1She 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.”

2After 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?

3She 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.

4As she dressed, she thought, “Day after to-morrow 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.”

5It 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.

6And 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.”

7Yes, 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.

8Still, she thought, most houses, most families, must have such double lives—one which the world saw and one which remained hidden.

9As 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.

10She 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.

11When 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.

12“You’re Mrs. Pentland, aren’t you?”

13She drew in the mare. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Pentland.”

14He was a little man, dressed rather too neatly in a suit of checkered stuff, with a high, stiff white collar which appeared to be strangling him. He wore nose-glasses and his face had a look of having been highly polished. As she turned, he took off his straw hat and with a great show of manners came forward, bowing and smiling cordially.

15“Well,” he said, “I’m glad to hear that I’m right. I hoped I might meet you here. It’s a great pleasure to know you, Mrs. Pentland. My name is Gavin.... I’m by way of being a friend of Michael O’Hara.”

16“Oh!” said Olivia. “How do you do?”

17“You’re not in a great hurry, I hope?” he asked. “I’d like to have a word or two with you.”

18“No, I’m not in a great hurry.”

19It was impossible to imagine what this fussy little man, standing in the middle of the road, bowing and smiling, could have to say to her.

20Still holding his hat in his hand, he tossed away the end of his cigar and said, “It’s about a very delicate matter, Mrs. Pentland. It has to do with Mr. O’Hara’s campaign. I suppose you know about that. You’re a friend of his, I believe?”

21“Why, yes,” she said coldly. “We ride together.”

22He coughed and, clearly ill at ease, set off on a tangent from the main subject. “You see, I’m a great friend of his. In fact, we grew up together ... lived in the same ward and fought together as boys. You mightn’t think it to see us together ... because he’s such a clever one. He’s made for big things and I’m not.... I’m ... I’m just plain John Gavin. But we’re friends, all the same, just the same as ever ... just as if he wasn’t a big man. That’s one thing about Michael. He never goes back on his old friends, no matter how great he gets to be.”

23A light of adoration shone in the blue eyes of the little man. It was, Olivia thought, as if he were speaking of God; only clearly he thought of Michael O’Hara as greater than God. If Michael affected men like this, it was easy to see why he was so successful.

24The little man kept interrupting himself with apologies. “I shan’t keep you long, Mrs. Pentland ... only a moment. You see I thought it was better if I saw you here instead of coming to the house.” Suddenly screwing up his shiny face, he became intensely serious. “It’s like this, Mrs. Pentland.... I know you’re a good friend of his and you wish him well. You want to see him get elected ... even though you people out here don’t hold much with the Democratic party.”

25“Yes,” said Olivia. “That’s true.”

26“Well,” he continued with a visible effort, “Michael’s a good friend of mine. I’m sort of a bodyguard to him. Of course, I never come out here. I don’t belong in this world.... I’d feel sort of funny out here.”

27(Olivia found herself feeling respect for the little man. He was so simple and so honest and he so obviously worshiped Michael.)

28“You see ... I know all about Michael. I’ve been through a great deal with him ... and he’s not himself just now. There’s something wrong. He ain’t interested in his work. He acts as if he’d be willing to chuck his whole career overboard ... and I can’t let him do that. None of his friends ... can’t let him do it. We can’t get him to take a proper interest in his affairs. Usually, he manages everything ... better than any one else could.” He became suddenly confidential, closing one eye. “D’you know what I think is the matter? I’ve been watching him and I’ve got an idea.”

29He waited until Olivia said, “No ... I haven’t the least idea.”

30Cocking his head on one side and speaking with the air of having made a great discovery, he said, “Well, I think there’s a woman mixed up in it.”

31She felt the blood mounting to her head, in spite of anything she could do. When she was able to speak, she asked, “Yes, and what am I to do?”

32He moved a little nearer, still with the same air of confiding in her. “Well, this is my idea. Now, you’re a friend of his ... you’ll understand. You see, the trouble is that it’s some woman here in Durham ... some swell, you see, like yourself. That’s what makes it hard. He’s had women before, but they were women out of the ward and it didn’t make much difference. But this is different. He’s all upset, and ...” He hesitated for a moment. “Well, I don’t like to say a thing like this about Michael, but I think his head is turned a little. That’s a mean thing to say, but then we’re all human, aren’t we?”

33“Yes,” said Olivia softly. “Yes ... in the end, we’re all human ... even swells like me.” There was a twinkle of humor in her eye which for a moment disconcerted the little man.

34“Well,” he went on, “he’s all upset about her and he’s no good for anything. Now, what I thought was this ... that you could find out who this woman is and go to her and persuade her to lay off him for a time ... to go away some place ... at least until the campaign is over. It’d make a difference. D’you see?”

35He looked at her boldly, as if what he had been saying was absolutely honest and direct, as if he really had not the faintest idea who this woman was, and beneath a sense of anger, Olivia was amused at the crude tact which had evolved this trick.

36“There’s not much that I can do,” she said. “It’s a preposterous idea ... but I’ll do what I can. I’ll try. I can’t promise anything. It lies with Mr. O’Hara, after all.”

37“You see, Mrs. Pentland, if it ever got to be a scandal, it’d be the end of him. A woman out of the ward doesn’t matter so much, but a woman out here would be different. She’d get a lot of publicity from the sassiety editors and all.... That’s what’s dangerous. He’d have the whole church against him on the grounds of immorality.”

38While he was speaking, a strange idea occurred to Olivia—that much of what he said sounded like a strange echo of Aunt Cassie’s methods of argument.

39The horse had grown impatient and was pawing the road and tossing his head; and Olivia was angry now, genuinely angry, so that she waited for a time before speaking, lest she should betray herself and spoil all this little game of pretense which Mr. Gavin had built up to keep himself in countenance. At last she said, “I’ll do what I can, but it’s a ridiculous thing you’re asking of me.”

40The little man grinned. “I’ve been a long time in politics, Ma’am, and I’ve seen funnier things than this....” He put on his hat, as if to signal that he had said all he wanted to say. “But there’s one thing I’d like to ask ... and that’s that you never let Michael know that I spoke to you about this.”

41“Why should I promise ... anything?”

42He moved nearer and said in a low voice, “You know Michael very well, Mrs. Pentland.... You know Michael very well, and you know that he’s got a bad, quick temper. If he found out that we were meddling in his affairs, he might do anything. He might chuck the whole business and clear out altogether. He’s never been like this about a woman before. He’d do it just now.... That’s the way he’s feeling. You don’t want to see him ruin himself any more than I do ... a clever man like Michael. Why, he might be president one of these days. He can do anything he sets his will to, Ma’am, but he is, as they say, temperamental just now.”

43“I’ll not tell him,” said Olivia quietly. “And I’ll do what I can to help you. And now I must go.” She felt suddenly friendly toward Mr. Gavin, perhaps because what he had been telling her was exactly what she wanted most at that moment to hear. She leaned down from her horse and held out her hand, saying, “Good-morning, Mr. Gavin.”

44Mr. Gavin removed his hat once more, revealing his round, bald, shiny head. “Good-morning, Mrs. Pentland.”

45As she rode off, the little man remained standing in the middle of the road looking after her until she had disappeared. His eye glowed with the light of admiration, but as Olivia turned from the road into the meadows, he frowned and swore aloud. Until now he hadn’t understood how a good politician like Michael could lose his head over any woman. But he had an idea that he could trust this woman to do what she had promised. There was a look about her ... a look which made her seem different from most women; perhaps it was this look which had made a fool of Michael, who usually kept women in their proper places.

46Grinning and shaking his head, he got into the Ford, started it with a great uproar, and set off in the direction of Boston. After he had gone a little way he halted again and got out, for in his agitation he had forgotten to close the hood.

47From the moment she turned and rode away from Mr. Gavin, Olivia gave herself over to action. She saw that there was need of more than mere static truth to bring order out of the hazy chaos at Pentlands; there must be action as well. And she was angry now, really angry, even at Mr. Gavin for his impertinence, and at the unknown person who had been his informant. The strange idea that Aunt Cassie or Anson was somehow responsible still remained; tactics such as these were completely sympathetic to them—to go thus in Machiavellian fashion to a man like Gavin instead of coming to her. By using Mr. Gavin there would be no scene, no definite unpleasantness to disturb the enchantment of Pentlands. They could go on pretending that nothing was wrong, that nothing had happened.

48But stronger than her anger was the fear that in some way they might use the same tactics to spoil the happiness of Sybil. They would, she was certain, sacrifice everything to their belief in their own rightness.

49She found Jean at the house when she returned, and, closing the door of the drawing-room, she said to him, “Jean, I want to talk to you for a moment ... alone.”

50He said at once, “I know, Mrs. Pentland. It’s about Sybil.”

51There was a little echo of humor in his voice that touched and disarmed her as it always did. It struck her that he was still young enough to be confident that everything in life would go exactly as he wished it....

52“Yes,” she said, “that was it.” They sat on two of Horace Pentland’s chairs and she continued. “I don’t believe in meddling, Jean, only now there are circumstances ... reasons....” She made a little gesture. “I thought that if really ... really....”

53He interrupted her quickly. “I do, Mrs. Pentland. We’ve talked it all over, Sybil and I ... and we’re agreed. We love each other. We’re going to be married.”

54Watching the young, ardent face, she thought, “It’s a nice face in which there is nothing mean or nasty. The lips aren’t thin and tight like Anson’s, nor the skin sickly and pallid the way Anson’s has always been. There’s life in it, and force and charm. It’s the face of a man who would be good to a woman ... a man not in the least cold-blooded.”

55“Do you love her ... really?” she asked.

56“I ... I.... It’s a thing I can’t answer because there aren’t words to describe it.”

57“Because ... well ... Jean, it’s no ordinary case of a mother and a daughter. It’s much more than that. It means more to me than my own happiness, my own life ... because, well, because Sybil is like a part of myself. I want her to be happy. It’s not just a simple case of two young people marrying. It’s much more than that.” There was a silence, and she asked, “How do you love her?”

58He sat forward on the edge of his chair, all eagerness. “Why ...” he began, stammering a little, “I couldn’t think of living without her. It’s different from anything I ever imagined. Why ... we’ve planned everything ... all our lives. If ever I lost her, it wouldn’t matter what happened to me afterwards.” He grinned and added, “But you see ... people have said all that before. There aren’t any words to explain ... to make it seem as different from anything else as it seems to me.”

59“But you’re going to take her away?”

60“Yes ... she wants to go where I go.”

61(“They are young,” thought Olivia. “They’ve never once thought of any one else ... myself or Sybil’s grandfather.”)

62Aloud she said, “That’s right, Jean.... I want you to take her away ... no matter what happens, you must take her away....” (“And then I won’t even have Sybil.”)

63“We’re going to my ranch in the Argentine.”

64“That’s right.... I think Sybil would like that.” She sighed, in spite of herself, vaguely envious of these two. “But you’re so young. How can you know for certain.”

65A shadow crossed his face and he said, “I’m twenty-five, Mrs. Pentland ... but that’s not the only thing.... I was brought up, you see, among the French ... like a Frenchman. That makes a difference.” He hesitated, frowning for a moment. “Perhaps I oughtn’t to tell.... You mightn’t understand. I know how things are in this part of the world.... You see, I was brought up to look upon falling in love as something natural ... something that was pleasant and natural and amusing. I’ve been in love before, casually ... the way young Frenchmen are ... but in earnest, too, because a Frenchman can’t help surrounding a thing like that with sentiment and romance. He can’t help it. If it were just ... just something shameful and nasty, he couldn’t endure it. They don’t have affairs in cold blood ... the way I’ve heard men talk about such things since I’ve come here. It makes a difference, Mrs. Pentland, if you look at the thing in the light they do. It’s different here.... I see the difference more every day.”

66He was talking earnestly, passionately, and when he paused for a moment she remained silent, unwilling to interrupt him until he had finished.

67“What I’m trying to say is difficult, Mrs. Pentland. It’s simply this ... that I’m twenty-five, but I’ve had experience with life. Don’t laugh! Don’t think I’m just a college boy trying to make you think I’m a roué. Only what I say is true. I know about such things ... and I’m glad because it makes me all the more certain that Sybil is the only woman in the world for me ... the one for whom I’d sacrifice everything. And I’ll know better how to make her happy, to be gentle with her ... to understand her. I’ve learned now, and it’s a thing which needs learning ... the most important thing in all life. The French are right about it. They make a fine, wonderful thing of love.” He turned away with a sudden air of sadness. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you all this.... I’ve told Sybil. She understands.”

68“No,” said Olivia, “I think you’re right ... perhaps.” She kept thinking of the long tragic story of John Pentland, and of Anson, who had always been ashamed of love and treated it as something distasteful. To them it had been a dark, strange thing always touched by shame. She kept thinking, despite anything she could do, of Anson’s clumsy, artificial attempts at love-making, and she was swept suddenly by shame for him. Anson, so proud and supercilious, was a poor thing, inferior even to his own groom.

69“But why,” she asked, “didn’t you tell me about Sybil sooner? Every one has seen it, but you never spoke to me.”

70For a moment he did not answer her. An expression of pain clouded the blue eyes, and then, looking at her directly, he said, “It’s not easy to explain why. I was afraid to come to you for fear you mightn’t understand, and the longer I’ve been here, the longer I’ve put it off because ... well, because here in Durham, ancestors, family, all that, seems to be the beginning and end of everything. It seems always to be a question of who one’s family is. There is only the past and no future at all. And, you see, in a way ... I haven’t any family.” He shrugged his big shoulders and repeated, “In a way, I haven’t any family at all. You see, my mother was never married to my father.... I’ve no blood-right to the name of de Cyon. I’m ... I’m ... well, just a bastard, and it seemed hopeless for me even to talk to a Pentland about Sybil.”

71He saw that she was startled, disturbed, but he could not have known that the look in her eyes had very little to do with shock at what he had told her; rather she was thinking what a weapon the knowledge would be in the hands of Anson and Aunt Cassie and even John Pentland himself.

72He was talking again with the same passionate earnestness.

73“I shan’t let it make any difference, so long as Sybil will have me, but, you see, it’s very hard to explain, because it isn’t the way it seems. I want you to understand that my mother is a wonderful woman.... I wouldn’t bother to explain, to say anything ... except to Sybil and to you.”

74“Sabine has told me about her.”

75“Mrs. Callendar has known her for a long time.... They’re great friends,” said Jean. “She understands.”

76“But she never told me ... that. You mean that she’s known it all along?”

77“It’s not an easy thing to tell ... especially here in Durham, and I fancy she thought it might make trouble for me ... after she saw what had happened to Sybil and me.”

78He went on quickly, telling her what he had told Sybil of his mother’s story, trying to make her understand what he understood, and Sabine and even his stepfather, the distinguished old de Cyon ... trying to explain a thing which he himself knew was not to be explained. He told her that his mother had refused to marry her lover, “because in his life outside ... the life which had nothing to do with her ... she discovered that there were things she couldn’t support. She saw that it was better not to marry him ... better for herself and for him and, most of all, for me.... He did things for the sake of success—mean, dishonorable things—which she couldn’t forgive ... and so she wouldn’t marry him. And now, looking back, I think she was right. It made no great difference in her life. She lived abroad ... as a widow, and very few people—not more than two or three—ever knew the truth. He never told because, being a politician, he was afraid of such a scandal. She didn’t want me to be brought up under such an influence, and I think she was right. He’s gone on doing things that were mean and dishonorable.... He’s still doing them to-day. You see he’s a politician ... a rather cheap one. He’s a Senator now and he hasn’t changed. I could tell you his name.... I suppose some people would think him a distinguished man ... only I promised her never to tell it. He thinks that I’m dead.... He came to her once and asked to see me, to have a hand in my education and my future. There were things, he said, that he could do for me in America ... and she told him simply that I was dead ... that I was killed in the war.” He finished in a sudden burst of enthusiasm, his face alight with affection. “But you must know her really to understand what I’ve been saying. Knowing her, you understand everything, because she’s one of the great people ... the strong people of the world. You see, it’s one of the things which it is impossible to explain—to you or even to Sybil—impossible to explain to the others. One must know her.”

79If she had had any doubts or fears, she knew now that it was too late to act; she saw that it was impossible to change the wills of two such lovers as Jean and Sybil. In a way, she came to understand the story of Jean’s mother more from watching him than by listening to his long explanation. There must be in her that same determination and ardor that was in her son ... a thing in its way irresistible. And yet it was difficult; she was afraid, somehow, of this unexpected thing, perhaps because it seemed vaguely like the taint of Savina Pentland.

80She said, “If no one knows this, there is no reason to tell it here. It would only make unhappiness for all concerned. It is your business alone ... and Sybil’s. The others have no right to interfere, even to know; but they will try, Jean ... unless ... unless you both do what you want ... quickly. Sometimes I think they might do anything.”

81“You mean ...” he began impatiently.

82Olivia fell back upon that vague hint which John Pentland had dropped to her the night before. She said, “There was once an elopement in the Pentland family.”

83“You wouldn’t mind that?” he asked eagerly. “You wouldn’t be hurt ... if we did it that way?”

84“I shouldn’t know anything about it,” said Olivia quietly, “until it was too late to do anything.”

85“It’s funny,” he said; “we’d thought of that. We’ve talked of it, only Sybil was afraid you’d want to have a big wedding and all that....”

86“No, I think it would be better not to have any wedding at all ... especially under the circumstances.”

87“Mrs. Callendar suggested it as the best way out.... She offered to lend us her motor,” he said eagerly.

88“You discussed it with her and yet you didn’t speak to me?”

89“Well, you see, she’s different ... she and Thérèse.... They don’t belong here in Durham. Besides, she spoke of it first. She knew what was going on. She always knows. I almost think that she planned the whole thing long ago.”

90Olivia, looking out of the window, saw entering the long drive the antiquated motor with Aunt Cassie, Miss Peavey, her flying veils and her Pekinese.

91“Mrs. Struthers is coming ...” she said. “We mustn’t make her suspicious. And you’d best tell me nothing of your plans and then ... I shan’t be able to interfere even if I wanted to. I might change my mind ... one never knows.”

92He stood up and, coming over to her, took her hand and kissed it. “There’s nothing to say, Mrs. Pentland ... except that you’ll be glad for what you’ve done. You needn’t worry about Sybil.... I shall make her happy.... I think I know how.”

93He left her, hurrying away past the ancestors in the long hall to find Sybil, thinking all the while how odd it would seem to have a woman so young and beautiful as Mrs. Pentland for a mother-in-law. She was a charming woman (he thought in his enthusiasm), a great woman, but she was so sad, as if she had never been very happy. There was always a cloud about her.

94He did not escape quickly enough, for Aunt Cassie’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of him as he left the house in the direction of the stables. She met Olivia in the doorway, kissing her and saying, “Was that Sybil’s young man I saw leaving?”

95“Yes,” said Olivia. “We’ve been talking about Sybil. I’ve been telling him that he mustn’t think of her as some one to marry.”

96The yellow face of Aunt Cassie lighted with a smile of approval. “I’m glad, my dear, that you’re being sensible about this. I was afraid you wouldn’t be, but I didn’t like to interfere. I never believe any good comes of it, unless one is forced to. He’s not the person for Sybil.... Why, no one knows anything about him. You can’t let a girl marry like that ... just any one who comes along. Besides, Mrs. Pulsifer writes me.... You remember her, Olivia, the Mannering boy’s aunt who used to have a house in Chestnut Street.... Well, she lives in Paris now at the Hotel Continental, and she writes me she’s discovered there’s some mystery about his mother. No one seems to know much about her.”

97“Why,” said Olivia, “should she write you such a thing? What made her think you’d be interested?”

98“Well, Kate Pulsifer and I went to school together and we still correspond now and then. I just happened to mention the boy’s name when I was writing her about Sabine. She says, by the way, that Sabine has very queer friends in Paris and that Sabine has never so much as called on her or asked her for tea. And there’s been some new scandal about Sabine’s husband and an Italian woman. It happened in Venice....”

99“But he’s not her husband any longer.”

100The old lady seated herself and went on pouring forth the news from Kate Pulsifer’s letter; with each word she appeared to grow stronger and stronger, less and less yellow and worn.

101(“It must be,” thought Olivia, “the effect of so many calamities contained in one letter.”)

102She saw now that she had acted only just in time and she was glad that she had lied, so flatly, so abruptly, without thinking why she had done it. For Mrs. Pulsifer was certain to go to the bottom of the affair, if for no other reason than to do harm to Sabine; she had once lived in a house on Chestnut Street with a bow-window which swept the entrance to every house. She was one of John Pentland’s dead, who lived by watching others live.