,” he was saying. “It’s a thing one can’t properly explain. But he’s a nice boy ... and Sybil was so set on him. I think she has a good, sensible head on her young shoulders.” Sighing and turning toward her again, he added, “I wouldn’t speak of it to the others ... not even to Anson. They may never know, and if they don’t what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

35The mystery of him, it seemed, grew deeper and deeper each time they talked thus, intimately, perhaps because there were in the old man depths which she had never believed possible. Perhaps, deep down beneath all the fierce reticence of his nature, there lay a humanity far greater than any she had ever encountered. She thought, “And I have always believed him hard and cold and disapproving.” She was beginning to fathom the great strength that lay in his fierce isolation, the strength of a man who had always been alone.

36“And you, Olivia?” he asked presently. “Are you happy?”

37“Yes.... At least, I’m happy this morning ... on account of Sybil and Jean.”

38“That’s right,” he said with a gentle sadness. “That’s right. They’ve done what you and I were never able to do, Olivia. They’ll have what we’ve never had and never can have because it’s too late. And we’ve helped them to gain it.... That’s something. I merely wanted you to know that I understood.” And then, “We’d better go and tell the others. The devil will be to pay when they hear.”

39She would have gone away then, but an odd thought occurred to her, a hope, feeble enough, but one which might give him a little pleasure. She was struck again by his way of speaking, as if he were very near to death or already dead. He had the air of a very old and weary man.

40She said, “There’s one thing I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time.” She hesitated and then plunged. “It was about Savina Pentland. Did she ever have more than one child?”

41He looked at her sharply out of the bright black eyes and asked, “Why do you want to know that?”

42She tried to deceive him by shrugging her shoulders and saying casually, “I don’t know.... I’ve become interested lately, perhaps on account of Anson’s book.”

43“You ... interested in the past, Olivia?”

44“Yes.”

45“Yes, she only had one child ... and then she was drowned when he was only a year old. He was my grandfather.” Again he looked at her sharply. “Olivia, you must tell me the truth. Why did you ask me that question?”

46Again she hesitated, saying, “I don’t know ... it seemed to me....”

47“Did you find something? Did she,” he asked, making the gesture toward the north wing, “did she tell you anything?”

48She understood then that he, marvelous old man, must even know about the letters. “Yes,” she said in a low voice, “I found something ... in the attic.”

49He sighed and looked away again, across the wet meadows. “So you know, too.... She found them first, and hid them away again. She wouldn’t give them to me because she hated me ... from our wedding-night. I’ve told you about that. And then she couldn’t remember where she’d hid them ... poor thing. But she told me about them. At times she used to taunt me by saying that I wasn’t a Pentland at all. I think the thing made her mind darker than it was before. She had some terrible idea about the sin in my family for which she must atone....”

50“It’s true,” said Olivia softly. “There’s no doubt of it. It was written by Toby Cane himself ... in his own handwriting. I’ve compared it with the letters Anson has of his.” After a moment she asked, “And you ... you’ve known it always?”

51“Always,” he said sadly. “It explains many things.... Sometimes I think that those of us who have lived since have had to atone for their sin. It’s all worked out in a harsh way, when you come to think of it....”

52She guessed what it was he meant. She saw again that he believed in such a thing as sin, that the belief in it was rooted deeply in his whole being.

53“Have you got the letters, Olivia?” he asked.

54“No ... I burned them ... last night ... because I was afraid of them. I was afraid that I might do something shameful with them. And if they were burned, no one would believe such a preposterous story and there wouldn’t be any proof. I was afraid, too,” she added softly, “of what was in them ... not what was written there, so much as the way it was written.”

55He took her hand and with the oddest, most awkward gesture, kissed it gently. “You were right, Olivia dear,” he said. “It’s all they have ... the others ... that belief in the past. We daren’t take that from them. The strong daren’t oppress the weak. It would have been too cruel. It would have destroyed the one thing into which Anson poured his whole life. You see, Olivia, there are people ... people like you ... who have to be strong enough to look out for the others. It’s a hard task ... and sometimes a cruel one. If it weren’t for such people the world would fall apart and we’d see it for the cruel, unbearable place it is. That’s why I’ve trusted everything to you. That’s what I was trying to tell you the other night. You see, Olivia, I know you ... I know there are things which people like us can’t do.... Perhaps it’s because we’re weak or foolish—who knows? But it’s true. I knew that you were the sort who would do just such a thing.”

56Listening to him, she again felt all her determination slipping from her. It was a strange sensation, as if he took possession of her, leaving her powerless to act, prisoning her again in that terrible wall of rightness in which he believed. The familiar sense of his strength frightened her, because it seemed a force so irresistible. It was the strength of one who was more than right; it was the strength of one who believed.

57She had a fierce impulse to turn from him and to run swiftly, recklessly, across the wet meadows toward Michael, leaving forever behind her the placid, beautiful old house beneath the elms.

58“There are some things,” he was saying, “which it is impossible to do ... for people like us, Olivia. They are impossible because the mere act of doing them would ruin us forever. They aren’t things which we can do gracefully.”

59And she knew again what it was that he meant, as she had known vaguely while she stood alone in the darkness before the figures of Higgins and Miss Egan emerged from the mist of the marshes.

60“You had better go now and telephone to Anson. I fancy he’ll be badly upset, but I shall put an end to that ... and Cassie, too. She had it all planned for the Mannering boy.”