He was watching her with a look of fascination in his eyes, and she knew—she was certain of it—that he had never been so much in love with her before; but she knew, too, from the shadow which crossed his face (it seemed to her that he almost winced) and because she knew him so well, that he recognized the truth of what she had said.
“It’s not true, Olivia.... You can’t go back on me now ... just when I need you most.”
“I’d be betraying you, Michael, if I did the other thing. It’s not me you need half so much as the other thing. Oh, I know that I’m right. What you should have in the end is a young woman ... a woman who will help you. It doesn’t matter very much whether you’re terribly in love with her or not ... but a woman who can be your wife and bear your children and give dinner parties and help make of you the famous man you’ve always meant to be. You need some one who will help you to found a family, to fill your new house with children ... some one who’ll help you and your children to take the place of families like ours who are at the end of things. No, Michael ... I’m right.... Look at me,” she commanded suddenly. “Look at me and you’ll know that it’s not because I don’t love you.”
He was on his knees now, on the carpet of scented pine-needles, his arms about her while she stroked the thick black hair with a kind of hysterical intensity.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Olivia. It’s not true! It’s not true! I’d give up everything.... I don’t want the other thing. I’ll sell my farm and go away from here forever with you.”
“Yes, Michael, you think that to-day, just now ... and to-morrow everything will be changed. That’s one of the mean tricks Nature plays us. It’s not so simple as that. We’re not like Higgins and ... the kitchen-maid ... at least not in some ways.”
“Olivia ... Olivia, do you love me enough to....”
She knew what he meant to ask. She thought, “What does it matter? Why should I not, when I love him so? I should be harming no one ... no one but myself.”
And then, abruptly, through the mist of tears she saw through an opening in the thicket a little procession crossing the meadows toward the big house at Pentlands. She saw it with a terrible, intense clarity ... a little procession of the gardener and his helper carrying between them on a shutter a figure that lay limp and still, and following them came Higgins on foot, leading his horse and moving with the awkward rolling gait which afflicted him when his feet were on the ground. She knew who the still figure was. It was John Pentland. The red mare had killed him at last. And she heard him saying, “There are some things which people like us, Olivia, can’t do.”
What happened immediately afterward she was never able to remember very clearly. She found herself joining the little procession; she knew that Michael was with her, and that there could be no doubt of the tragedy.... John Pentland was dead, with his neck broken. He lay on the shutter, still and peaceful, the bitter lines all melted from the grim, stern face, as he had been when she came upon him in the library smelling of dogs and woodsmoke and whisky. Only this time he had escaped for good....