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Updated: June 3, 2025
Harv Dorflay was only mad on one subject, and even within the frame of his madness he was intensely logical. He nodded. "Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. We both serve the Empire as best we can. And I will guard the little Princess Olva, too." He grasped Paul's hand, said, "Farewell, Your Majesty!" and dashed away, gathering his staff and the company of Thorans as he went.
Into this Hand very gently, very tenderly, certain figures were drawn Mrs. Craven, Margaret, Rupert, Bunning, even Lawrence. Olva was dragging with him, into the heart of some terrible climax, these so diverse persons; he could not escape now other lives were twisted into the fabric of his own. And yet with this certainty of the futility of it, he must still struggle . . . to the very end.
The wretched Bunning was swiftly regaining confidence. He was now, of course, about to plunge a great deal farther than was necessary and to burden Olva with sell-revelations and the rest. Olva hurriedly broke in "Well, come and see me when you want to. I've got a lot of work to do before Hall. But we'll go for a walk one day. . . ." Bunning was at once flung back on to his timid self.
I sent off a wire to his uncle in town half an hour ago to ask whether he were there. I don't know why I'm so anxious. . . . It's all right, of course, but I'm uneasy." "Well, you're quite wrong about my disliking Carfax," Olva went on. "And I think, altogether, it's about time I came off my perch. For one thing I'm going to take up Rugger properly." "Oh, but that's splendid!
Craven was only waiting for certainty and at any moment some chance might give him what he needed. What did Mrs. Craven know? Margaret . . . Margaret . . . Margaret -Olva took the thought of her in his hand and held it like a sword, against the forces that were crowding in upon him.
Many, many other pictures of those first days, but always Olva and his father, moving together, speaking but seldom, sitting before the fire in the evenings, watching the blaze, despising the world. The contempt that his father had for his fellow-beings! Had a man ever been so alone? Olva himself had drunk of that same contempt and welcomed his solitude at Harrow.
At first Olva had thought that he was alone in the room; then when his eyes had grown more accustomed to the light he saw, sitting in a high-backed chair, motionless, gazing into the fire, with her fine white hands lying in her lap, a lady. She reminded him, in that first vision of her, of "Phiz's" pictures of Mrs. Clennam in Little Dorrit, and always afterwards that connection remained with him.
Tell him I did it. Make him believe it. You can -you're clever enough. Make him feel that I did it. You mustn't, mustn't -let him know. Oh, please, please. I'll kill myself if you do. I will really." Olva gravely, quietly, put his hands on Bunning's shoulders. "It's all right -it had to come out. I've been avoiding it all this time, escaping it, but it had to come. Don't you be afraid of it.
Well, we meet this afternoon." When the door closed Olva had the sensation of having been on his trial. Craven's eyes still followed him. Nerves, of course . . . but they had strangely reminded him of Bunker. Olva had never been to Craven's house before. It stood in a little street that joined Cambridge to the country.
Bunker was tired; he relapsed on to his haunches, wagged his tail, grinned, but in his eyes there seemed, although the lamplight was deceptive, to be the faintest shadow of an apprehension. "Good old dog, good old Bunker." Bunker wagged his tail, but the tiniest shiver passed, like a thought, through his body. Olva left him. As he passed through the streets he met men whom he knew.
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