"Oh, I have. A woman's eye sees those little things, don't you think?
Men have so much on their hands--the great things of the world--but the
little things, they often count, don't you think? But I tell dear Olivia
not to worry. Everything will come right. Things do come right--very
often. I'm more pessimistic than Rodney--that I must say. But still I
think things have a way of coming right when we least expect it. I tell
dear Olivia that Peter will send a line just when we're not looking for
it. It's the watched pot that never boils, you know, and so I tell her
to stop watching for the postman. That's fatal to getting a
letter--watching for the postman. How snug you two look here together!
Well, I'll run up and take off my things. No; no more tea, dear. I won't
say good-by, Colonel Ashley, because you'll be here when I come down."
Mrs. Temple was a good woman who would have been astonished to hear
herself accused of falsehood but, as a matter of fact, her account of
the conversation with Olivia bore little relation to the conversation
itself. What she had actually said was:
"Poor Peter! I suppose he doesn't write because he's trying to forget."
The challenge here being so direct, Olivia felt it her duty to take it
up. The ladies were engaged in sorting the linen in preparation for the
sale.
"Forget what?"
"Forget Drusilla, I suppose. Hasn't it struck you--how much he was in
love with her?"
Olivia held a table-cloth carefully to the light. "Is this Irish linen
or German? I know mamma did get some at Dresden--"
Mrs. Temple pointed out the characteristic of the Belfast weave and
pressed her question. "Haven't you noticed it--about Peter?"
Olivia tried to keep her voice steady as she said: "I've no doubt I
should have seen it if I hadn't been so preoccupied."
"Some people think--Rodney, for instance--that he'd lost his head about
you, dear; but we mothers have an insight--"
"Of course! There seems to be one missing from the dozen of this
pattern."
"Oh, it'll turn up. It's probably in the pile over there. I thought I'd
speak about it, dear," she went on, "because it must be a relief to you
not to have that complication. Things are so complicated already, don't
you think? But if you haven't Peter on your mind, why, that's one thing
the less to worry about. If you thought he was in love with you,
dear--in your situation--going to be married to some one else--But you
needn't be afraid of that at all. I never saw a young man more in love
with any one than he is with Drusilla--and I think she must have refused
him. If she hadn't he would never have shot off in that way, like a bolt
from the blue--But what's the matter, dear? You look white. You're not
ill?"
"It's the smell of lavender," Olivia gasped, weakly. "I never could
endure it. I'll just run into the air a minute--"
This was all that passed between Olivia and Mrs. Temple on the subject.
If the latter reported it with suppressions and amplifications it was
doubtless due to her knowledge of what could be omitted as well as of
what would have been said had the topic been pursued. In any case it
caused her to sigh and mumble as she went on with her task of folding
and unfolding and of examining textures and designs:
"Oh, how mixy! Such sixes and sevens! Everything the wrong way round! My
poor Drusilla!--my poor little girlie! And such a good position! Just
what she's capable of filling!--as well as Olivia--better, with all her
experience of their army. ''Tis better to have loved and lost,' dear
Tennyson says; but I don't know. Besides, she's done that already--with
poor Gerald--and now, to have to face it all a second time--my poor
little girlie!"
As for Olivia, she felt an overpowering desire to flee away. Speeding
through the house, where workmen were nailing up cases or sacking rugs,
she felt that she was fleeing--fleeing anywhere--anywhere--to hide
herself. As a matter of fact, the flight was inward, for there was
nowhere to go but to her room. Her way was down the short staircase from
the attic and along a hall; but it seemed to her that she lived through
a succession of emotional stages in the two or three minutes it took to
cover it. Her first wild cry "It isn't true! It isn't true!" was
followed by the question "Why shouldn't it be true?" to end with her
asking herself: "What difference does it make to me?"
"What difference _can_ it make to me?"
She had reached that form of the query by the time she took up her
station at the window of her room, to stare blankly at the November
landscape. She saw herself face to face now with the question which,
during the past month, ever since Davenant's sudden disappearance, she
had used all her resources to evade. That it would one day force itself
upon her she knew well enough; but she hoped, too, that before there was
time for that she would have pronounced her marriage vows, and so burned
her bridges behind her. Amid the requirements of duty, which seemed to
shift from week to week, the one thing stable was the necessity on her
part to keep her promise to the man who had stood by her so nobly. If
once it had seemed to her that Davenant's demands--whatever they might
prove to be--would override all others, it was now quite clear that
Ashley's claim on her stood first of all. He had been so loyal, so true,
so indifferent to his own interests! Besides, he loved her. It was now
quite another love from that of the romantic knight who had wooed a
gracious lady in the little house at Southsea. That tapestry-tale had
ended on the day of his arrival at Tory Hill. In its place there had
risen the tested devotion of a man for a woman in great trouble,
compelled to deal with the most sordid things in life. He had refused to
be spared any of the details she would have saved him from or to turn
away from any of the problems she was obliged to face. His very revolt
against it, that repugnance to the necessity for doing it which he was
not at all times able to conceal, made his self-command in bringing
himself to it the more worthy of her esteem. He had the defects of his
qualities and the prejudices of his class and profession; but over and
above these pardonable failings he had the marks of a hero.
And now there was this thing!
She had descried it from afar. She had had a suspicion of it before
Davenant went away. It had not created a fear; it was too strange and
improbable for that; but it had brought with it a sense of wonder. She
remembered the first time she had felt it, this sense of wonder, this
sense of something enchanted, outside life and the earth's atmosphere.
It was at that moment on the lawn when, after the unsuccessful meeting
between Ashley and Davenant, she had turned with the latter to go into
the house. That there was a protective, intimate element in her feeling
she had known on the instant; but what she hadn't known on the instant,
but was perfectly aware of now, was that her whole subconscious being,
had been crying out even then: "My own! My own!"
With the exaggeration of this thought she was able to get herself in
hand. She was able to debate so absurd a suggestion, to argue it down,
and turn it into ridicule. But she yielded again as the Voice that
talked with her urged the plea: "I didn't say you knew it consciously.
You couldn't cry 'My own! My own!' to a man whom up to that point you
had treated with disdain. But your subliminal being had begun to know
him, to recognize him as--"
To elude this fancy she set herself to recapitulating his weak points.
She could see why Ashley should thrust him aside as being "not a
gentleman." He fell short, in two or three points, of the English
standard. That he had little experience of life as it is lived, of its
balance and proportion and perspective, was clear from the way in which
he had flung himself and his money into the midst of the Guion
disasters. No man of the world could possibly have done that. The very
fact of his doing it made him lawfully a subject for some of the
epithets Ashley applied to him. Almost any one would apply them who
wanted to take him from a hostile point of view.
She forgot herself so far as to smile faintly. It was just the sort of
deficiency which she had it in her power to make up. The reflection set
her to dreaming when she wanted to be doing something else. She could
have brought him the dower of all the things he didn't know, while he
could give her.... But she caught herself again.
"What kind of a woman am I?"
She began to be afraid. She began to see in herself the type she most
detested--the woman who could deliberately marry a man and not be loyal
to him. She was on the threshold of marriage with Ashley, and she was
thinking of the marvel of life with some one else. When one of the inner
Voices denied this charge, another pressed it home by nailing the
precise incident on which her heart had been dwelling. "You were
thinking of this--of that--of the time on the stairs when, with his face
close to yours, he asked you if you loved the man you'd be going away
with--of the evening at the gate when your hand was in his and it was so
hard to take it away. He has no position to offer you. There's nothing
remarkable about him beyond a capacity for making money. He's beneath
you from every point of view except that of his mere manhood, and yet
you feel that you could let yourself slip into that--into the strength
and peace of it--"
She caught herself again--impatiently. It was no use! There was
something wilful within her, something that could be called by even a
stronger name, that worked back to the point from which she tried to
flee, whatever means she took to get away from it.
She returned to her work, persuading Cousin Cherry to go home to tea and
leave her to finish the task alone. Even while she did so one of the
inner Voices taunted her by saying: "That'll leave you all the more free
to dream of--_him_."
* * * * *
Some days passed before she felt equal to talking about Davenant again.
This time it was to the tinkling silver, as she and Drusilla Fane sorted
spoons and forks at the sideboard in the dismantled dining-room. Olivia
was moved to speak in the desperate hope that one stab from
Drusilla--who might be in a position to deliver it--would free her from
the obsession haunting her.
There had been a long silence, sufficiently occupied, it seemed, in
laying out the different sorts and sizes of spoons in rows of a dozen,
while Mrs. Fane did the same with the forks.
"Drusilla, did Mr. Davenant ever say anything to you about me?"
She was vexed with herself for the form of her question. It was not
Davenant's feeling toward _her_, but toward Drusilla, that she wanted to
know. She was drawing the fire in the wrong place. Mrs. Fane counted her
dozen forks to the end before saying:
"Why, yes. We've spoken of you."
Having begun with a mistake, Olivia went on with it. "Did he
say--anything in particular?"
"He said a good many things, on and off."
"Some of which might have been--in particular?"
"All of them, if it comes to that."
"Why did you never tell me?"
"For one reason, because you never asked me."
"Have you any idea why I'm asking you now?"
"Not the faintest. I dare say we sha'n't see anything more of him for
years to come."
"Did you--did you--refuse him? Did you send him away?"
"Well, that's one thing I didn't have to do, thank the Lord. There was
no necessity. I was afraid at one time that mother might make him
propose to me--she's terribly subtle in that way, though you mightn't
think it--but she didn't. No; if Peter's in love with any one, it's not
with me."