Age of Innocence (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (21 page)

“I’m afraid Ellen’s ideas are not at all like ours. She was barely eighteen when Medora Manson took her back to Europe—you remember the excitement when she appeared in black at her coming-out ball? Another of Medora’s fads—really this time it was almost prophetic! That must have been at least twelve years ago; and since then Ellen has never been to America. No wonder she is completely Europeanized.”

“But European society is not given to divorce: Countess Olenska thought she would be conforming to American ideas in asking for her freedom.” It was the first time that the young man had pronounced her name since he had left Skuytercliff, and he felt the color rise to his cheek.

Mrs. Welland smiled compassionately. “That is just like the extraordinary things that foreigners invent about us. They think we dine at two o‘clock and countenance divorce! That is why it seems to me so foolish to entertain them when they come to New York. They accept our hospitality, and then they go home and repeat the same stupid stories.”

Archer made no comment on this, and Mrs. Welland continued: “But we do most thoroughly appreciate your persuading Ellen to give up the idea. Her grandmother and her uncle Lovell could do nothing with her; both of them have written that her changing her mind was entirely due to your influence—in fact she said so to her grandmother. She has an unbounded admiration for you. Poor Ellen—she was always a wayward child. I wonder what her fate will be?”

“What we’ve all contrived to make it,” he felt like answering. “If you’d all of you rather she should be Beaufort’s mistress than some decent fellow’s wife you’ve certainly gone the right way about it.”

He wondered what Mrs. Welland would have said if he had uttered the words instead of merely thinking them. He could picture the sudden decomposure of her firm placid features, to which a life-long mastery over trifles had given an air of factitious authority. Traces still lingered on them of fresh beauty like her daughter’s; and he asked himself if May’s face was doomed to thicken into the same middle-aged image of invincible innocence.

Ah, no, he did not want May to have that kind of innocence, the innocence that seals the mind against imagination and the heart against experience!

“I verily believe,” Mrs. Welland continued, “that if the horrible business had come out in the newspapers it would have been my husband’s death-blow. I don’t know any of the details; I only ask not to, as I told poor Ellen when she tried to talk to me about it. Having an invalid to care for, I have to keep my mind bright and happy. But Mr. Welland was terribly upset; he had a slight temperature every morning while we were waiting to hear what had been decided. It was the horror of his girl’s learning that such things were possible—but of course, dear Newland, you felt that too. We all knew that you were thinking of May.”

“I’m always thinking of May,” the young man rejoined, rising to cut short the conversation.

He had meant to seize the opportunity of his private talk with Mrs. Welland to urge her to advance the date of his marriage. But he could think of no arguments that would move her, and with a sense of relief he saw Mr. Welland and May driving up to the door.

His only hope was to plead again with May, and on the day before his departure he walked with her to the ruinous garden of the Spanish Mission. The background lent itself to allusions to European scenes; and May, who was looking her loveliest under a wide-brimmed hat that cast a shadow of mystery over her too-clear eyes, kindled into eagerness as he spoke of Granada and the Alhambra.

“We might be seeing it all this spring—even the Easter ceremonies at Seville,” he urged, exaggerating his demands in the hope of a larger concession.

“Easter in Seville? And it will be Lent next week!” she laughed.

“Why shouldn’t we be married in Lent?” he rejoined; but she looked so shocked that he saw his mistake.

“Of course I didn’t mean that, dearest; but soon after Easter—so that we could sail at the end of April. I know I could arrange it at the office.”

She smiled dreamily upon the possibility; but he perceived that to dream of it sufficed her. It was like hearing him read aloud out of his poetry books the beautiful things that could not possibly happen in real life.

“Oh, do go on, Newland; I do love your descriptions.”

“But why should they be only descriptions? Why shouldn’t we make them real?”

“We shall, dearest, of course; next year.” Her voice lingered over it.

“Don’t you want them to be real sooner? Can’t I persuade you to break away now?”

She bowed her head, vanishing from him under her conniving hat-brim.

“Why should we dream away another year? Look at me, dear! Don’t you understand how I want you for my wife?”

For a moment she remained motionless; then she raised on him eyes of such despairing clearness that he half-released her waist from his hold. But suddenly her look changed and deepened inscrutably. “I’m not sure if I
do
understand,” she said. “Is it—is it because you’re not certain of continuing to care for me?”

Archer sprang up from his seat. “My God—perhaps—I don’t know,” he broke out angrily.

May Welland rose also; as they faced each other she seemed to grow in womanly stature and dignity. Both were silent for a moment, as if dismayed by the unforeseen trend of their words: then she said in a low voice: “If that is it—is there some one else?”

“Some one else—between you and me?” He echoed her words slowly, as though they were only half-intelligible and he wanted time to repeat the question to himself. She seemed to catch the uncertainty of his voice, for she went on in a deepening tone: “Let us talk frankly, Newland. Sometimes I’ve felt a difference in you; especially since our engagement has been announced.”

“Dear—what madness!” he recovered himself to exclaim.

She met his protest with a faint smile. “If it is, it won’t hurt us to talk about it.” She paused, and added, lifting her head with one of her noble movements: “Or even if it’s true: why shouldn’t we speak of it? You might so easily have made a mistake.”

He lowered his head, staring at the black leaf-pattern on the sunny path at their feet. “Mistakes are always easy to make; but if I had made one of the kind you suggest, is it likely that I should be imploring you to hasten our marriage?”

She looked downward too, disturbing the pattern with the point of her sunshade while she struggled for expression. “Yes,” she said at length. “You might want—once for all—to settle the question: it’s one way.”

Her quiet lucidity startled him, but did not mislead him into thinking her insensible. Under her hat-brim he saw the pallor of her profile, and a slight tremor of the nostril above her resolutely steadied lips.

“Well—?” he questioned, sitting down on the bench, and looking up at her with a frown that he tried to make playful.

She dropped back into her seat and went on: “You mustn’t think that a girl knows as little as her parents imagine. One hears and one notices—one has one’s own feelings and ideas. And of course, long before you told me that you cared for me, I’d known that there was some one else you were interested in; every one was talking about it two years ago at Newport. And once I saw you sitting together on the verandah at a dance—and when she came back into the house her face was sad, and I felt sorry for her; I remembered it afterward, when we were engaged.”

Her voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and she sat clasping and unclasping her hands about the handle of her sunshade. The young man laid his upon them with a gentle pressure; his heart dilated with an inexpressible relief.

“My dear child—was
that
it? If you only knew the truth!”

She raised her head quickly. “Then there is a truth I don’t know?”

He kept his hand over hers. “I meant, the truth about the old story you speak of.”

“But that’s what I want to know, Newland—what I ought to know. I couldn’t have my happiness made out of a wrong—an unfairness—to somebody else. And I want to believe that it would be the same with you. What sort of life could we build on such foundations?”

Her face had taken on a look of such tragic courage that he felt like bowing himself down at her feet. “I’ve wanted to say this for a long time,” she went on. “I’ve wanted to tell you that, when two people really love each other, I understand that there may be situations which make it right that they should—should go against public opinion. And if you feel yourself in any way pledged ... pledged to the person we’ve spoken of... and if there is any way ... any way in which you can fulfill your pledge ... even by her getting a divorce ... Newland, don’t give her up because of me!”

His surprise at discovering that her fears had fastened upon an episode so remote and so completely of the past as his love-affair with Mrs. Thorley Rushworth gave way to wonder at the generosity of her view. There was something superhuman in an attitude so recklessly unorthodox, and if other problems had not pressed on him he would have been lost in wonder at the prodigy of the Wellands’ daughter urging him to marry his former mistress. But he was still dizzy with the glimpse of the precipice they had skirted, and full of a new awe at the mystery of young-girlhood.

For a moment he could not speak; then he said: “There is no pledge—no obligation whatever—of the kind you think. Such cases don’t always—present themselves quite as simply as ... But that’s no matter ... I love your generosity, because I feel as you do about those things ... I feel that each case must be judged individually, on its own merits ... irrespective of stupid conventionali ties ... I mean, each woman’s right to her liberty—” He pulled himself up, startled by the turn his thoughts had taken, and went on, looking at her with a smile: “Since you understand so many things, dearest, can’t you go a little farther, and understand the uselessness of our submitting to another form of the same foolish con ventionalities ? If there’s no one and nothing between us, isn’t that an argument for marrying quickly, rather than for more delay?”

She flushed with joy and lifted her face to his; as he bent to it he saw that her eyes were full of happy tears. But in another moment she seemed to have descended from her womanly eminence to helpless and timorous girlhood; and he understood that her courage and initiative were all for others, and that she had none for herself. It was evident that the effort of speaking had been much greater than her studied composure betrayed, and that at his first word of reassurance she had dropped back into the usual, as a too adventurous child takes refuge in its mother’s arms.

Archer had no heart to go on pleading with her; he was too much disappointed at the vanishing of the new being who had cast that one deep look at him from her transparent eyes. May seemed to be aware of his disappointment, but without knowing how to alleviate it; and they stood up and walked silently home.

17

“YOUR COUSIN THE COUNTESS called on mother while you were away,” Janey Archer announced to her brother on the evening of his return.

The young man, who was dining alone with his mother and sister, glanced up in surprise and saw Mrs. Archer’s gaze demurely bent on her plate. Mrs. Archer did not regard her seclusion from the world as a reason for being forgotten by it; and Newland guessed that she was slightly annoyed that he should be surprised by Madame Olenska’s visit.

“She had on a black velvet polonaise with jet buttons, and a tiny green monkey muff; I never saw her so stylishly dressed,” Janey continued. “She came alone, early on Sunday afternoon; luckily the fire was lit in the drawing room. She had one of those new card-cases. She said she wanted to know us because you’d been so good to her.”

Newland laughed. “Madame Olenska always takes that tone about her friends. She’s very happy at being among her own people again.”

“Yes, so she told us,” said Mrs. Archer. “I must say she seems thankful to be here.”

“I hope you liked her, mother.”

Mrs. Archer drew her lips together. “She certainly lays herself out to please, even when she is calling on an old lady.”

“Mother doesn’t think her simple,” Janey interjected, her eyes screwed upon her brother’s face.

“It’s just my old-fashioned feeling; dear May is my ideal,” said Mrs. Archer.

“Ah,” said her son, “they’re not alike.”

Archer had left St. Augustine charged with many messages for old Mrs. Mingott; and a day or two after his return to town he called on her.

The old lady received him with unusual warmth; she was grateful to him for persuading the Countess Olenska to give up the idea of a divorce; and when he told her that he had deserted the office without leave, and rushed down to St. Augustine simply because he wanted to see May, she gave an adipose chuckle and patted his knee with her puff-ball hand.

“Ah, ah—so you kicked over the traces, did you? And I suppose Augusta and Welland pulled long faces, and behaved as if the end of the world had come? But little May—she knew better, I’ll be bound?”