The Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton [red novels .txt] 📗

doubt

be the simplest solution.

 

It was only half-past eight, after all, when he rang the

bell under the wisteria; not as late as he had intended

by half an hour—but a singular restlessness had driven

him to her door. He reflected, however, that Mrs.

Struthers’s Sunday evenings were not like a ball, and

that her guests, as if to minimise their delinquency,

usually went early.

 

The one thing he had not counted on, in entering

Madame Olenska’s hall, was to find hats and overcoats

there. Why had she bidden him to come early if she

was having people to dine? On a closer inspection of

the garments besides which Nastasia was laying his

own, his resentment gave way to curiosity. The overcoats

were in fact the very strangest he had ever seen

under a polite roof; and it took but a glance to assure

himself that neither of them belonged to Julius Beaufort.

One was a shaggy yellow ulster of “reachme-down” cut, the other a very old and rusty cloak with a

cape—something like what the French called a “Macfarlane.”

This garment, which appeared to be made for

a person of prodigious size, had evidently seen long

and hard wear, and its greenish-black folds gave out a

moist sawdusty smell suggestive of prolonged sessions

against bar-room walls. On it lay a ragged grey scarf

and an odd felt hat of semiclerical shape.

 

Archer raised his eyebrows enquiringly at Nastasia,

who raised hers in return with a fatalistic “Gia!” as

she threw open the drawing-room door.

 

The young man saw at once that his hostess was not

in the room; then, with surprise, he discovered another

lady standing by the fire. This lady, who was long, lean

and loosely put together, was clad in raiment intricately

looped and fringed, with plaids and stripes and

bands of plain colour disposed in a design to which the

clue seemed missing. Her hair, which had tried to turn

white and only succeeded in fading, was surmounted

by a Spanish comb and black lace scarf, and silk mittens,

visibly darned, covered her rheumatic hands.

 

Beside her, in a cloud of cigar-smoke, stood the

owners of the two overcoats, both in morning clothes

that they had evidently not taken off since morning. In

one of the two, Archer, to his surprise, recognised Ned

Winsett; the other and older, who was unknown to

him, and whose gigantic frame declared him to be the

wearer of the “Macfarlane,” had a feebly leonine head

with crumpled grey hair, and moved his arms with

large pawing gestures, as though he were distributing

lay blessings to a kneeling multitude.

 

These three persons stood together on the hearthrug, their eyes fixed on an extraordinarily large bouquet

of crimson roses, with a knot of purple pansies at

their base, that lay on the sofa where Madame Olenska

usually sat.

 

“What they must have cost at this season—though of

course it’s the sentiment one cares about!” the lady was

saying in a sighing staccato as Archer came in.

 

The three turned with surprise at his appearance,

and the lady, advancing, held out her hand.

 

“Dear Mr. Archer—almost my cousin Newland!”

she said. “I am the Marchioness Manson.”

 

Archer bowed, and she continued: “My Ellen has

taken me in for a few days. I came from Cuba, where I

have been spending the winter with Spanish friends—

such delightful distinguished people: the highest nobility

of old Castile—how I wish you could know them!

But I was called away by our dear great friend here,

Dr. Carver. You don’t know Dr. Agathon Carver,

founder of the Valley of Love Community?”

 

Dr. Carver inclined his leonine head, and the

Marchioness continued: “Ah, New York—New York—how

little the life of the spirit has reached it! But I see you

do know Mr. Winsett.”

 

“Oh, yes—I reached him some time ago; but not by

that route,” Winsett said with his dry smile.

 

The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly. “How

do you know, Mr. Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it

listeth.”

 

“List—oh, list!” interjected Dr. Carver in a stentorian

murmur.

 

“But do sit down, Mr. Archer. We four have been

having a delightful little dinner together, and my child

has gone up to dress. She expects you; she will be

down in a moment. We were just admiring these marvellous

flowers, which will surprise her when she

reappears.”

 

Winsett remained on his feet. “I’m afraid I must be

off. Please tell Madame Olenska that we shall all feel

lost when she abandons our street. This house has been

an oasis.”

 

“Ah, but she won’t abandon YOU. Poetry and art are

the breath of life to her. It IS poetry you write, Mr.

Winsett?”

 

“Well, no; but I sometimes read it,” said Winsett,

including the group in a general nod and slipping out

of the room.

 

“A caustic spirit—un peu sauvage. But so witty; Dr.

Carver, you DO think him witty?”

 

“I never think of wit,” said Dr. Carver severely.

 

“Ah—ah—you never think of wit! How merciless he

is to us weak mortals, Mr. Archer! But he lives only in

the life of the spirit; and tonight he is mentally preparing

the lecture he is to deliver presently at Mrs. Blenker’s.

Dr. Carver, would there be time, before you start for

the Blenkers’ to explain to Mr. Archer your illuminating

discovery of the Direct Contact? But no; I see it is

nearly nine o’clock, and we have no right to detain you

while so many are waiting for your message.”

 

Dr. Carver looked slightly disappointed at this

conclusion, but, having compared his ponderous gold time-piece with Madame Olenska’s little travelling-clock, he

reluctantly gathered up his mighty limbs for departure.

 

“I shall see you later, dear friend?” he suggested to

the Marchioness, who replied with a smile: “As soon

as Ellen’s carriage comes I will join you; I do hope the

lecture won’t have begun.”

 

Dr. Carver looked thoughtfully at Archer. “Perhaps,

if this young gentleman is interested in my experiences,

Mrs. Blenker might allow you to bring him with you?”

 

“Oh, dear friend, if it were possible—I am sure she

would be too happy. But I fear my Ellen counts on Mr.

Archer herself.”

 

“That,” said Dr. Carver, “is unfortunate—but here

is my card.” He handed it to Archer, who read on it, in

Gothic characters:

|–––––––––|

| Agathon Carter |

| The Valley of Love |

| Kittasquattamy, N. Y. |

|–––––––––|

Dr. Carver bowed himself out, and Mrs. Manson,

with a sigh that might have been either of regret or

relief, again waved Archer to a seat.

 

“Ellen will be down in a moment; and before she

comes, I am so glad of this quiet moment with you.”

 

Archer murmured his pleasure at their meeting, and

the Marchioness continued, in her low sighing accents:

“I know everything, dear Mr. Archer—my child has

told me all you have done for her. Your wise advice:

your courageous firmness—thank heaven it was not

too late!”

 

The young man listened with considerable

embarrassment. Was there any one, he wondered, to whom

Madame Olenska had not proclaimed his intervention

in her private affairs?

 

“Madame Olenska exaggerates; I simply gave her a

legal opinion, as she asked me to.”

 

“Ah, but in doing it—in doing it you were the

unconscious instrument of—of—what word have we moderns

for Providence, Mr. Archer?” cried the lady, tilting

her head on one side and drooping her lids mysteriously.

“Little did you know that at that very moment I

was being appealed to: being approached, in fact—from

the other side of the Atlantic!”

 

She glanced over her shoulder, as though fearful of

being overheard, and then, drawing her chair nearer,

and raising a tiny ivory fan to her lips, breathed behind

it: “By the Count himself—my poor, mad, foolish

Olenski; who asks only to take her back on her own

terms.”

 

“Good God!” Archer exclaimed, springing up.

 

“You are horrified? Yes, of course; I understand. I

don’t defend poor Stanislas, though he has always called

me his best friend. He does not defend himself—he

casts himself at her feet: in my person.” She tapped her

emaciated bosom. “I have his letter here.”

 

“A letter?—Has Madame Olenska seen it?” Archer

stammered, his brain whirling with the shock of the

announcement.

 

The Marchioness Manson shook her head softly.

“Time—time; I must have time. I know my Ellen—

haughty, intractable; shall I say, just a shade

unforgiving?”

 

“But, good heavens, to forgive is one thing; to go

back into that hell—”

 

“Ah, yes,” the Marchioness acquiesced. “So she

describes it—my sensitive child! But on the material side,

Mr. Archer, if one may stoop to consider such things;

do you know what she is giving up? Those roses there

on the sofa—acres like them, under glass and in the

open, in his matchless terraced gardens at Nice! Jewels—

historic pearls: the Sobieski emeralds—sables,—but she

cares nothing for all these! Art and beauty, those she

does care for, she lives for, as I always have; and those

also surrounded her. Pictures, priceless furniture, music,

brilliant conversation—ah, that, my dear young

man, if you’ll excuse me, is what you’ve no conception

of here! And she had it all; and the homage of the

greatest. She tells me she is not thought handsome in

New York—good heavens! Her portrait has been painted

nine times; the greatest artists in Europe have begged

for the privilege. Are these things nothing? And the

remorse of an adoring husband?”

 

As the Marchioness Manson rose to her climax her

face assumed an expression of ecstatic retrospection

which would have moved Archer’s mirth had he not

been numb with amazement.

 

He would have laughed if any one had foretold to

him that his first sight of poor Medora Manson would

have been in the guise of a messenger of Satan; but he

was in no mood for laughing now, and she seemed to

him to come straight out of the hell from which Ellen

Olenska had just escaped.

 

“She knows nothing yet—of all this?” he asked

abruptly.

 

Mrs. Manson laid a purple finger on her lips.

“Nothing directly—but does she suspect? Who can tell? The

truth is, Mr. Archer, I have been waiting to see you.

From the moment I heard of the firm stand you had

taken, and of your influence over her, I hoped it might

be possible to count on your support—to convince

you …”

 

“That she ought to go back? I would rather see her

dead!” cried the young man violently.

 

“Ah,” the Marchioness murmured, without visible

resentment. For a while she sat in her armchair, opening

and shutting the absurd ivory fan between her

mittened fingers; but suddenly she lifted her head and

listened.

 

“Here she comes,” she said in a rapid whisper; and

then, pointing to the bouquet on the sofa: “Am I to

understand that you prefer THAT, Mr. Archer? After all,

marriage is marriage … and my niece is still a wife…

 

XVIII.

 

What are you two plotting together, aunt Medora?”

Madame Olenska cried as she came into the room.

 

She was dressed as if for a ball. Everything about her

shimmered and glimmered softly, as if her dress had

been woven out of candle-beams; and she carried her

head high, like a pretty woman challenging a roomful

of rivals.

 

“We were saying, my dear, that here was something

beautiful to surprise you with,” Mrs. Manson rejoined,

rising to her feet and pointing archly to the flowers.

 

Madame Olenska stopped short and looked at the

bouquet. Her colour did not change, but a sort of

white radiance of anger ran over her like summer lightning.

“Ah,” she exclaimed, in a shrill voice that the