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It was nothing new to Verena that if the great striving of Olive's life was for justice she yet sometimes failed to arrive at it in particular cases; and she reflected that it was rather late for her to say, like that, that Basil Ransom's letters were only his correspondent's business. Had not his kinswoman quite made the subject her own during their drive that afternoon?
Banks explained. "She was Olive's governess. Oh! poor Claire, how she suffered! It was, perhaps, a good thing after all that she died so soon after you were born. Her heart was broken. She was so innocent; she could not realise that she was no more than a casual mistress for your father. And then Mrs. Jervaise, whom you have believed to be your mother, was very unkind to my poor Claire.
Reed questioned, with a sudden curtness that betrayed to Olive's ear the crackling of the thin ice on which, day by day, they skated over the surface of the tragedy. Nevertheless, Olive struck out fearlessly. Even if the ice did crack and let them through, such old, well-tried friends as Reed and herself could face what lay beneath it, without sentimental fears.
"Has she left no letter, no explanation of her leaving in this way?" "Not a word, so far as anybody in the village knows." "Come over to the post-office with me; perhaps we may find a letter. I think we shall." Olive's sagacity and knowledge of her friend's character had not misled her.
The cat was a great pet of Olive's; and the moment it saw its young mistress, it was purring round her feet, following her from room to room, never resting until she took it up in her arms. The love even of a dumb animal touched her then.
Luttrell thinks a sea voyage would do him good, but I do not know how I am to bring myself to part with him. "Oh, by-the-bye, did Alwyn tell you that Greta Williams is coming to see us? She was my Olive's friend, so of course she will be welcome," and then, in rather a meaning voice, "I rather think she is Alwyn's friend too."
Avery had given up the attempt almost at the outset, realizing that it was not in Olive's nature to be intimate with anyone. They were always exceedingly polite to each other, but beyond that their acquaintance made no progress. Olive lived in a world of books, and the practical side of life scarcely touched her, and most certainly never appealed to her sympathy.
Treat and Ben told of the boy's experiences in a way that brought many a blush to his cheeks. Mr. Treat was too busy with Aunt Olive's lamb, as he affectionately spoke of it, to be able to say anything; he was wonderfully fortunate in not choking himself but once, and that was such a trifling matter that it was all over in a moment.
With one quick glance she seemed to say: "Ah, ha, you find me here, do you? What have you to say to that?" Olive's heart stood still. That woman, that Maria Port, sitting in close converse with her uncle in that public place where she had never seen any one but men! That horrid woman at such a moment as this! She could not speak to her; she could not speak to her uncle in her presence.
The pale young moon climbed slowly up above the tree-top, and just as its slanting rays reached the window-sill, and fell in across the floor, the door opened carefully, and Olive's voice spoke: "Mama? You are up?" "Yes, dear; are you sick? What is the matter?" "Nothing. I only want to tell you something;" and Olive pushed the stool up as she spoke, and sat down.
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