She found him standing on the terrace, outside the tall windows that opened into the drawing-room, and as she approached, she saw that he was so lost in his sorrow that he did not even notice her. He was like a man in a state of enchantment. He simply stood there, tall and stiff and austere, staring across the marshes in the direction of the sea, alone as he had always been, surrounded by the tragic armor of loneliness that none of them, not even herself, had ever succeeded in piercing. She saw then that there was a grief more terrible than her own. She had lost her son but for John Pentland it was the end of everything. She saw that the whole world had collapsed about him. It was as if he, too, had died.
She did not speak to him at first, but simply stood beside him, taking his huge, bony hand in hers, aware that he did not look at her, but kept staring on and on across the marshes in the direction of the sea. And at last she said softly, “It has happened, at last.”
Still he did not look at her, but he did answer, saying, “I knew,” in a whisper that was barely audible. There were tears on his leathery old cheeks. He had come out into the darkness of the scented garden to weep. It was the only time that she had ever seen tears in the burning black eyes.
Not until long after midnight did all the subdued and vulgar hubbub that surrounds death fade away once more into silence, leaving Olivia alone in the room with Sybil. They did not speak to each other, for they knew well enough the poverty of words, and there was between them no need for speech.
At last Olivia said, “You had best get some sleep, darling; to-morrow will be a troublesome day.”
And then, like a little girl, Sybil came over and seating herself on her mother’s lap put her arms about her neck and kissed her.
The girl said softly, “You are wonderful, Mother. I know that I’ll never be so wonderful a woman. We should have spared you to-night, all of us, and instead of that, it was you who managed everything.” Olivia only kissed her and even smiled a little at Sybil. “I think he’s happier. He’ll never be tired again as he used to be.”
She had risen to leave when both of them heard, far away, somewhere in the distance, the sound of music. It came to them vaguely and in snatches borne in by the breeze from the sea, music that was filled with a wild, barbaric beat, that rose and fell with a passionate sense of life. It seemed to Olivia that there was in the sound of it some dark power which, penetrating the stillness of the old house, shattered the awesome silence that had settled down at last with the approach of death. It was as if life were celebrating its victory over death, in a savage, wild, exultant triumph.
It was music, too, that sounded strange and passionate in the thin, clear air of the New England night, such music as none of them had ever heard there before; and slowly, as it rose to a wild crescendo of sound, Olivia recognized it—the glowing barbaric music of the tribal dances in Prince Igor, being played brilliantly with a sense of abandoned joy.
At the same moment Sybil looked at her mother and said, “It’s Jean de Cyon.... I’d forgotten that he was arriving to-night.” And then sadly, “Of course he doesn’t know.”