It was impossible to refuse, impossible even to protest any further, impossible to say that in this very moment she wanted only to run away, to escape, to leave them all forever, now that Sybil was safe. Looking away, she said in a low voice, “Yes.”
It was impossible to desert him now ... an old, tired man. The bond between them was too strong; it had existed for too long, since that first day she had come to Pentlands as Anson’s bride and known that it was the father and not the son whom she respected. In a way, he had imposed upon her something of his own rugged, patriarchal strength. It seemed to her that she had been caught when she meant most to escape; and she was frightened, too, by the echoing thought that perhaps she had become, after all, a Pentland ... hard, cautious, unadventurous and a little bitter, one for whom there was no fire or glamour in life, one who worshiped a harsh, changeable, invisible goddess called Duty. She kept thinking of Sabine’s bitter remark about “the lower middle-class virtues of the Pentlands” ... the lack of fire, the lack of splendor, of gallantry. And yet this fierce old man was gallant, in an odd fashion.... Even Sabine knew that.
He was talking again. “It’s not only money that’s been left to you.... There’s Sybil, who’s still too young to be let free....”
“No,” said Olivia with a quiet stubbornness, “she’s not too young. She’s to do as she pleases. I’ve tried to make her wiser than I was at her age ... perhaps wiser than I’ve ever been ... even now.”
“Perhaps you’re right, my dear. You have been so many times ... and things aren’t the same as they were in my day ... certainly not with young girls.”
He took up the papers again, fussing over them in a curious, nervous way, very unlike his usual firm, unrelenting manner. She had a flash of insight which told her that he was behaving thus because he wanted to avoid looking at her. She hated confidences and she was afraid now that he was about to tell her things she preferred never to hear. She hated confidences and yet she seemed to be a person who attracted them always.
“And leaving Sybil out of it,” he continued, “there’s queer old Miss Haddon in Durham whom, as you know, we’ve taken care of for years; and there’s Cassie, who’s growing old and ill, I think. We can’t leave her to half-witted Miss Peavey. I know my sister Cassie has been a burden to you.... She’s been a burden to me, all my life....” He smiled grimly. “I suppose you know that....” Then, after a pause, he said, “But most of all, there’s my wife.”
His voice assumed a queer, unnatural quality, from which all feeling had been removed. It became like the voices of deaf persons who never hear the sounds they make.
“I can’t leave her alone,” he said. “Alone ... with no one to care for her save a paid nurse. I couldn’t die and know that there’s no one to think of her ... save that wretched, efficient Miss Egan ... a stranger. No, Olivia ... there’s no one but you.... No one I can trust.” He looked at her sharply, “You’ll promise me to keep her here always ... never to let them send her away? You’ll promise?”
Again she was caught. “Of course,” she said. “Of course I’ll promise you that.” What else was she to say?