Part 17 (1/2)
Olivia brought her mind back with some effort from the consideration of the greater issues to fix it on the smaller ones. In its way Drusilla's interference was a welcome diversion, since the point she raised was important enough to distract Olivia's attention from decisions too poignant to dwell on long.
”I've thought that over,” Drusilla explained--”mother and I together. If we were you we'd simply scribble a few lines on your card and send it round by post.”
”Yes? And what would you scribble?”
”We'd say--you see, it wouldn't commit you to anything too pointed--we'd say, simply, 'Miss Guion's marriage to Colonel Ashley will not take place on October 28th.' There you'd have nothing but the statement, and they could make of it what they liked.”
”Which would be a good deal, wouldn't it?”
”Human nature being human nature, Olivia, you can hardly expect people not to talk. But you're in for that, you know, whatever happens now.”
”Oh, of course.”
”So that the thing to do is to keep them from going to the church next Thursday fortnight, and from pestering you with presents in the mean while. When you've headed them off on that you'll feel more free to--to give your mind to other things.”
The suggestion was so sensible that Olivia fell in with it at once. She accepted, too, Drusilla's friendly offer to help in the writing of the cards, of which it would be necessary to send out some two hundred.
There being no time to lose, they set themselves immediately to the task, Drusilla at the desk, and Olivia writing on a blotting-pad at a table. They worked for twenty minutes or half an hour in silence.
”Miss Guion's marriage to Colonel Ashley will not take place on October 28th.”
”Miss Guion's marriage to Colonel Ashley will not take place on October 28th.”
”Miss Guion's marriage to Colonel Ashley will not take place on October 28th.”
The words, which to Olivia had at first sounded something like a knell, presently became, from the monotony of repet.i.tion, nothing but a sing-song. She went on writing them mechanically, but her thoughts began to busy themselves otherwise.
”Drusilla, do you remember Jack Berrington?”
The question slipped out before she saw its significance. She might not have perceived it so quickly even then had it not been for the second of hesitation before Drusilla answered and the quaver in her voice when she did.
”Y-es.”
The amount of information contained in the embarra.s.sment with which this monosyllable was uttered caused Olivia to feel faint. It implied that Drusilla had been better posted than herself; and if Drusilla, why not others?
”Do you know what makes me think of him?”
Again there was a second of hesitation. Without relaxing the speed with which she went on scribbling the same oft-repeated sentence, Olivia knew that her companion stayed her pen and half turned round.
”I can guess.”
Olivia kept on writing. ”How long have you known?”
Drusilla threw back the answer while blotting with unnecessary force the card she had just written: ”A couple of days.”
”Has it got about--generally?”
”Generally might be too much to say. Some people have got wind of it; and, of course, a thing of that kind spreads.”
”Of course.”