“You couldn’t know what I mean.”
“Yes; the boy told me himself. I went to him to talk about Sybil because I wanted to make sure of him ... and after a time he told me. It was an honorable thing for him to have done. He needn’t have told. Sabine would never have told us ... never until it was too late.”
The speech left her feeling weak and disconcerted, for she had expected anger from him and disapproval. She had been fearful that he might treat her silence as a disloyalty to him, that it might in the end shatter the long, trusting relationship between them.
“The boy couldn’t help it,” he was saying. “It’s a thing one can’t properly explain. But he’s a nice boy ... and Sybil was so set on him. I think she has a good, sensible head on her young shoulders.” Sighing and turning toward her again, he added, “I wouldn’t speak of it to the others ... not even to Anson. They may never know, and if they don’t what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”
The mystery of him, it seemed, grew deeper and deeper each time they talked thus, intimately, perhaps because there were in the old man depths which she had never believed possible. Perhaps, deep down beneath all the fierce reticence of his nature, there lay a humanity far greater than any she had ever encountered. She thought, “And I have always believed him hard and cold and disapproving.” She was beginning to fathom the great strength that lay in his fierce isolation, the strength of a man who had always been alone.
“And you, Olivia?” he asked presently. “Are you happy?”
“Yes.... At least, I’m happy this morning ... on account of Sybil and Jean.”
“That’s right,” he said with a gentle sadness. “That’s right. They’ve done what you and I were never able to do, Olivia. They’ll have what we’ve never had and never can have because it’s too late. And we’ve helped them to gain it.... That’s something. I merely wanted you to know that I understood.” And then, “We’d better go and tell the others. The devil will be to pay when they hear.”
She would have gone away then, but an odd thought occurred to her, a hope, feeble enough, but one which might give him a little pleasure. She was struck again by his way of speaking, as if he were very near to death or already dead. He had the air of a very old and weary man.
She said, “There’s one thing I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time.” She hesitated and then plunged. “It was about Savina Pentland. Did she ever have more than one child?”