IV + 

In the solid corner of the world which surrounded Durham, Aunt Cassie played the role of an unofficial courier who passed from house to house, from piazza to piazza, collecting and passing on the latest bits of news. When one saw a low cloud of dust moving across the brilliant New England sky above the hedges and stone walls of the countryside, one could be certain that it masked the progress of Cassie Struthers on her daily round of calls. She went always on foot, because she detested motors and was terrified of horses; one might see her coming from a great distance, dressed always in dingy black, tottering along very briskly (for a woman of her age and well-advertised infirmities). One came to expect her arrival at a certain hour, for she was, unless there arose in her path some calamity or piece of news of unusual interest, a punctual woman whose life was as carefully ordered as the vast house in which she lived with the queer Aunt Bella. + 

It was a great box of a dwelling built by the late Mr.¬†Struthers in the days of cupolas and gazebos on land given him by Aunt CassieвАЩs grandfather on the day of her wedding. Inside it was furnished with a great profusion of plush tassels and antimacassars, all kept with the neatness and rigidity of a museum. There were never any cigar ashes on the floor, nor any dust in the corners, for Aunt Cassie followed her servants about with the eye of a fussy old sergeant inspecting his barracks. Poor Miss Peavey, who grew more and more dowdy and careless as old age began to settle over her, led a life of constant peril, and was forced to build a little house near the stables to house her Pomeranians and her Siamese cats. For Aunt Cassie could not abide the thought of вАЬthe animals dirtying up the house.вАЭ Even the вАЬretiring roomвАЭ of the late Mr.¬†Struthers had been converted since his death into a museum, spotless and purified of tobacco and whisky, where his chair sat before his desk, turned away from it a little, as if his spirit were still seated there. On the desk lay his pipe (as he had left it) and the neat piles of paper (carefully dusted each day but otherwise undisturbed) which he had put there with his own hand on the morning they found him seated on the chair, his head fallen back a little, as if asleep. And in the center of the desk lay two handsomely bound volumesвБ†вАФCornices of Old Boston Houses and Walks and Talks in New England ChurchyardsвБ†вАФwhich he had written in these last sad years when his life seemed slowly to fade from himвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ the years in which Aunt Cassie seemed rapidly to recover the wiry strength and health for which she had been famous as a girl. + 

The house, people said, had been built by Mr.¬†Struthers in the expectation of a large family, but it had remained great and silent of childrenвАЩs voices as a tomb since the day it was finished, for Aunt Cassie had never been strong until it was too late for her to bear him heirs. + 

Sabine Callendar had a whole set of theories about the house and about the married life of Aunt Cassie, but they were theories which she kept, in her way, entirely to herself, waiting and watching until she was certain of them. There was a hatred between the two women that was implacable and difficult to define, an emotion almost of savagery which concealed itself beneath polite phrases and casual observations of an acid character. They encountered each other more frequently than Aunt Cassie would have wished, for Sabine, upon her return to Durham, took up Aunt CassieвАЩs habit of going from house to house on foot in search of news and entertainment. They met in drawing-rooms, on piazzas, and sometimes in the very dusty lanes, greeting each other with smiles and vicious looks. They had become rather like two hostile cats watching each other for days at a time, stealthily. Sabine, Aunt Cassie confided in Olivia, made her nervous. + 

Still, it was Aunt Cassie who had been the first caller at Brook Cottage after the arrival of Sabine. The younger woman had seen her approach, enveloped in a faint cloud of dust, from the windows of Brook Cottage, and the sight filled her with an inexpressible delight. The spare old lady had come along so briskly, almost with impatience, filled with delight (Sabine believed) at having an excuse now to trespass on OвАЩHaraвАЩs land and see what he had done to the old cottage. And Sabine believed, too, that she came to discover what life had done to вАЬdear Mr.¬†StruthersвАЩ niece, Sabine Callendar.вАЭ She came as the Official Welcomer of the Community, with hope in her heart that she would find Sabine a returned prodigal, a wrecked woman, ravaged by time and experience, who for twenty years had ignored them all and now returned, a broken and humbled creature, hungry for kindness. + 

The sight set fire to a whole train of memories in SabineвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ memories which penetrated deep into her childhood when with her father she had lived in the old house that once stood where OвАЩHaraвАЩs new one raised its bright chimneys; memories of days when she had run off by herself to play in the tangled orchard grass among the bleeding-hearts and irises that surrounded this same Brook Cottage where she stood watching the approach of Aunt Cassie. Only, in those days Brook Cottage had been a ruin of a place, with empty windows and sagging doors, ghostly and half-hidden by a shaggy tangle of lilacs and syringas, and now it stood glistening with new paint, the lilacs all neatly clipped and pruned. + 

There was something in the sight of the old womanвАЩs nervous, active figure that struck deep down into a past which Sabine, with the passing of years, had almost succeeded in forgetting; and now it all came back again, sharply and with a kind of stabbing pain, so that she had a sudden odd feeling of having become a little girl againвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ plain, red-haired, freckled and timid, who stood in terror of Aunt Cassie and was always being pulled here and there by a thousand aunts and uncles and cousins because she would not be turned into their idea of what a nice little girl ought to be. It was as if the whole past were concentrated in the black figure of the old lady who had been the ringleader, the viceroy, of all a far-flung tribe, an old woman who had been old even twenty years earlier, lying always on a sofa under a shawl, issuing her edicts, pouring out her ample sympathies, her bitter criticisms. And here she was, approaching briskly, as if the death of Mr.¬†Struthers had somehow released her from bonds which had chafed for too long. + 

Watching her, one incident after another flashed through the quick, hard brain of Sabine, all recreated with a swift, astounding clarityвБ†вАФthe day when she had run off to escape into the world and been found by old John Pentland hiding in the thicket of white birches happily eating blueberries. (She could see his countenance now, stern with its disapproval of such wild behavior, but softening, too, at the sight of the grubby, freckled plain face stained with blueberry juice.) And the return of the captive, when she was surrounded by aunts who dressed her in a clean frock and forced her to sit in the funereal spare bedroom with a New Testament on her knees until she вАЬfelt that she could come out and behave like a nice, well-brought-up little girl.вАЭ She could see the aunts pulling and fussing at her and saying, вАЬWhat a shame she didnвАЩt take after her mother in looks!вАЭ and, вАЬSheвАЩll have a hard time with such plain, straight red hair.вАЭ + 

And there was, too, the memory of that day when Anson Pentland, a timid, spiritless little Lord Fauntleroy of a boy, fell into the river and would have been drowned save for his cousin Sabine, who dragged him out, screaming and drenched, only to receive for herself all the scolding for having led him into mischief. And the times when she had been punished for having asked frank and simple questions which she ought not to have asked. + 

It was difficult to remember any happiness until the day when her father died and she was sent to New York, a girl of twenty, knowing very little of anything and nothing whatever of such things as love and marriage, to live with an uncle in a tall narrow house on Murray Hill. It was on that day (she saw it now with a devastating clarity as she stood watching the approach of Aunt Cassie) that her life had really begun. Until then her existence had been only a confused and tormented affair in which there was very little happiness. It was only later that reality had come to her, painfully, even tragically, in a whole procession of events which had made her slowly into this hard, worldly, cynical woman who found herself, without quite knowing why, back in a world she hated, standing at the window of Brook Cottage, a woman tormented by an immense and acutely living curiosity about people and the strange tangles which their lives sometimes assumed. + 

She had been standing by the window thinking back into the past with such a fierce intensity that she quite forgot the approach of Aunt Cassie and started suddenly at the sound of the curious, familiar thin voice, amazingly unchanged, calling from the hallway, вАЬSabine! Sabine dear! ItвАЩs your Aunt Cassie! Where are you?вАЭ as if she had never left Durham at all, as if nothing had changed in twenty years. + 

At sight of her, the old lady came forward with little fluttering cries to fling her arms about her late husbandвАЩs niece. Her manner was that of a shepherd receiving a lost sheep, a manner filled with forgiveness and pity and condescension. The tears welled easily into her eyes and streamed down her face. + 

Sabine permitted herself, frigidly, to be embraced, and said, вАЬBut you donвАЩt look a day older, Aunt Cassie. You look stronger than ever.вАЭ It was a remark which somehow set the whole tone of the relationship between them, a remark which though it sounded sympathetic and even complimentary was a harsh thing to say to a woman who had cherished all her life the tradition of invalidism. It was harsh, too, because it was true. Aunt Cassie at forty-seven had been as shriveled and dried as she was now, twenty years later. + 

The old woman said, вАЬMy dear girl, I am miserableвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ miserable.вАЭ And drying the tears that streamed down her face she added, вАЬIt wonвАЩt be long now until I go to join dear Mr.¬†Struthers.вАЭ + 

Sabine wanted suddenly to laugh, at the picture of Aunt Cassie entering Paradise to rejoin a husband whom she had always called, even in the intimacy of married life, вАЬMr.¬†Struthers.вАЭ She kept thinking that Mr.¬†Struthers might not find the reunion so pleasant as his wife anticipated. She had always held a strange belief that Mr.¬†Struthers had chosen death as the best way out. + 

And she felt a sudden almost warm sense of returning memories, roused by Aunt CassieвАЩs passion for overstatement. Aunt Cassie could never bring herself to say simply, вАЬIвАЩm going to dieвАЭ which was not at all true. She must say, вАЬI go to join dear Mr.¬†Struthers.вАЭ + 

Sabine said, вАЬOh, no.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ Oh, no.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ DonвАЩt say that.вАЭ + 

вАЬI donвАЩt sleep any more. I barely close my eyes at night.вАЭ + 

She had seated herself now and was looking about her, absorbing everything in the room, the changes made by the dreadful OвАЩHara, the furniture he had bought for the house. But most of all she was studying Sabine, devouring her with sidelong, furtive glances; and Sabine, knowing her so well, saw that the old woman had been given a violent shock. She had come prepared to find a broken, unhappy Sabine and she had found instead this smooth, rather hard and self-contained woman, superbly dressed and poised, from the burnished red hair (that straight red hair the aunts had once thought so hopeless) to the lizard-skin slippersвБ†вАФa woman who had obviously taken hold of life with a firm hand and subdued it, who was in a way complete. + 

вАЬYour dear uncle never forgot you for a moment, Sabine, in all the years you were away. He died, leaving me to watch over you.вАЭ And again the easy tears welled up. + 

(вАЬOh,вАЭ thought Sabine, вАЬyou donвАЩt catch me that way. You wonвАЩt put me back where I once was. You wonвАЩt even have a chance to meddle in my life.вАЭ) + 

Aloud she said, вАЬItвАЩs a pity IвАЩve always been so far away.вАЭ + 

вАЬBut IвАЩve thought of you, my dear.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ IвАЩve thought of you. Scarcely a night passes when I donвАЩt say to myself before going to sleep, вАШThere is poor Sabine out in the world, turning her back on all of us who love her.вАЩвАКвАЭ She sighed abysmally. вАЬI have thought of you, dear. IвАЩve prayed for you in the long nights when I have never closed an eye.вАЭ + 

And Sabine, talking on half-mechanically, discovered slowly that, in spite of everything, she was no longer afraid of Aunt Cassie. She was no longer a shy, frightened, plain little girl; she even began to sense a challenge, a combat which filled her with a faint sense of warmth. She kept thinking, вАЬShe really hasnвАЩt changed at all. She still wants to reach out and take possession of me and my life. SheвАЩs like an octopus reaching out and seizing each member of the family, arranging everything.вАЭ And she saw Aunt Cassie now, after so many years, in a new light. It seemed to her that there was something glittering and hard and a little sinister beneath all the sighing and tears and easy sympathy. Perhaps she (Sabine) was the only one in all the family who had escaped the reach of those subtle, insinuating tentacles.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ She had run away. + 

Meanwhile Aunt Cassie had swept from a vivid and detailed description of the passing of Mr.¬†Struthers into a catalogue of neighborhood and family calamities, of deaths, of broken troths, financial disasters, and the appearance on the horizon of the вАЬdreadful OвАЩHara.вАЭ She reproached Sabine for having sold her land to such an outsider. And as she talked on and on she grew less and less human and more and more like some disembodied, impersonal force of nature. Sabine, watching her with piercing green eyes, found her a little terrifying. She had sharpened and hardened with age. + 

She discussed the divorces which had occurred in Boston, and at length, leaning forward and touching SabineвАЩs hand with her thin, nervous one, she said brokenly: вАЬI felt for you in your trouble, Sabine. I never wrote you because it would have been so painful. I see now that I evaded my duty. But I felt for you.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ I tried to put myself in your place. I tried to imagine dear Mr.¬†Struthers being unfaithful to meвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ but, of course, I couldnвАЩt. He was a saint.вАЭ She blew her nose and repeated with passion, as if to herself, вАЬA saint!вАЭ + 

(вАЬYes,вАЭ thought Sabine, вАЬa saintвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ if ever there was one.вАЭ) She saw that Aunt Cassie was attacking her now from a new point. She was trying to pity her. By being full of pity the old woman would try to break down her defenses and gain possession of her. + 

SabineвАЩs green eyes took one hard, glinting look. вАЬDid you ever see my husband?вАЭ she asked. + 

вАЬNo,вАЭ said Aunt Cassie, вАЬbut IвАЩve heard a great deal of him. IвАЩve been told how you suffered.вАЭ + 

Sabine looked at her with a queer, mocking expression. вАЬThen youвАЩve been told wrongly. He is a fascinating man. I did not suffer. I assure you that I would rather have shared him with fifty other women than have had any one of the men about here all to myself.вАЭ + 

There was a frank immorality in this statement which put Aunt Cassie to rout, bag and baggage. She merely stared, finding nothing to say in reply to such a speech. Clearly, in all her life she had never heard anyone say a thing so bald and so frank, so completely naked of all pretense of gentility. + 

Sabine went on coldly, pushing her assault to the very end. вАЬI divorced him at last, not because he was unfaithful to me, but because there was another woman who wanted to marry himвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ a woman whom I respect and likeвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ a woman who is still my friend. Understand that I loved him passionatelyвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ in a very fleshly way. One couldnвАЩt help it. I wasnвАЩt the only woman.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ He was a kind of devil, but a very fascinating one.вАЭ + 

The old woman was a little stunned but not by any means defeated. Sabine saw a look come into her eyes, a look which clearly said, вАЬSo this is what the world has done to my poor, dear, innocent little Sabine!вАЭ At last she said with a sigh, вАЬI find it an amazing world. I donвАЩt know what it is coming to.вАЭ + 

вАЬNor I,вАЭ replied Sabine with an air of complete agreement and sympathy. She understood that the struggle was not yet finished, for Aunt Cassie had a way of putting herself always in an impregnable position, of wrapping herself in layer after layer of sighs and sympathy, of charity and forgiveness, of meekness and tears, so that in the end there was no way of suddenly tearing them aside and saying, вАЬThere you areвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ naked at last, a horrible meddling old woman!вАЭ And Sabine kept thinking, too, that if Aunt Cassie had lived in the days of her witch-baiting ancestor, Preserved Pentland, she would have been burned for a witch. + 

And all the while Sabine had been suffering, quietly, deep inside, behind the frankly painted faceвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ suffering in a way which no one in the world had ever suspected; for it was like tearing out her heart, to talk thus of Richard Callendar, even to speak his name. + 

Aloud she said, вАЬAnd how is Mrs.¬†Pentland.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ I mean OliviaвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ not my cousin.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ I know how she isвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ no better.вАЭ + 

вАЬNo better.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ It is one of those things which I can never understand.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ Why God should have sent such a calamity to a good man like my brother.вАЭ + 

вАЬBut OliviaвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ began Sabine, putting an end abruptly to what was clearly the prelude to a pious monologue. + 

вАЬOh!вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ Olivia,вАЭ replied Aunt Cassie, launching into an account of the young Mrs.¬†Pentland. вАЬOlivia is an angelвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ an angel, a blessing of God sent to my poor brother. But sheвАЩs not been well lately. SheвАЩs been rather sharp with meвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ even with poor Miss Peavey, who is so sensitive. I canвАЩt imagine what has come over her.вАЭ + 

It seemed that the strong, handsome Olivia was suffering from nerves. She was, Aunt Cassie said, unhappy about something, although she could not see why Olivia shouldnвАЩt be happyвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ a woman with everything in the world. + 

вАЬEverything?вАЭ echoed Sabine. вАЬHas anyone in the world got everything?вАЭ + 

вАЬIt is OliviaвАЩs fault if she hasnвАЩt everything. All the materials are there. She has a good husbandвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ a husband who never looks at other women.вАЭ + 

вАЬNor at his own wife either,вАЭ interrupted Sabine. вАЬI know all about Anson. I grew up with him.вАЭ + 

Aunt Cassie saw fit to ignore this. вАЬSheвАЩs rich,вАЭ she said, resuming the catalogue of OliviaвАЩs blessings. + 

And again Sabine interrupted, вАЬBut what does money mean, Aunt Cassie? In our world one is rich and thatвАЩs the end of it. One takes it for granted. When one isnвАЩt rich any longer, one simply slips out of it. It has very little to do with happiness.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ + 

The strain was beginning to show on Aunt Cassie. вАЬYouвАЩd find out if you werenвАЩt rich,вАЭ she observed with asperity, вАЬif your father and great-grandfather hadnвАЩt taken care of their money.вАЭ She recovered herself and made a deprecating gesture. вАЬBut donвАЩt think IвАЩm criticizing dear Olivia. She is the best, the most wonderful woman.вАЭ She began to wrap herself once more in kindliness and charity and forgiveness. вАЬOnly she seems to me to be a little queer lately.вАЭ + 

SabineвАЩs artificially crimson mouth took on a slow smile. вАЬIt would be too bad if the Pentland family drove two wives insaneвБ†вАФone after the other.вАЭ + 

Again Aunt Cassie came near to defeat by losing her composure. She snorted, and Sabine helped her out by asking: вАЬAnd Anson?вАЭ ironically. вАЬWhat is dear Anson doing?вАЭ + 

She told him of AnsonвАЩs great work, The Pentland Family and the Massachusetts Bay Colony and of its immense value as a contribution to the history of the nation; and when she had finished with that, she turned to JackвАЩs wretched health, saying in a low, melancholy voice, вАЬItвАЩs only a matter of time, you know.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ At least, so the doctors say.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ With a heart like that itвАЩs only a matter of time.вАЭ The tears came again. + 

вАЬAnd yet,вАЭ Sabine said slowly, вАЬyou say that Olivia has everything.вАЭ + 

вАЬWell,вАЭ replied Aunt Cassie, вАЬperhaps not everything.вАЭ + 

Before she left she inquired for SabineвАЩs daughter and was told that she had gone over to Pentlands to see Sybil. + 

вАЬThey went to the same school in France,вАЭ said Sabine. вАЬThey were friends there.вАЭ + 

вАЬYes,вАЭ said Aunt Cassie. вАЬI was against SybilвАЩs going abroad to school. It fills a girlвАЩs head with queer ideasвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ especially a school like that where anyone could go. Since sheвАЩs home, Sybil behaves very queerly.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ I think itвАЩll stand in the way of her success in Boston. The boys donвАЩt like girls who are different.вАЭ + 

вАЬPerhaps,вАЭ said Sabine, вАЬshe may marry outside of Boston. Men arenвАЩt the same everywhere. Even in Boston there must be one or two who donвАЩt refer to women as вАШGood old So-and-so.вАЩ Even in Boston there must be men who like women who are well dressedвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ women who are ladies.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ + 

Aunt Cassie began to grow angry again, but Sabine swept over her. вАЬDonвАЩt be insulted, Aunt Cassie. I only mean ladies in the old-fashioned, glamorous sense.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ Besides,вАЭ she continued, вАЬwhom could she marry who wouldnвАЩt be a cousin or a connection of some sort?вАЭ + 

вАЬShe ought to marry hereвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ among the people sheвАЩs always known. ThereвАЩs a Mannering boy who would be a good match, and James ThorneвАЩs youngest son.вАЭ + 

Sabine smiled. вАЬSo you have plans for her already. YouвАЩve settled it?вАЭ + 

вАЬOf course, nothing is settled. IвАЩm only thinking of it with SybilвАЩs welfare in view. If she married one of those boys sheвАЩd know what she was getting. SheвАЩd know that she was marrying a gentleman.вАЭ + 

вАЬPerhapsвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ said Sabine. вАЬPerhaps.вАЭ Somehow a devil had taken possession of her and she added softly, вАЬThere was, of course, Horace Pentland.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ One can never be quite sure.вАЭ (She never forgot anything, Sabine.) + 

And at the same moment she saw, standing outside the door that opened on the terrace next to the marshes, a solid, dark, heavy figure which she recognized with a sudden feeling of delight as OвАЩHara. He had been walking across the fields with the wiry little Higgins, who had left him and continued on his way down the lane in the direction of Pentlands. At the sight of him, Aunt Cassie made every sign of an attempt to escape quickly, but Sabine said in a voice ominous with sweetness, вАЬYou must meet Mr.¬†OвАЩHara. I think youвАЩve never met him. HeвАЩs a charming man.вАЭ And she placed herself in such a position that it was impossible for the old woman to escape without losing every vestige of dignity. + 

Then Sabine called gently, вАЬCome in, Mr.¬†OвАЩHara.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ Mrs.¬†Struthers is here and wants so much to meet her new neighbor.вАЭ + 

The door opened and OвАЩHara stepped in, a swarthy, rather solidly built man of perhaps thirty-five, with a shapely head on which the vigorous black hair was cropped close, and with blue eyes that betrayed his Irish origin by the half-hidden sparkle of amusement at this move of SabineвАЩs. He had a strong jaw and full, rather sensual, lips and a curious sense of great physical strength, as if all his clothes were with difficulty modeled to the muscles that lay underneath. He wore no hat, and his skin was a dark tan, touched at the cheekbones by the dull flush of health and good blood. + 

He was, one would have said at first sight, a common, vulgar man in that narrow-jawed world about Durham, a man, perhaps, who had come by his muscles as a dock-laborer. Sabine had thought him vulgar in the beginning, only to succumb in the end to a crude sort of power which placed him above the realm of such distinctions. And she was a shrewd woman, too, devoted passionately to the business of getting at the essence of people; she knew that vulgarity had nothing to do with a man who had eyes so shrewd and full of mockery. + 

He came forward quietly and with a charming air of deference in which there was a faint suspicion of nonsense, a curious shadow of vulgarity, only one could not be certain whether he was not being vulgar by deliberation. + 

вАЬIt is a great pleasure,вАЭ he said. вАЬOf course, I have seen Mrs.¬†Struthers many timesвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ at the horse showsвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ the whippet races.вАЭ + 

Aunt Cassie was drawn up, stiff as a poker, with an air of having found herself unexpectedly face to face with a rattlesnake. + 

вАЬI have had the same experience,вАЭ she said. вАЬAnd of course IвАЩve seen all the improvements you have made here on the farm.вАЭ The word вАЬimprovementsвАЭ she spoke with a sort of venom in it, as if it had been instead a word like вАЬarson.вАЭ + 

вАЬWeвАЩll have some tea,вАЭ observed Sabine. вАЬSit down, Aunt Cassie.вАЭ + 

But Aunt Cassie did not unbend. вАЬI promised Olivia to be back at Pentlands for tea,вАЭ she said. вАЬAnd I am late already.вАЭ Pulling on her black gloves, she made a sudden dip in the direction of OвАЩHara. вАЬWe shall probably see each other again, Mr.¬†OвАЩHara, since we are neighbors.вАЭ + 

вАЬIndeed, I hope so.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ + 

Then she kissed Sabine again and murmured, вАЬI hope, my dear, that you will come often to see me, now that youвАЩve come back to us. Make my house your own home.вАЭ She turned to OвАЩHara, finding a use for him suddenly in her warfare against Sabine. вАЬYou know, Mr.¬†OвАЩHara, she is a traitor in her way. She was raised among us and then went away for twenty years. She hasnвАЩt any loyalty in her.вАЭ + 

She made the speech with a stiff air of playfulness, as if, of course, she were only making a joke and the speech meant nothing at all. Yet the air was filled with a cloud of implications. It was the sort of tactics in which she excelled. + 

Sabine went with her to the door, and when she returned she discovered OвАЩHara standing by the window, watching the figure of Aunt Cassie as she moved indignantly down the road in the direction of Pentlands. Sabine stood there for a moment, studying the straight, strong figure outlined against the light, and she got suddenly a curious sense of the enmity between him and the old woman. They stood, the two of them, in a strange way as the symbols of two great forcesвБ†вАФthe one negative, the other intensely positive; the one the old, the other, the new; the one of decay, the other of vigorous, almost too lush growth. Nothing could ever reconcile them. According to the scheme of things, they would be implacable enemies to the end. But Sabine had no doubts as to the final victor; the same scheme of things showed small respect for all that Aunt Cassie stood for. That was one of the wisdoms Sabine had learned since she had escaped from Durham into the uncompromising realities of the great world. + 

When she spoke, she said in a noncommittal sort of voice, вАЬMrs.¬†Struthers is a remarkable woman.вАЭ + 

And OвАЩHara, turning, looked at her with a sudden glint of humor in his blue eyes. вАЬExtraordinaryвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ IвАЩm sure of it.вАЭ + 

вАЬAnd a powerful woman,вАЭ said Sabine. вАЬWise as a serpent and gentle as a dove. It is never good to underestimate such strength. And now.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ How do you like your tea?вАЭ + 

He took no tea but contented himself with munching a bit of toast and afterward smoking a cigar, clearly pleased with himself in a naive way in the role of landlord coming to inquire of his tenant whether everything was satisfactory. He had a liking for this hard, clever woman who was now only a tenant of the landвБ†вАФhis landвБ†вАФwhich she had once owned. When he thought of itвБ†вАФthat he, Michael OвАЩHara, had come to own this farm in the midst of the fashionable and dignified world of DurhamвБ†вАФthere was something incredible in the knowledge, something which never ceased to warm him with a strong sense of satisfaction. By merely turning his head, he could see in the mirror the reflection of the long scar on his temple, marked there by a broken bottle in the midst of a youthful fight along the India Wharf. He, Michael OвАЩHara, without education save that which he had given himself, without money, without influence, had raised himself to this position before his thirty-sixth birthday. In the autumn he would be a candidate for Congress, certain of election in the back Irish districts. He, Michael OвАЩHara, was on his way to being one of the great men of New England, a country which had once been the tight little paradise of people like the Pentlands. + 

Only no one must ever suspect the depth of that great satisfaction. + 

Yes, he had a liking for this strange woman, who ought to have been his enemy and, oddly enough, was not. He liked the shrewd directness of her mind and the way she had of sitting there opposite him, turning him over and over while he talked, as if he had been a small bug under a microscope. She was finding out all about him; and he understood that, for it was a trick in which he, himself, was well-practised. It was by such methods that he had got ahead in the world. It puzzled him, too, that she should have come out of that Boston-Durham world and yet could be so utterly different from it. He had a feeling that somewhere in the course of her life something had happened to her, something terrible which in the end had given her a great understanding and clarity of mind. He knew, too, almost at once, on the day she had driven up to the door of the cottage, that she had made a discovery about life which he himself had made long sinceвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ that there is nothing of such force as the power of a person content merely to be himself, nothing so invincible as the power of simple honesty, nothing so successful as the life of one who runs alone. Somewhere she had learned all this. She was like a woman to whom nothing could ever again happen. + 

They talked for a time, idly and pleasantly, with a sense of understanding unusual in two people who had known each other for so short a time; they spoke of the farm, of Pentlands, of the mills and the Poles in Durham, of the country as it had been in the days when Sabine was a child. And all the while he had that sense of her weighing and watching him, of feeling out the faint echo of a brogue in his speech and the rather hard, nasal quality that remained from those days along India Wharf and the memories of a neвАЩer-do-well, superstitious Irish father. + 

He could not have known that she was a woman who included among her friends men and women of a dozen nationalities, who lived a life among the clever, successful people of the worldвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ the architects, the painters, the politicians, the scientists. He could not have known the ruthless rule she put up against tolerating any but people who were вАЬcomplete.вАЭ He could have known nothing of her other life in Paris, and London, and New York, which had nothing to do with the life in Durham and Boston. And yet he did know.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ He saw that, despite the great difference in their worlds, there was a certain kinship between them, that they had both come to look upon the world as a pie from which any plum might be drawn if one only knew the knack. + 

And Sabine, on her side, not yet quite certain about casting aside all barriers, was slowly reaching the same understanding. There was no love or sentimentality in the spark that flashed between them. She was more than ten years older than OвАЩHara and had done with such things long ago. It was merely a recognition of one strong person by another. + 

It was OвАЩHara who first took advantage of the bond. In the midst of the conversation, he had turned the talk rather abruptly to Pentlands. + 

вАЬIвАЩve never been there and I know very little of the life,вАЭ he said, вАЬbut IвАЩve watched it from a distance and it interests me. ItвАЩs like something out of a dream, completely deadвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ dead all save for young Mrs.¬†Pentland and Sybil.вАЭ + 

Sabine smiled. вАЬYou know Sybil, then?вАЭ + 

вАЬWe ride together every morning.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ We met one morning by chance along the path by the river and since then weвАЩve gone nearly every day.вАЭ + 

вАЬSheвАЩs a charming girl.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ She went to school in France with my daughter, Th√©r√®se. I saw a great deal of her then.вАЭ + 

Far back in her mind the thought occurred to her that there would be something very amusing in the prospect of Sybil married to OвАЩHara. It would produce such an uproar with Anson and Aunt Cassie and the other relatives.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ A Pentland married to an Irish Roman Catholic politician! + 

вАЬShe is like her mother, isnвАЩt she?вАЭ asked OвАЩHara, sitting forward a bit on his chair. He had a way of sitting thus, in the tense, quiet alertness of a cat. + 

вАЬVery like her mother.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ Her mother is a remarkable womanвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ a charming womanвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ also, I might say, what is the rarest of all things, a really good and generous woman.вАЭ + 

вАЬIвАЩve thought that.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ IвАЩve seen her a half-dozen times. I asked her to help me in planting the garden here at the cottage because I knew she had a passion for gardens. And she didnвАЩt refuseвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ though she scarcely knew me. She came over and helped me with it. I saw her then and came to know her. But when that was finished, she went back to Pentlands and I havenвАЩt seen her since. ItвАЩs almost as if she meant to avoid me. Sometimes I feel sorry for her.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ It must be a queer life for a woman like thatвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ young and beautiful.вАЭ + 

вАЬShe has a great deal to occupy her at Pentlands. And itвАЩs true that itвАЩs not a very fascinating life. Still, IвАЩm sure she couldnвАЩt bear being pitied.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ SheвАЩs the last woman in the world to want pity.вАЭ + 

Curiously, OвАЩHara flushed, the red mounting slowly beneath the dark-tanned skin. + 

вАЬI thought,вАЭ he said a little sadly, вАЬthat her husband or Mrs.¬†Struthers might have raised objections.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ I know how they feel toward me. ThereвАЩs no use pretending not to know.вАЭ + 

вАЬIt is quite possible,вАЭ said Sabine. + 

There was a sudden embarrassing silence, which gave Sabine time to pull her wits together and organize a thousand sudden thoughts and impressions. She was beginning to understand, bit by bit, the real reasons of their hatred for OвАЩHara, the reasons which lay deep down underneath, perhaps so deep that none of them ever saw them for what they were. + 

And then out of the silence she heard the voice of OвАЩHara saying, in a queer, hushed way, вАЬI mean to ask something of youвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ something that may sound ridiculous. I donвАЩt pretend that it isnвАЩt, but I mean to ask it anyway.вАЭ + 

For a moment he hesitated and then, rising quickly, he stood looking away from her out of the door, toward the distant blue marshes and the open sea. She fancied that he was trembling a little, but she could not be certain. What she did know was that he made an immense and heroic effort, that for a moment he, a man who never did such things, placed himself in a position where he would be defenseless and open to being cruelly hurt; and for the moment all the recklessness seemed to flow out of him and in its place there came a queer sadness, almost as if he felt himself defeated in some way.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ + 

He said, вАЬWhat I mean to ask you is this.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ Will you ask me sometimes here to the cottage when she will be here too?вАЭ He turned toward her suddenly and added, вАЬIt will mean a great deal to meвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ more than you can imagine.вАЭ + 

She did not answer him at once, but sat watching him with a poorly concealed intensity; and presently, flicking the cigarette ashes casually from her gown, she asked, вАЬAnd do you think it would be quite moral of me?вАЭ + 

He shrugged his shoulders and looked at her in astonishment, as if he had expected her, least of all people in the world, to ask such a thing. + 

вАЬIt might,вАЭ he said, вАЬmake us both a great deal happier.вАЭ + 

вАЬPerhapsвБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ perhaps not. ItвАЩs not so simple as that. Besides, it isnвАЩt happiness that one places first at Pentlands.вАЭ + 

вАЬNo.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ Still.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶вАЭ He made a sudden vigorous gesture, as if to sweep aside all objections. + 

вАЬYouвАЩre a queer man.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶ IвАЩll see what can be done.вАЭ + 

He thanked her and went out shyly without another word, to stride across the meadows, his black head bent thoughtfully, in the direction of his new bright chimneys. At his heels trotted the springer, which had lain waiting for him outside the door. There was something about the robust figure, crossing the old meadow through the blue twilight, that carried a note of lonely sadness. The self-confidence, the assurance, seemed to have melted away in some mysterious fashion. It was almost as if one man had entered the cottage a little while before and another, a quite different man, had left it just now. Only one thing, Sabine saw, could have made the difference, and that was the name of Olivia. + 

When he had disappeared Sabine went up to her room overlooking the sea and lay there for a long time thinking. She was by nature an indolent woman, especially at times when her brain worked with a fierce activity. It was working thus now, in a kind of fever, confused and yet tremendously clear; for the visits from Aunt Cassie and OвАЩHara had ignited her almost morbid passion for vicarious experience. She had a sense of being on the brink of some calamity which, beginning long ago in a hopeless tangle of origins and motives, was ready now to break forth with the accumulated force of years. + 

It was only now that she began to understand a little what it was that had drawn her back to a place which held memories so unhappy as those haunting the whole countryside of Durham. She saw that it must have been all the while a desire for vindication, a hunger to show them that, in spite of everything, of the straight red hair and the plain face, the silly ideas with which they had filled her head, in spite even of her unhappiness over her husband, she had made of her life a successful, even a brilliant, affair. She had wanted to show them that she stood aloof now and impregnable, quite beyond their power to curb or to injure her. And for a moment she suspected that the half-discerned motive was an even stronger thing, akin perhaps to a desire for vengeance; for she held this world about Durham responsible for the ruin of her happiness. She knew now, as a worldly woman of forty-six, that if she had been brought up knowing life for what it was, she might never have lost the one man who had ever roused a genuine passion in a nature so hard and dry. + 

It was all confused and tormented and vague, yet the visit of Aunt Cassie, filled with implications and veiled attempts to humble her, had cleared the air enormously. + 

And behind the closed lids, the green eyes began to see a whole procession of calamities which lay perhaps within her power to create. She began to see how it might even be possible to bring the whole world of Pentlands down about their heads in a collapse which could create only freedom and happiness to Olivia and her daughter. And it was these two alone for whom she had any affection; the others might be damned, gloriously damned, while she stood by without raising a finger. + 

She began to see where the pieces of the puzzle lay, the wedges which might force open the solid security of the familiar, unchanging world that once more surrounded her. + 

Lying there in the twilight, she saw the whole thing in the process of being fitted together and she experienced a sudden intoxicating sense of power, of having all the tools at hand, of being the dea ex machina of the calamity. + 

She was beginning to see, too, how the force, the power that had lain behind all the family, was coming slowly to an end in a pale, futile weakness. There would always be money to bolster up their world, for the family had never lost its shopkeeping tradition of thrift; but in the end even money could not save them. There came a time when a great fortune might be only a shell without a desiccated rottenness inside. + 

She was still lying there when Th√©r√®se came inвБ†вАФa short, plain, rather stocky, dark girl with a low straight black bang across her forehead. She was hot and soiled by the mud of the marshes, as the red-haired unhappy little girl had been so many times in that far-off, half-forgotten childhood. + 

вАЬWhere have you been?вАЭ she asked indifferently, for there was always a curious sense of strangeness between Sabine and her daughter. + 

вАЬCatching frogs to dissect,вАЭ said Th√©r√®se. вАЬTheyвАЩre damned scarce and I slipped into the river.вАЭ + 

Sabine, looking at her daughter, knew well enough there was no chance of marrying off a girl so queer, and wilful and untidy, in Durham. She saw that it had been a silly idea from the beginning; but she found satisfaction in the knowledge that she had molded Th√©r√®seвАЩs life so that no one could ever hurt her as they had hurt her mother. Out of the queer nomadic life they had led together, meeting all sorts of men and women who were, in SabineвАЩs curious sense of the word, вАЬcomplete,вАЭ the girl had pierced her way somehow to the bottom of things. She was building her young life upon a rock, so that she could afford to feel contempt for the very forces which long ago had hurt her mother. She might, like OвАЩHara, be suddenly humbled by love; but that, Sabine knew, was a glorious thing well worth suffering. + 

She knew it each time that she looked at her child and saw the clear gray eyes of the girlвАЩs father looking out of the dark face with the same proud look of indifferent confidence which had fascinated her twenty years ago. So long as Th√©r√®se was alive, she would never be able wholly to forget him. + 

вАЬGo wash yourself,вАЭ she said. вАЬOld Mr.¬†Pentland and Olivia and Mrs.¬†Soames are coming to dine and play bridge.вАЭ + 

As she dressed for dinner she no longer asked herself, вАЬWhy did I ever imagine Th√©r√®se might find a husband here? What ever induced me to come back here to be bored all summer long?вАЭ + 

She had forgotten all that. She began to see that the summer held prospects of diversion. It might even turn into a fascinating game. She knew that her return had nothing to do with Th√©r√®seвАЩs future; she had been drawn back into Durham by some vague but overwhelming desire for mischief. + 