Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  That afternoon the announcement of the Beaufort failure was in all the papers. It overshadowed the report of Mrs. Manson Mingott’s stroke, and only the few who had heard of the mysterious connection between the two events thought of ascribing old Catherine’s illness to anything but the accumulation of flesh and years.

  The whole of New York was darkened by the tale of Beaufort’s dishonour. There had never, as Mr. Letterblair said, been a worse case in his memory, nor, for that matter, in the memory of the far-off Letterblair who had given his name to the firm. The bank had continued to take in money for a whole day after its failure was inevitable; and as many of its clients belonged to one or another of the ruling clans, Beaufort’s duplicity seemed doubly cynical. If Mrs. Beaufort had not taken the tone that such misfortunes (the word was her own) were “the test of friendship,” compassion for her might have tempered the general indignation against her husband. As it was—and especially after the object of her nocturnal visit to Mrs. Manson Mingott had become known—her cynicism was held to exceed his; and she had not the excuse—nor her detractors the satisfaction—of pleading that she was “a foreigner.” It was some comfort (to those whose securities were not in jeopardy) to be able to remind themselves that Beaufort WAS; but, after all, if a Dallas of South Carolina took his view of the case, and glibly talked of his soon being “on his feet again,” the argument lost its edge, and there was nothing to do but to accept this awful evidence of the indissolubility of marriage. Society must manage to get on without the Beauforts, and there was an end of it—except indeed for such hapless victims of the disaster as Medora Manson, the poor old Miss Lannings, and certain other misguided ladies of good family who, if only they had listened to Mr. Henry van der Luyden …

  “The best thing the Beauforts can do,” said Mrs. Archer, summing it up as if she were pronouncing a diagnosis and prescribing a course of treatment, “is to go and live at Regina’s little place in North Carolina. Beaufort has always kept a racing stable, and he had better breed trotting horses. I should say he had all the qualities of a successful horsedealer.” Every one agreed with her, but no one condescended to enquire what the Beauforts really meant to do.

  The next day Mrs. Manson Mingott was much better: she recovered her voice sufficiently to give orders that no one should mention the Beauforts to her again, and asked—when Dr. Bencomb appeared—what in the world her family meant by making such a fuss about her health.

  “If people of my age WILL eat chicken-salad in the evening what are they to expect?” she enquired; and, the doctor having opportunely modified her dietary, the stroke was transformed into an attack of indigestion. But in spite of her firm tone old Catherine did not wholly recover her former attitude toward life. The growing remoteness of old age, though it had not diminished her curiosity about her neighbours, had blunted her never very lively compassion for their troubles; and she seemed to have no difficulty in putting the Beaufort disaster out of her mind. But for the first time she became absorbed in her own symptoms, and began to take a sentimental interest in certain members of her family to whom she had hitherto been contemptuously indifferent.

  Mr. Welland, in particular, had the privilege of attracting her notice. Of her sons-in-law he was the one she had most consistently ignored; and all his wife’s efforts to represent him as a man of forceful character and marked intellectual ability (if he had only “chosen”) had been met with a derisive chuckle. But his eminence as a valetudinarian now made him an object of engrossing interest, and Mrs. Mingott issued an imperial summons to him to come and compare diets as soon as his temperature permitted; for old Catherine was now the first to recognise that one could not be too careful about temperatures.

  Twenty-four hours after Madame Olenska’s summons a telegram announced that she would arrive from Washington on the evening of the following day. At the Wellands’, where the Newland Archers chanced to be lunching, the question as to who should meet her at Jersey City was immediately raised; and the material difficulties amid which the Welland household struggled as if it had been a frontier outpost, lent animation to the debate. It was agreed that Mrs. Welland could not possibly go to Jersey City because she was to accompany her husband to old Catherine’s that afternoon, and the brougham could not be spared, since, if Mr. Welland were “upset” by seeing his mother-in-law for the first time after her attack, he might have to be taken home at a moment’s notice. The Welland sons would of course be “down town,” Mr. Lovell Mingott would be just hurrying back from his shooting, and the Mingott carriage engaged in meeting him; and one could not ask May, at the close of a winter afternoon, to go alone across the ferry to Jersey City, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear inhospitable—and contrary to old Catherine’s express wishes—if Madame Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland’s tired voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma. “It’s always one thing after another,” the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts against fate; “the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her.”

  The words had been thoughtless, as the utterances of impatience often are; and Mr. Welland was upon them with a pounce.

  “Augusta,” he said, turning pale and laying down his fork, “have you any other reason for thinking that Bencomb is less to be relied on than he was? Have you noticed that he has been less conscientious than usual in following up my case or your mother’s?”

  It was Mrs. Welland’s turn to grow pale as the endless consequences of her blunder unrolled themselves before her; but she managed to laugh, and take a second helping of scalloped oysters, before she said, struggling back into her old armour of cheerfulness: “My dear, how could you imagine such a thing? I only meant that, after the decided stand Mamma took about its being Ellen’s duty to go back to her husband, it seems strange that she should be seized with this sudden whim to see her, when there are half a dozen other grandchildren that she might have asked for. But we must never forget that Mamma, in spite of her wonderful vitality, is a very old woman.”

  Mr. Welland’s brow remained clouded, and it was evident that his perturbed imagination had fastened at once on this last remark. “Yes: your mother’s a very old woman; and for all we know Bencomb may not be as successful with very old people. As you say, my dear, it’s always one thing after another; and in another ten or fifteen years I suppose I shall have the pleasing duty of looking about for a new doctor. It’s always better to make such a change before it’s absolutely necessary.” And having arrived at this Spartan decision Mr. Welland firmly took up his fork.

  “But all the while,” Mrs. Welland began again, as she rose from the luncheon-table, and led the way into the wilderness of purple satin and malachite known as the back drawing-room, “I don’t see how Ellen’s to be got here tomorrow evening; and I do like to have things settled for at least twenty-four hours ahead.”

  Archer turned from the fascinated contemplation of a small painting representing two Cardinals carousing, in an octagonal ebony frame set with medallions of onyx.

  “Shall I fetch her?” he proposed. “I can easily get away from the office in time to meet the brougham at the ferry, if May will send it there.” His heart was beating excitedly as he spoke.

  Mrs. Welland heaved a sigh of gratitude, and May, who had moved away to the window, turned to shed on him a beam of approval. “So you see, Mamma, everything WILL be settled twenty-four hours in advance,” she said, stooping over to kiss her mother’s troubled forehead.

  May’s brougham awaited her at the door, and she was to drive Archer to Union Square, where he could pick up a Broadway car to carry him to the office. As she settled herself in her corner she said: “I didn’t want to worry Mamma by raising fresh obstacles; but how can you meet Ellen tomorrow, and bring her back to New York, when you’re going to Washingto
n?”

  “Oh, I’m not going,” Archer answered.

  “Not going? Why, what’s happened?” Her voice was as clear as a bell, and full of wifely solicitude.

  “The case is off—postponed.”

  “Postponed? How odd! I saw a note this morning from Mr. Letterblair to Mamma saying that he was going to Washington tomorrow for the big patent case that he was to argue before the Supreme Court. You said it was a patent case, didn’t you?”

  “Well—that’s it: the whole office can’t go. Letterblair decided to go this morning.”

  “Then it’s NOT postponed?” she continued, with an insistence so unlike her that he felt the blood rising to his face, as if he were blushing for her unwonted lapse from all the traditional delicacies.

  “No: but my going is,” he answered, cursing the unnecessary explanations that he had given when he had announced his intention of going to Washington, and wondering where he had read that clever liars give details, but that the cleverest do not. It did not hurt him half as much to tell May an untruth as to see her trying to pretend that she had not detected him.

  “I’m not going till later on: luckily for the convenience of your family,” he continued, taking base refuge in sarcasm. As he spoke he felt that she was looking at him, and he turned his eyes to hers in order not to appear to be avoiding them. Their glances met for a second, and perhaps let them into each other’s meanings more deeply than either cared to go.

  “Yes; it IS awfully convenient,” May brightly agreed, “that you should be able to meet Ellen after all; you saw how much Mamma appreciated your offering to do it.”

  “Oh, I’m delighted to do it.”

  Newland transported himself to that place of silence that he knew all too well, trying to blot out the effects of his momentary blunder. His mind wandered into those far regions where sad circumstances forced him to cabin his Ellen from the rest of his life. It was so uncharacteristic for him to hide and suppress the truth of his heart. But what choice did he have? Society was suffocating him with its rules and obligations. He thought of the two-hour journey it would require to reach the Countess, and the two hours, perhaps more, that it would take to escort his Ellen back to her Granny’s.

  Newland anticipated seeing Ellen’s angelic face, specially crafted by the gods in heaven. Every inch of her delicately defined features were etched in his mind indelibly. Not even the ill words from family or acquaintances could mar this image. He had made sure to keep his portrait of Ellen pristine and out of reach of those with soot in their minds or slag in their hearts.

  Newland thought of the moment when his eyes would meet hers. Would she shy away or beam like a radiant star and race into his arms? They had made sweet tender love the last time they were together. Their bodies had melded as if they were one soul. He owned her supple flesh, her spirit, her very breath—and she his. Newland drew in a long breath; how could she not race into his arms? How could she possibly forget their gentlest, most loving, kisses and caresses?

  Making love to his Ellen could not be some contrivance of the gods, meant only as a device of punishment. It was quite the opposite. What they had shared was pure, the very definition of love, where the spiritual transcends the flesh. Yes, they had made love until their physical bodies climaxed as one, springing from the highest cliff into utter rapture. With other women—even May—only the comforts of the flesh were satisfied, but with Ellen, the spirit was set free.

  Newland dreamed of that first moment when their lips met in that parlor of the little house she stayed in when she had lived in the city. The kiss was soft, enchanting, dream-like. The moment their lips touched, their souls became one eternally. And while they had been forced to live apart, they had never been separated for a moment.

  These thoughts caused an electrical impulse to race through Newland’s limbs. He remembered with great detail what it was like being inside of her velvety orchid, with her arms surrounding him in an unbreakable bond, her legs wrapped so tightly around his torso that he could almost feel the blood race through her limbs. Their bodies had moved with the cadence of a sublime, perfect Mozart sonata. Their hearts had beat as one, magically transforming from the illusory shell of the physical body to create a single entity, forever joined. And when they leapt to the ultimate height, climaxing, they floated through the atmosphere as one, enjoying the rare celestial delights of all the universe, through both space and time. Life was complete, never to be destroyed, but eternal.

  Newland exhaled a long breath. In two hours, she would finally be near him again. He would lay eyes on the perfect gem. Two hours.

  The carriage stopped, and as he jumped out she leaned to him and laid her hand on his. “Goodbye, dearest,” she said, her eyes so blue that he wondered afterward if they had shone on him through tears.

  He turned away and hurried across Union Square, repeating to himself, in a sort of inward chant: “It’s all of two hours from Jersey City to old Catherine’s. It’s all of two hours—and it may be more.”

  Chapter 11

  His wife’s dark blue brougham (with the wedding varnish still on it) met Archer at the ferry, and conveyed him luxuriously to the Pennsylvania terminus in Jersey City.

  It was a sombre snowy afternoon, and the gas-lamps were lit in the big reverberating station. As he paced the platform, waiting for the Washington express, he remembered that there were people who thought there would one day be a tunnel under the Hudson through which the trains of the Pennsylvania railway would run straight into New York. They were of the brotherhood of visionaries who likewise predicted the building of ships that would cross the Atlantic in five days, the invention of a flying machine, lighting by electricity, telephonic communication without wires, and other Arabian Night marvels.

  “I don’t care which of their visions comes true,” Archer mused, “as long as the tunnel isn’t built yet.” In his senseless schoolboy happiness he pictured Madame Olenska’s descent from the train, his discovery of her a long way off, among the throngs of meaningless faces, her clinging to his arm as he guided her to the carriage, their slow approach to the wharf among slipping horses, laden carts, vociferating teamsters, and then the startling quiet of the ferry-boat, where they would sit side by side under the snow, in the motionless carriage, while the earth seemed to glide away under them, rolling to the other side of the sun. It was incredible, the number of things he had to say to her, and in what eloquent order they were forming themselves on his lips …

  The clanging and groaning of the train came nearer, and it staggered slowly into the station like a prey-laden monster into its lair. Archer pushed forward, elbowing through the crowd, and staring blindly into window after window of the high-hung carriages. And then, suddenly, he saw Madame Olenska’s pale and surprised face close at hand, and had again the mortified sensation of having forgotten what she looked like.

  They reached each other, their hands met, and he drew her arm through his. “This way—I have the carriage,” he said.

  After that it all happened as he had dreamed.

  The carriage stopped at an Inn where Newland had arranged for them to take afternoon tea. The driver would only know that they had stopped for refreshment, nothing more.

  “This way,” Newland said, guiding Ellen toward a staircase.

  She did not question him, but walked along in silence. This would not be the first time that Newland had escorted her up a flight of stairs and to a room where he could hide with her from the rest of the world. He stopped at the first room on the left and unlocked the door. “Come in,” he said, turning back to her.

  She shook her head. “No more, Newland.”

  “Ellen, I—”

  “I can’t be that woman.” Her eyes glistened with tears.

  He reached for her hand. “You’re the most wonderful woman on earth.”

  “And what kind of woman is that?”

  “The only one I want … the only one I love.”

  She shook her head again, turned, and st
arted for the stairs.

  He had so anticipated their time together and somehow had miscalculated what her reaction would be. Had he been so terribly presumptuous? He believed that she would long to be near him, to touch him … that they would fall into each other’s arms.

  “I beg you to stay,” he said, unable to hide the desperation in his voice. “We’ll only talk if that’s all you will allow. I only ask to be alone with you. With no eyes peering upon us, no ears listening. Just us.”

  She faced him. “I can promise nothing more.”

  “We need only stay a short time. But let us sit together and enjoy our privacy.”

  She nodded somberly, and then walked inside the room, brushing past him, her scent filling him with desire. And as much as he wanted to make love to her, he would restrain himself, force himself to be content with her presence.

  She walked to a table draped with linen where a tea service was already in place.

  “Please, sit down,” he said. “I’ll pour you some tea. You must be exhausted from your journey.”

  She smiled wearily, but sat down and removed her gloves. Then he poured the tea and offered her the longneck teacup and saucer. His hand trembled, rattling the teacup.

  “Are you cold?” she asked, glancing up to meet his eyes.

  “No, it is not that. It’s …”

  “Newland.” Her voice was soft, caring. “Please try to understand.”

  He nodded and sat down. He did not want to spoil what time he had with her. “You must tell me, what have you been doing with yourself over these past four months?”

  She settled back in her seat and glanced around the room. “I do what I must. Try to live.”

  “And where do your thoughts go?”

  “Always to you.”

  Newland’s heart fluttered in joy. She had just given him all the reassurance that he would ever need.