Chapter VII · (continued 2)

“It must have begun,” thought Olivia, “even in those days.”

Out of the letters she learned that the passion had begun in Rome when Savina Pentland was sitting for her portrait by Ingres. Toby Cane had been there with her and afterwards she had gone with him to his lodgings; and when they had returned to the house at Durham (almost new then and the biggest country seat in all New England) they had met in the cottage—Brook Cottage, which still stood there within sight of Olivia’s window—Brook Cottage, which after the drowning had been bought by Sabine’s grandfather and then fallen into ruins and been restored again by the too-bright, vulgar, resplendent touch of O’Hara. It was an immensely complicated and intricate story which went back, back into the past and seemed to touch them all here in Durham.

“The roots of life at Pentlands,” thought Olivia, “go down, down into the past. There are no new branches, no young, vigorous shoots.”

She came at length to the last of the letters, which had buried in its midst the terrible revealing lines—

If you knew what delight it gives me to have you write that the child is ours beyond any doubt, that there cannot be the slightest doubt of it! The baby belongs to us ... to us alone! It has nothing to do with him. I could not bear the idea of his thinking that the child is his if it was not that it makes your position secure. The thought tortures me but I am able to bear it because it leaves you safe and above suspicion.

Slowly, thoughtfully, as if unable to believe her eyes, she reread the lines through again, and then placed her hands against her head with a gesture of feeling suddenly weak and out of her mind.

She tried to think clearly. “Savina Pentland never had but one child, so far as I know ... never but one. And that must have been Toby Cane’s child.”

There could be no doubt. It was all there, in writing. The child was the child of Toby Cane and a woman who was born Savina Dalgedo. He was not a Pentland and none of his descendants had been Pentlands ... not one.

They were not Pentlands at all save as the descendants of Savina and her lover had married among the Brahmins where Pentland blood was in every family. They were not Pentlands by blood and yet they were Pentlands beyond any question, in conduct, in point of view, in tradition. It occurred to Olivia for the first time how immense and terrible a thing was that environment, that air which held them all enchanted ... all the cloud of prejudices and traditions and prides and small anxieties. It was a world so set, so powerful, so iron-bound that it had made Pentlands of people like Anson and Aunt Cassia, even like her father-in-law. It made Pentlands of people who were not Pentlands at all. She saw it now as an overwhelming, terrifying power that was a part of the old house. It stood rooted in the very soil of all the landscape that spread itself beyond her windows.

And in the midst of this realization she had a swift impulse to laugh, hysterically, for the picture of Anson had come to her suddenly ... Anson pouring his whole soul into that immense glorification to be known as “The Pentland Family and the Massachusetts Bay Colony.”

Slowly, as the first shock melted away a little, she began to believe that the yellowed bits of paper were a sort of infernal machine, an instrument with the power of shattering a whole world. What was she to do with this thing—this curious symbol of a power that always won every struggle in one way or another, directly as in the case of Savina and her lover, or by taking its vengeance upon body or soul as it had done in the case of Aunt Cassie’s poor, prying, scheming mind? And there was, too, the dark story of Horace Pentland, and the madness of the old woman in the north wing, and even those sudden terrible bouts of drinking which made so fine a man as John Pentland into something very near to a beast.

It was as if a light of blinding clarity had been turned upon all the long procession of ancestors. She saw now that if “The Pentland Family and the Massachusetts Bay Colony” was to have any value at all as truth it must be rewritten in the light of the struggle between the forces glorified by that drunken scamp Toby Cane and this other terrible force which seemed to be all about her everywhere, pressing even herself slowly into its own mold. It was an old struggle between those who chose to find their pleasure in this world and those who looked for the vague promise of a glorified future existence.

She could see Anson writing in his book, “In the present generation (192-) there exists Cassandra Pentland Struthers (Mrs. Edward Cane Struthers), a widow who has distinguished herself by her devotion to the Episcopal Church and to charity and good works. She resides in winter in Boston and in summer at her country house near Durham on the land claimed from the wilderness by the first Pentland, distinguished founder of the American family.”

Yes, Anson would write just those words in his book. He would describe thus the old woman who sat belowstairs hoping all the while that Olivia would descend bearing the news of some new tragedy ... that virginal old woman who had ruined the whole life of her husband and kept poor half-witted Miss Peavey a prisoner for nearly thirty years.

The murmur of voices died away presently and Olivia, looking out of the window, saw that it was Aunt Cassie who had won this time. She was standing in the garden looking down the drive with that malignant expression which sometimes appeared on her face in moments when she thought herself alone. Far down the shadow-speckled drive, the figure of Sabine moved indolently away in the direction of Brook Cottage. Sabine, too, belonged in a way to the family; she had grown up enveloped in the powerful tradition which made Pentlands of people who were not Pentlands at all. Perhaps (thought Olivia) the key to Sabine’s restless, unhappy existence also lay in the same dark struggle. Perhaps if one could penetrate deeply enough in the long family history one would find there the reasons for Sabine’s hatred of this Durham world and the reasons why she had returned to a people she disliked with all the bitter, almost fanatic passion of her nature. There was in Sabine an element of cold cruelty.

At the sight of Olivia coming down the steps into the garden, Aunt Cassie turned and moved forward quickly with a look of expectancy, asking, “And how is the poor thing?”

And at Olivia’s answer, “She’s quiet now ... sleeping. It’s all passed,” the looked changed to one of disappointment.

She said, with an abysmal sigh, “Ah, she will go on forever. She’ll be alive long after I’ve gone to join dear Mr. Struthers.”

“Invalids are like that,” replied Olivia, by way of saying something. “They take such care of themselves.” And almost at once, she thought, “Here I am playing the family game, pretending that she’s not mad but only an invalid.”

She had no feeling of resentment against the busy old woman; indeed it seemed to her at times that she had almost an affection for Aunt Cassie—the sort of affection one has for an animal or a bit of furniture which has been about almost as long as one can remember. And at the moment the figure of Aunt Cassie, the distant sight of Sabine, the bright garden full of flowers ... all these things seemed to her melodramatic and unreal, for she was still living in the Pentlands of Savina and Toby Cane. It was impossible to fix her attention on Aunt Cassie and her flutterings.

The old lady was saying, “You all seem to have grown very fond of this man O’Hara.”

(What was she driving at now?) Aloud, Olivia said, “Why not? He’s agreeable, intelligent ... even distinguished in his way.”

“Yes,” said Aunt Cassie. “I’ve been discussing him with Sabine, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I may have been wrong about him. She thinks him a clever man with a great future.” There was a pause and she added with an air of making a casual observation, “But what about his past? I mean where does he come from.”

“I know all about it. He’s been telling me. That’s why I was late this morning.”

For a time Aunt Cassie was silent, as if weighing some deep problem. At last she said, “I was wondering about seeing too much of him. He has a bad reputation with women.... At least, so I’m told.”

Olivia laughed. “After all, Aunt Cassie, I’m a grown woman. I can look out for myself.”

“Yes.... I know.” She turned with a disarming smile of Christian sweetness. “I don’t want you to think that I’m interfering, Olivia. It’s the last thing I’d think of doing. But I was considering your own good. It’s harmless enough, I’m sure. No one would ever think otherwise, knowing you, my dear. But it’s what people will say. There was a scandal I believe about eight years ago ... a road-house scandal!” She said this with an air of great suffering, as if the words “road-house scandal” seared her lips.

“I suppose so. Most men ... politicians, I mean ... have scandals connected with their names. It’s part of the business, Aunt Cassie.”

And she kept thinking with amazement of the industry of the old lady—that she should have taken the trouble of going far back into O’Hara’s past to find some definite thing against him. She did not doubt the ultimate truth of Aunt Cassie’s insinuation. Aunt Cassie did not lie deliberately; there was always a grain of truth in her implications, though sometimes the poor grain lay buried so deeply beneath exaggerations that it was almost impossible to discover it. And a thing like that might easily be true about O’Hara. With a man like him you couldn’t expect women to play the rôle they played with a man like Anson.

“It’s only on account of what people will say,” repeated Aunt Cassie.

“I’ve almost come to the conclusion that what people say doesn’t really matter any longer....”

Aunt Cassie began suddenly to pick a bouquet from the border beside her. “Oh, it’s not you I’m worrying about, Olivia dear. But we have to consider others sometimes.... There’s Sybil and Anson, and even the very name of Pentland. There’s never been any such suspicion attached to it ... ever.”

It was incredible (thought Olivia) that any one would make such a statement, incredible anywhere else in the world. She wanted to ask, “What about your brother and old Mrs. Soames?” And in view of those letters that lay locked in her dressing-table....

At that moment lunch was announced by Peters’ appearance in the doorway. Olivia turned to Aunt Cassie, “You’re staying, of course.”

“No, I must go. You weren’t expecting me.”

So Olivia began the ancient game, played for so many years, of pressing Aunt Cassie to stay to lunch.

“It makes no difference,” she said, “only another plate.” And so on through a whole list of arguments that she had memorized long ago. And at last Aunt Cassie, with the air of having been pressed beyond her endurance, yielded, and to Peters, who had also played the game for years, Olivia said, “Lay another place for Mrs. Struthers.”

She had meant to stay all along. Lunching out saved both money and trouble, for Miss Peavey ate no more than a bird, at least not openly; and, besides, there were things she must find out at Pentlands, and other things which she must plan. In truth, wild horses could not have dragged her away.

As they entered the house, Aunt Cassie, carrying the bouquet she had plucked, said casually, “I met the Mannering boy on the road this morning and told him to come in to-night. I thought you wouldn’t mind. He’s very fond of Sybil, you know.”

“No, of course not,” replied Olivia. “I don’t mind. But I’m afraid Sybil isn’t very interested in him.”