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“He did it in a way that none would ever discover. He trusted Higgins, and
Sabine was an accident. Perhaps ... perhaps ... he did it to keep me here ... to
save the thing he believed in all his life.”
It was a horrible thought which she tried to kill, but it lingered, together
with the regret that she had never finished what she had begun to tell him as
they stood by the hedge talking of the letters—that one day Jean might take
the name of John Pentland. He had, after all, as much right to it as he had to
the name of de Cyon; it would be only a little change, but it would allow the
name of Pentland to go on and on. All the land, all the money, all the
tradition, would go down to Pentland children, and so make a reason for
their existence; and in the end the name would be something more then than
a thing embalmed in “The Pentland Family and the Massachusetts Bay
Colony.” The descendants would be, after all, of Pentland blood, or at least
of the blood of Savina Dalgedo and Toby Cane, which had come long ago
to be Pentland blood.
And she thought grimly, “He was right, after all. I am one of them at last
... in spite of everything. It’s I who am carrying on now.”
On the morning of the funeral, as she stood on the terrace expecting Jean
and Sybil, Higgins, dressed in his best black suit and looking horribly
awkward and ill at ease, came toward her to say, looking away from her,
“Mr. O’Hara is going away. They’re putting up a ‘For Sale’ sign on his
gate. He isn’t coming back.” And then looking at her boldly he added, “I
thought you might want to know, Mrs. Pentland.”
For a moment she had a sudden, fierce desire to cry out, “No, he mustn’t
go! You must tell him to stay. I can’t let him go away like that!” She wanted
suddenly to run across the fields to the bright, vulgar, new house, to tell him
herself. She thought, “He meant, then, what he said. He’s given up
everything here.”
But she knew, too, that he had gone away to fight, freed now and moved
only by his passion for success, for victory.
And before she could answer Higgins, who stood there wanting her to
send him to Michael, Miss Egan appeared, starched and rigid and wearing
the professional expression of solemnity which she adopted in the presence
of bereaved families. She said, “It’s about her, Mrs. Pentland. She seems
very bright this morning and quite in her right mind. She wants to know
why he hasn’t been to see her for two whole days. I thought....”
Olivia interrupted her quietly. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ll go and tell
her. I’ll explain. It’s better for me to do it.”
She went away into the house, knowing bitterly that she left Miss Egan
and Higgins thinking of her with pity.
As she climbed the worn stair carpet to the north wing, she knew
suddenly a profound sense of peace such as she had not known for years. It
was over and done now, and life would go on the same as it had always
done, filled with trickiness and boredom and deceits, but pleasant, too, in
spite of everything, perhaps because, as John Pentland had said, “One had
sometimes to pretend.” And, after all, Sybil had escaped and was happy.
She knew now that she herself would never escape; she had been too
long a part of Pentlands, and she knew that what the old man had said was
the truth. She had acted thus not because of duty, or promises, or nobility, or
pride, or even out of virtue.... Perhaps it was even because she was not
strong enough to do otherwise. But she knew that she had acted thus
because, as he said, “There are things, Olivia, which people like us can’t
do.”
And as she moved along the narrow hall, she saw from one of the deep-
set windows the figure of Sabine moving along the lane in a faint cloud of
dust, and nearer at hand, at the entrance of the elm-bordered drive, Aunt
Cassie in deep black, coming along briskly in a cloud of crape. No, nothing
had changed. It would go on and on....
The door opened and the sickly odor of medicines flooded the hallway.
Out of the darkness came the sound of a feeble, reed-like voice, terrible in
its sanity, saying, “Oh, it’s you, Olivia. I knew you’d come. I’ve been
waiting for you....”
THE END
Cold Spring Harbor, Long Island
June 4, 1925
St. Jean-de-Luz, B. P., France
July 21, 1926
Typographical errors corrected by
the etext transcriber:
lay figure=> clay figure {pg 6}
sarcely giving=> scarcely giving
{pg 205}
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