Ransom that morning had developed
suddenly into an embarkation for the day. They had gone out in a boat
together; one of the village worthies, from whom small craft were to be
hired, had, at Verena's request, sent his little son to Miss
Chancellor's cottage with that information. She had not understood
whether they had taken the boatman with them. Even when the information
came (and it came at a moment of considerable reassurance), Olive's
nerves were not ploughed up by it as they had been, for instance, by the
other expedition, in New York; and she could measure the distance she
had traversed since then. It had not driven her away on the instant to
pace the shore in frenzy, to challenge every boat that passed, and beg
that the young lady who was sailing somewhere in the bay with a dark
gentleman with long hair should be entreated immediately to return. On
the contrary, after the first quiver of pain inflicted by the news she
had been able to occupy herself, to look after her house, to write her
morning's letters, to go into her accounts, which she had had some time
on her mind. She had wanted to put off thinking, for she knew to what
hideous recognitions that would bring her round again. These were summed
up in the fact that Verena was now not to be trusted for an hour. She
had sworn to her the night before, with a face like a lacerated angel's,
that her choice was made, that their union and their work were more to
her than any other life could ever be, and that she deeply believed that
should she forswear these holy things she would simply waste away, in
the end, with remorse and shame.
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