XXII.
"A party for the Blenkers--the Blenkers?"
Mr. Welland laid down his knife and fork and looked anxiously andincredulously across the luncheon-table at his wife, who, adjusting hergold eye-glasses, read aloud, in the tone of high comedy:
"Professor and Mrs. Emerson Sillerton request the pleasure of Mr. andMrs. Welland's company at the meeting of the Wednesday Afternoon Clubon August 25th at 3 o'clock punctually. To meet Mrs. and the MissesBlenker.
"Red Gables, Catherine Street. R. S. V. P."
"Good gracious--" Mr. Welland gasped, as if a second reading had beennecessary to bring the monstrous absurdity of the thing home to him.
"Poor Amy Sillerton--you never can tell what her husband will do next,"Mrs. Welland sighed. "I suppose he's just discovered the Blenkers."
Professor Emerson Sillerton was a thorn in the side of Newport society;and a thorn that could not be plucked out, for it grew on a venerableand venerated family tree. He was, as people said, a man who had had"every advantage." His father was Sillerton Jackson's uncle, hismother a Pennilow of Boston; on each side there was wealth andposition, and mutual suitability. Nothing--as Mrs. Welland had oftenremarked--nothing on earth obliged Emerson Sillerton to be anarchaeologist, or indeed a Professor of any sort, or to live in Newportin winter, or do any of the other revolutionary things that he did.But at least, if he was going to break with tradition and flout societyin the face, he need not have married poor Amy Dagonet, who had a rightto expect "something different," and money enough to keep her owncarriage.
No one in the Mingott set could understand why Amy Sillerton hadsubmitted so tamely to the eccentricities of a husband who filled thehouse with long-haired men and short-haired women, and, when hetravelled, took her to explore tombs in Yucatan instead of going toParis or Italy. But there they were, set in their ways, and apparentlyunaware that they were different from other people; and when they gaveone of their dreary annual garden-parties every family on the Cliffs,because of the Sillerton-Pennilow-Dagonet connection, had to draw lotsand send an unwilling representative.
"It's a wonder," Mrs. Welland remarked, "that they didn't choose theCup Race day! Do you remember, two years ago, their giving a party fora black man on the day of Julia Mingott's the dansant? Luckily thistime there's nothing else going on that I know of--for of course someof us will have to go."
Mr. Welland sighed nervously. "'Some of us,' my dear--more than one?Three o'clock is such a very awkward hour. I have to be here athalf-past three to take my drops: it's really no use trying to followBencomb's new treatment if I don't do it systematically; and if I joinyou later, of course I shall miss my drive." At the thought he laiddown his knife and fork again, and a flush of anxiety rose to hisfinely-wrinkled cheek.
"There's no reason why you should go at all, my dear," his wifeanswered with a cheerfulness that had become automatic. "I have somecards to leave at the other end of Bellevue Avenue, and I'll drop in atabout half-past three and stay long enough to make poor Amy feel thatshe hasn't been slighted." She glanced hesitatingly at her daughter."And if Newland's afternoon is provided for perhaps May can drive youout with the ponies, and try their new russet harness."
It was a principle in the Welland family that people's days and hoursshould be what Mrs. Welland called "provided for." The melancholypossibility of having to "kill time" (especially for those who did notcare for whist or solitaire) was a vision that haunted her as thespectre of the unemployed haunts the philanthropist. Another of herprinciples was that parents should never (at least visibly) interferewith the plans of their married children; and the difficulty ofadjusting this respect for May's independence with the exigency of Mr.Welland's claims could be overcome only by the exercise of an ingenuitywhich left not a second of Mrs. Welland's own time unprovided for.
"Of course I'll drive with Papa--I'm sure Newland will find somethingto do," May said, in a tone that gently reminded her husband of hislack of response. It was a cause of constant distress to Mrs. Wellandthat her son-in-law showed so little foresight in planning his days.Often already, during the fortnight that he had passed under her roof,when she enquired how he meant to spend his afternoon, he had answeredparadoxically: "Oh, I think for a change I'll just save it instead ofspending it--" and once, when she and May had had to go on along-postponed round of afternoon calls, he had confessed to havinglain all the afternoon under a rock on the beach below the house.
"Newland never seems to look ahead," Mrs. Welland once ventured tocomplain to her daughter; and May answered serenely: "No; but you seeit doesn't matter, because when there's nothing particular to do hereads a book."
"Ah, yes--like his father!" Mrs. Welland agreed, as if allowing for aninherited oddity; and after that the question of Newland's unemploymentwas tacitly dropped.
Nevertheless, as the day for the Sillerton reception approached, Maybegan to show a natural solicitude for his welfare, and to suggest atennis match at the Chiverses', or a sail on Julius Beaufort's cutter,as a means of atoning for her temporary desertion. "I shall be back bysix, you know, dear: Papa never drives later than that--" and she wasnot reassured till Archer said that he thought of hiring a run-aboutand driving up the island to a stud-farm to look at a second horse forher brougham. They had been looking for this horse for some time, andthe suggestion was so acceptable that May glanced at her mother as ifto say: "You see he knows how to plan out his time as well as any ofus."
The idea of the stud-farm and the brougham horse had germinated inArcher's mind on the very day when the Emerson Sillerton invitation hadfirst been mentioned; but he had kept it to himself as if there weresomething clandestine in the plan, and discovery might prevent itsexecution. He had, however, taken the precaution to engage in advancea runabout with a pair of old livery-stable trotters that could stilldo their eighteen miles on level roads; and at two o'clock, hastilydeserting the luncheon-table, he sprang into the light carriage anddrove off.
The day was perfect. A breeze from the north drove little puffs ofwhite cloud across an ultramarine sky, with a bright sea running underit. Bellevue Avenue was empty at that hour, and after dropping thestable-lad at the corner of Mill Street Archer turned down the OldBeach Road and drove across Eastman's Beach.
He had the feeling of unexplained excitement with which, onhalf-holidays at school, he used to start off into the unknown. Takinghis pair at an easy gait, he counted on reaching the stud-farm, whichwas not far beyond Paradise Rocks, before three o'clock; so that, afterlooking over the horse (and trying him if he seemed promising) he wouldstill have four golden hours to dispose of.
As soon as he heard of the Sillerton's party he had said to himselfthat the Marchioness Manson would certainly come to Newport with theBlenkers, and that Madame Olenska might again take the opportunity ofspending the day with her grandmother. At any rate, the Blenkerhabitation would probably be deserted, and he would be able, withoutindiscretion, to satisfy a vague curiosity concerning it. He was notsure that he wanted to see the Countess Olenska again; but ever sincehe had looked at her from the path above the bay he had wanted,irrationally and indescribably, to see the place she was living in, andto follow the movements of her imagined figure as he had watched thereal one in the summer-house. The longing was with him day and night,an incessant undefinable craving, like the sudden whim of a sick manfor food or drink once tasted and long since forgotten. He could notsee beyond the craving, or picture what it might lead to, for he wasnot conscious of any wish to speak to Madame Olenska or to hear hervoice. He simply felt that if he could carry away the vision of thespot of earth she walked on, and the way the sky and sea enclosed it,the rest of the world might seem less empty.
When he reached the stud-farm a glance showed him that the horse wasnot what he wanted; nevertheless he took a turn behind it in order toprove to himself that he was not in a hurry. But at three o'clock heshook out the reins over the trotters and turned into the by-roadsleading to Portsmouth. The wind had dropped a
nd a faint haze on thehorizon showed that a fog was waiting to steal up the Saconnet on theturn of the tide; but all about him fields and woods were steeped ingolden light.
He drove past grey-shingled farm-houses in orchards, past hay-fieldsand groves of oak, past villages with white steeples rising sharplyinto the fading sky; and at last, after stopping to ask the way of somemen at work in a field, he turned down a lane between high banks ofgoldenrod and brambles. At the end of the lane was the blue glimmer ofthe river; to the left, standing in front of a clump of oaks andmaples, he saw a long tumble-down house with white paint peeling fromits clapboards.
On the road-side facing the gateway stood one of the open sheds inwhich the New Englander shelters his farming implements and visitors"hitch" their "teams." Archer, jumping down, led his pair into theshed, and after tying them to a post turned toward the house. Thepatch of lawn before it had relapsed into a hay-field; but to the leftan overgrown box-garden full of dahlias and rusty rose-bushes encircleda ghostly summer-house of trellis-work that had once been white,surmounted by a wooden Cupid who had lost his bow and arrow butcontinued to take ineffectual aim.
Archer leaned for a while against the gate. No one was in sight, andnot a sound came from the open windows of the house: a grizzledNewfoundland dozing before the door seemed as ineffectual a guardian asthe arrowless Cupid. It was strange to think that this place ofsilence and decay was the home of the turbulent Blenkers; yet Archerwas sure that he was not mistaken.
For a long time he stood there, content to take in the scene, andgradually falling under its drowsy spell; but at length he rousedhimself to the sense of the passing time. Should he look his fill andthen drive away? He stood irresolute, wishing suddenly to see theinside of the house, so that he might picture the room that MadameOlenska sat in. There was nothing to prevent his walking up to thedoor and ringing the bell; if, as he supposed, she was away with therest of the party, he could easily give his name, and ask permission togo into the sitting-room to write a message.
But instead, he crossed the lawn and turned toward the box-garden. Ashe entered it he caught sight of something bright-coloured in thesummer-house, and presently made it out to be a pink parasol. Theparasol drew him like a magnet: he was sure it was hers. He went intothe summer-house, and sitting down on the rickety seat picked up thesilken thing and looked at its carved handle, which was made of somerare wood that gave out an aromatic scent. Archer lifted the handle tohis lips.
He heard a rustle of skirts against the box, and sat motionless,leaning on the parasol handle with clasped hands, and letting therustle come nearer without lifting his eyes. He had always known thatthis must happen ...
"Oh, Mr. Archer!" exclaimed a loud young voice; and looking up he sawbefore him the youngest and largest of the Blenker girls, blonde andblowsy, in bedraggled muslin. A red blotch on one of her cheeks seemedto show that it had recently been pressed against a pillow, and herhalf-awakened eyes stared at him hospitably but confusedly.
"Gracious--where did you drop from? I must have been sound asleep inthe hammock. Everybody else has gone to Newport. Did you ring?" sheincoherently enquired.
Archer's confusion was greater than hers. "I--no--that is, I was justgoing to. I had to come up the island to see about a horse, and Idrove over on a chance of finding Mrs. Blenker and your visitors. Butthe house seemed empty--so I sat down to wait."
Miss Blenker, shaking off the fumes of sleep, looked at him withincreasing interest. "The house IS empty. Mother's not here, or theMarchioness--or anybody but me." Her glance became faintlyreproachful. "Didn't you know that Professor and Mrs. Sillerton aregiving a garden-party for mother and all of us this afternoon? It wastoo unlucky that I couldn't go; but I've had a sore throat, and motherwas afraid of the drive home this evening. Did you ever know anythingso disappointing? Of course," she added gaily, "I shouldn't haveminded half as much if I'd known you were coming."
Symptoms of a lumbering coquetry became visible in her, and Archerfound the strength to break in: "But Madame Olenska--has she gone toNewport too?"
Miss Blenker looked at him with surprise. "Madame Olenska--didn't youknow she'd been called away?"
"Called away?--"
"Oh, my best parasol! I lent it to that goose of a Katie, because itmatched her ribbons, and the careless thing must have dropped it here.We Blenkers are all like that ... real Bohemians!" Recovering thesunshade with a powerful hand she unfurled it and suspended its rosydome above her head. "Yes, Ellen was called away yesterday: she letsus call her Ellen, you know. A telegram came from Boston: she said shemight be gone for two days. I do LOVE the way she does her hair, don'tyou?" Miss Blenker rambled on.
Archer continued to stare through her as though she had beentransparent. All he saw was the trumpery parasol that arched itspinkness above her giggling head.
After a moment he ventured: "You don't happen to know why MadameOlenska went to Boston? I hope it was not on account of bad news?"
Miss Blenker took this with a cheerful incredulity. "Oh, I don'tbelieve so. She didn't tell us what was in the telegram. I think shedidn't want the Marchioness to know. She's so romantic-looking, isn'tshe? Doesn't she remind you of Mrs. Scott-Siddons when she reads 'LadyGeraldine's Courtship'? Did you never hear her?"
Archer was dealing hurriedly with crowding thoughts. His whole futureseemed suddenly to be unrolled before him; and passing down its endlessemptiness he saw the dwindling figure of a man to whom nothing was everto happen. He glanced about him at the unpruned garden, thetumble-down house, and the oak-grove under which the dusk wasgathering. It had seemed so exactly the place in which he ought tohave found Madame Olenska; and she was far away, and even the pinksunshade was not hers ...
He frowned and hesitated. "You don't know, I suppose--I shall be inBoston tomorrow. If I could manage to see her--"
He felt that Miss Blenker was losing interest in him, though her smilepersisted. "Oh, of course; how lovely of you! She's staying at theParker House; it must be horrible there in this weather."
After that Archer was but intermittently aware of the remarks theyexchanged. He could only remember stoutly resisting her entreaty thathe should await the returning family and have high tea with them beforehe drove home. At length, with his hostess still at his side, hepassed out of range of the wooden Cupid, unfastened his horses anddrove off. At the turn of the lane he saw Miss Blenker standing at thegate and waving the pink parasol.
The Age of Innocence Page 22