Hurrying past her daughter, she went into the hall, and, then turning, faced her with her hand on the door-knob. In the dim light of the hall her face showed white and drawn, like the face of a person who has been suddenly stricken with illness. "Jinny, I've just had a visit from Mrs. Carrington—you know what a gossip she is—but I think I ought to tell you that she says people are talking about Oliver's riding so much with Abby."
A pain as sharp as if the teeth of a beast had fastened in her heart, pierced Virginia while she stood there, barring the door with her hands. Her peace, which had seemed indestructible a moment ago, was shattered by a sensation of violent anger—not against Abby, not against Oliver, not even against the gossiping old women of Dinwiddie—but against her own blindness, her own inconceivable folly! At the moment the civilization of centuries was stripped from her, and she was as simple and as primitive as a female of the jungle. On the surface she was still calm, but to her own soul she felt that she presented the appalling spectacle of a normal woman turned fury. It was one of those instants that are so unexpected, so entirely unnatural and out of harmony with the rest of life, that they obliterate the boundaries of character which separate the life of the individual from the ancient root of the race. Not Virginia, but the primeval woman in her blood, shrieked out in protest as she saw her hold on her mate threatened. The destruction of the universe, as long as it left her house standing in its bit of ground, would have overwhelmed her less utterly.
"But what on earth can they say, mother? It was all my fault. I made him go. He never lifted his finger for Abby."
"I know, darling, I know. Of course, Oliver is not to blame, but people will talk, and I think Abby ought to have known better."
For an instant only Virginia hesitated. Then something stronger than the primitive female in her blood—the spirit of a lady—spoke through her lips.
"I don't believe Abby was to blame, either," she said.
"But women ought to know better, Jinny, and Abby is nearly thirty."
"She always wanted me to go, mother. I don't believe she thought for a minute that she was doing anything wrong. Abby is a little coarse, but she's perfectly good. Nobody will make me think otherwise."
"Well, it can't go on, dear. You must stop Oliver's riding with her. And Mrs. Carrington says she hears that he is going to Atlantic City with them in General Goode's private car on Thursday."
"Abby asked me, too, but of course I couldn't leave the children."