XVI.
When Archer walked down the sandy main street of St. Augustine to thehouse which had been pointed out to him as Mr. Welland's, and saw MayWelland standing under a magnolia with the sun in her hair, he wonderedwhy he had waited so long to come.
Here was the truth, here was reality, here was the life that belongedto him; and he, who fancied himself so scornful of arbitraryrestraints, had been afraid to break away from his desk because of whatpeople might think of his stealing a holiday!
Her first exclamation was: "Newland--has anything happened?" and itoccurred to him that it would have been more "feminine" if she hadinstantly read in his eyes why he had come. But when he answered:"Yes--I found I had to see you," her happy blushes took the chill fromher surprise, and he saw how easily he would be forgiven, and how sooneven Mr. Letterblair's mild disapproval would be smiled away by atolerant family.
Early as it was, the main street was no place for any but formalgreetings, and Archer longed to be alone with May, and to pour out allhis tenderness and his impatience. It still lacked an hour to the lateWelland breakfast-time, and instead of asking him to come in sheproposed that they should walk out to an old orange-garden beyond thetown. She had just been for a row on the river, and the sun thatnetted the little waves with gold seemed to have caught her in itsmeshes. Across the warm brown of her cheek her blown hair glitteredlike silver wire; and her eyes too looked lighter, almost pale in theiryouthful limpidity. As she walked beside Archer with her long swinginggait her face wore the vacant serenity of a young marble athlete.
To Archer's strained nerves the vision was as soothing as the sight ofthe blue sky and the lazy river. They sat down on a bench under theorange-trees and he put his arm about her and kissed her. It was likedrinking at a cold spring with the sun on it; but his pressure may havebeen more vehement than he had intended, for the blood rose to her faceand she drew back as if he had startled her.
"What is it?" he asked, smiling; and she looked at him with surprise,and answered: "Nothing."
A slight embarrassment fell on them, and her hand slipped out of his.It was the only time that he had kissed her on the lips except fortheir fugitive embrace in the Beaufort conservatory, and he saw thatshe was disturbed, and shaken out of her cool boyish composure.
"Tell me what you do all day," he said, crossing his arms under histilted-back head, and pushing his hat forward to screen the sun-dazzle.To let her talk about familiar and simple things was the easiest way ofcarrying on his own independent train of thought; and he sat listeningto her simple chronicle of swimming, sailing and riding, varied by anoccasional dance at the primitive inn when a man-of-war came in. A fewpleasant people from Philadelphia and Baltimore were picknicking at theinn, and the Selfridge Merrys had come down for three weeks becauseKate Merry had had bronchitis. They were planning to lay out a lawntennis court on the sands; but no one but Kate and May had racquets,and most of the people had not even heard of the game.
All this kept her very busy, and she had not had time to do more thanlook at the little vellum book that Archer had sent her the week before(the "Sonnets from the Portuguese"); but she was learning by heart "Howthey brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix," because it was one ofthe first things he had ever read to her; and it amused her to be ableto tell him that Kate Merry had never even heard of a poet calledRobert Browning.
Presently she started up, exclaiming that they would be late forbreakfast; and they hurried back to the tumble-down house with itspointless porch and unpruned hedge of plumbago and pink geraniums wherethe Wellands were installed for the winter. Mr. Welland's sensitivedomesticity shrank from the discomforts of the slovenly southern hotel,and at immense expense, and in face of almost insuperable difficulties,Mrs. Welland was obliged, year after year, to improvise anestablishment partly made up of discontented New York servants andpartly drawn from the local African supply.
"The doctors want my husband to feel that he is in his own home;otherwise he would be so wretched that the climate would not do him anygood," she explained, winter after winter, to the sympathisingPhiladelphians and Baltimoreans; and Mr. Welland, beaming across abreakfast table miraculously supplied with the most varied delicacies,was presently saying to Archer: "You see, my dear fellow, we camp--weliterally camp. I tell my wife and May that I want to teach them howto rough it."
Mr. and Mrs. Welland had been as much surprised as their daughter bythe young man's sudden arrival; but it had occurred to him to explainthat he had felt himself on the verge of a nasty cold, and this seemedto Mr. Welland an all-sufficient reason for abandoning any duty.
"You can't be too careful, especially toward spring," he said, heapinghis plate with straw-coloured griddle-cakes and drowning them in goldensyrup. "If I'd only been as prudent at your age May would have beendancing at the Assemblies now, instead of spending her winters in awilderness with an old invalid."
"Oh, but I love it here, Papa; you know I do. If only Newland couldstay I should like it a thousand times better than New York."
"Newland must stay till he has quite thrown off his cold," said Mrs.Welland indulgently; and the young man laughed, and said he supposedthere was such a thing as one's profession.
He managed, however, after an exchange of telegrams with the firm, tomake his cold last a week; and it shed an ironic light on the situationto know that Mr. Letterblair's indulgence was partly due to thesatisfactory way in which his brilliant young junior partner hadsettled the troublesome matter of the Olenski divorce. Mr. Letterblairhad let Mrs. Welland know that Mr. Archer had "rendered an invaluableservice" to the whole family, and that old Mrs. Manson Mingott had beenparticularly pleased; and one day when May had gone for a drive withher father in the only vehicle the place produced Mrs. Welland tookoccasion to touch on a topic which she always avoided in her daughter'spresence.
"I'm afraid Ellen's ideas are not at all like ours. She was barelyeighteen when Medora Manson took her back to Europe--you remember theexcitement when she appeared in black at her coming-out ball? Anotherof Medora's fads--really this time it was almost prophetic! That musthave been at least twelve years ago; and since then Ellen has neverbeen to America. No wonder she is completely Europeanised."
"But European society is not given to divorce: Countess Olenska thoughtshe would be conforming to American ideas in asking for her freedom."It was the first time that the young man had pronounced her name sincehe had left Skuytercliff, and he felt the colour rise to his cheek.
Mrs. Welland smiled compassionately. "That is just like theextraordinary things that foreigners invent about us. They think wedine at two o'clock and countenance divorce! That is why it seems tome so foolish to entertain them when they come to New York. Theyaccept our hospitality, and then they go home and repeat the samestupid stories."
Archer made no comment on this, and Mrs. Welland continued: "But we domost thoroughly appreciate your persuading Ellen to give up the idea.Her grandmother and her uncle Lovell could do nothing with her; both ofthem have written that her changing her mind was entirely due to yourinfluence--in fact she said so to her grandmother. She has anunbounded admiration for you. Poor Ellen--she was always a waywardchild. I wonder what her fate will be?"
"What we've all contrived to make it," he felt like answering. "Ifyou'd all of you rather she should be Beaufort's mistress than somedecent fellow's wife you've certainly gone the right way about it."
He wondered what Mrs. Welland would have said if he had uttered thewords instead of merely thinking them. He could picture the suddendecomposure of her firm placid features, to which a lifelong masteryover trifles had given an air of factitious authority. Traces stilllingered on them of a fresh beauty like her daughter's; and he askedhimself if May's face was doomed to thicken into the same middle-agedimage of invincible innocence.
Ah, no, he did not want May to have that kind of innocence, theinnocence that seals the mind against imagination and the heart againstexperience!
"I verily believ
e," Mrs. Welland continued, "that if the horriblebusiness had come out in the newspapers it would have been my husband'sdeath-blow. I don't know any of the details; I only ask not to, as Itold poor Ellen when she tried to talk to me about it. Having aninvalid to care for, I have to keep my mind bright and happy. But Mr.Welland was terribly upset; he had a slight temperature every morningwhile we were waiting to hear what had been decided. It was the horrorof 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 ofMay."
"I'm always thinking of May," the young man rejoined, rising to cutshort 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 couldthink of no arguments that would move her, and with a sense of reliefhe saw Mr. Welland and May driving up to the door.
His only hope was to plead again with May, and on the day before hisdeparture he walked with her to the ruinous garden of the SpanishMission. The background lent itself to allusions to European scenes;and May, who was looking her loveliest under a wide-brimmed hat thatcast a shadow of mystery over her too-clear eyes, kindled intoeagerness as he spoke of Granada and the Alhambra.
"We might be seeing it all this spring--even the Easter ceremonies atSeville," he urged, exaggerating his demands in the hope of a largerconcession.
"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 soshocked that he saw his mistake.
"Of course I didn't mean that, dearest; but soon after Easter--so thatwe could sail at the end of April. I know I could arrange it at theoffice."
She smiled dreamily upon the possibility; but he perceived that todream of it sufficed her. It was like hearing him read aloud out ofhis poetry books the beautiful things that could not possibly happen inreal life.
"Oh, do go on, Newland; I do love your descriptions."
"But why should they be only descriptions? Why shouldn't we make themreal?"
"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 breakaway 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 youunderstand how I want you for my wife?"
For a moment she remained motionless; then she raised on him eyes ofsuch despairing dearness that he half-released her waist from his hold.But suddenly her look changed and deepened inscrutably. "I'm not sureif I DO understand," she said. "Is it--is it because you're notcertain of continuing to care for me?"
Archer sprang up from his seat. "My God--perhaps--I don't know," hebroke out angrily.
May Welland rose also; as they faced each other she seemed to grow inwomanly stature and dignity. Both were silent for a moment, as ifdismayed by the unforeseen trend of their words: then she said in a lowvoice: "If that is it--is there some one else?"
"Some one else--between you and me?" He echoed her words slowly, asthough they were only half-intelligible and he wanted time to repeatthe question to himself. She seemed to catch the uncertainty of hisvoice, for she went on in a deepening tone: "Let us talk frankly,Newland. Sometimes I've felt a difference in you; especially since ourengagement 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 totalk about it." She paused, and added, lifting her head with one ofher noble movements: "Or even if it's true: why shouldn't we speak ofit? You might so easily have made a mistake."
He lowered his head, staring at the black leaf-pattern on the sunnypath at their feet. "Mistakes are always easy to make; but if I hadmade one of the kind you suggest, is it likely that I should beimploring you to hasten our marriage?"
She looked downward too, disturbing the pattern with the point of hersunshade while she struggled for expression. "Yes," she said atlength. "You might want--once for all--to settle the question: it'sone way."
Her quiet lucidity startled him, but did not mislead him into thinkingher 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 ather with a frown that he tried to make playful.
She dropped back into her seat and went on: "You mustn't think that agirl knows as little as her parents imagine. One hears and onenotices--one has one's feelings and ideas. And of course, long beforeyou told me that you cared for me, I'd known that there was some oneelse you were interested in; every one was talking about it two yearsago at Newport. And once I saw you sitting together on the verandah ata dance--and when she came back into the house her face was sad, and Ifelt sorry for her; I remembered it afterward, when we were engaged."
Her voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and she sat clasping andunclasping her hands about the handle of her sunshade. The young manlaid his upon them with a gentle pressure; his heart dilated with aninexpressible 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 storyyou speak of."
"But that's what I want to know, Newland--what I ought to know. Icouldn't have my happiness made out of a wrong--an unfairness--tosomebody else. And I want to believe that it would be the same withyou. What sort of a life could we build on such foundations?"
Her face had taken on a look of such tragic courage that he felt likebowing himself down at her feet. "I've wanted to say this for a longtime," she went on. "I've wanted to tell you that, when two peoplereally love each other, I understand that there may be situations whichmake it right that they should--should go against public opinion. Andif you feel yourself in any way pledged ... pledged to the person we'vespoken of ... and if there is any way ... any way in which you canfulfill 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 episodeso 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 inwonder at the prodigy of the Wellands' daughter urging him to marry hisformer mistress. But he was still dizzy with the glimpse of theprecipice they had skirted, and full of a new awe at the mystery ofyoung-girlhood.
For a moment he could not speak; then he said: "There is no pledge--noobligation whatever--of the kind you think. Such cases don'talways--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 ownmerits ... irrespective of stupid conventionalities ... I mean, eachwoman's right to her liberty--" He pulled himself up, startled by theturn 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 littlefarther, and understand the uselessness of our submitting to anotherform of the same foolish conventionalities? If there's no one andnothing between us, isn't that an argument for marrying quickly, ratherthan for more delay?"
She flushed with joy and lifted her face to his; as he bent to it hesaw that her eyes were full of happy tears. But in another moment sheseemed to have descended from her womanly eminence to helpless andtimorous girlhood; and he understood that her courage and initiativewere all for others, and that she had none for herself. It was evidentthat the effort of speaking had been much greater than her studiedcomposure betrayed, and that at his first word of reassurance she haddropped back into the usual, as a too-advent
urous child takes refuge inits mother's arms.
Archer had no heart to go on pleading with her; he was too muchdisappointed at the vanishing of the new being who had cast that onedeep look at him from her transparent eyes. May seemed to be aware ofhis disappointment, but without knowing how to alleviate it; and theystood up and walked silently home.
The Age of Innocence Page 16