The Age of Innocence

by Edith Wharton

  XXX.

  That evening when Archer came down before dinner he found thedrawing-room empty.

  He and May were dining alone, all the family engagements having beenpostponed since Mrs. Manson Mingott's illness; and as May was the morepunctual of the two he was surprised that she had not preceded him. Heknew that she was at home, for while he dressed he had heard her movingabout in her room; and he wondered what had delayed her.

  He had fallen into the way of dwelling on such conjectures as a meansof tying his thoughts fast to reality. Sometimes he felt as if he hadfound the clue to his father-in-law's absorption in trifles; perhapseven Mr. Welland, long ago, had had escapes and visions, and hadconjured up all the hosts of domesticity to defend himself against them.

  When May appeared he thought she looked tired. She had put on thelow-necked and tightly-laced dinner-dress which the Mingott ceremonialexacted on the most informal occasions, and had built her fair hairinto its usual accumulated coils; and her face, in contrast, was wanand almost faded. But she shone on him with her usual tenderness, andher eyes had kept the blue dazzle of the day before.

  "What became of you, dear?" she asked. "I was waiting at Granny's, andEllen came alone, and said she had dropped you on the way because youhad to rush off on business. There's nothing wrong?"

  "Only some letters I'd forgotten, and wanted to get off before dinner."

  "Ah--" she said; and a moment afterward: "I'm sorry you didn't come toGranny's--unless the letters were urgent."

  "They were," he rejoined, surprised at her insistence. "Besides, Idon't see why I should have gone to your grandmother's. I didn't knowyou were there."

  She turned and moved to the looking-glass above the mantel-piece. Asshe stood there, lifting her long arm to fasten a puff that had slippedfrom its place in her intricate hair, Archer was struck by somethinglanguid and inelastic in her attitude, and wondered if the deadlymonotony of their lives had laid its weight on her also. Then heremembered that, as he had left the house that morning, she had calledover the stairs that she would meet him at her grandmother's so thatthey might drive home together. He had called back a cheery "Yes!" andthen, absorbed in other visions, had forgotten his promise. Now he wassmitten with compunction, yet irritated that so trifling an omissionshould be stored up against him after nearly two years of marriage. Hewas weary of living in a perpetual tepid honeymoon, without thetemperature of passion yet with all its exactions. If May had spokenout her grievances (he suspected her of many) he might have laughedthem away; but she was trained to conceal imaginary wounds under aSpartan smile.

  To disguise his own annoyance he asked how her grandmother was, and sheanswered that Mrs. Mingott was still improving, but had been ratherdisturbed by the last news about the Beauforts.

  "What news?"

  "It seems they're going to stay in New York. I believe he's going intoan insurance business, or something. They're looking about for a smallhouse."

  The preposterousness of the case was beyond discussion, and they wentin to dinner. During dinner their talk moved in its usual limitedcircle; but Archer noticed that his wife made no allusion to MadameOlenska, nor to old Catherine's reception of her. He was thankful forthe fact, yet felt it to be vaguely ominous.

  They went up to the library for coffee, and Archer lit a cigar and tookdown a volume of Michelet. He had taken to history in the eveningssince May had shown a tendency to ask him to read aloud whenever shesaw him with a volume of poetry: not that he disliked the sound of hisown voice, but because he could always foresee her comments on what heread. In the days of their engagement she had simply (as he nowperceived) echoed what he told her; but since he had ceased to provideher with opinions she had begun to hazard her own, with resultsdestructive to his enjoyment of the works commented on.

  Seeing that he had chosen history she fetched her workbasket, drew upan arm-chair to the green-shaded student lamp, and uncovered a cushionshe was embroidering for his sofa. She was not a clever needle-woman;her large capable hands were made for riding, rowing and open-airactivities; but since other wives embroidered cushions for theirhusbands she did not wish to omit this last link in her devotion.

  She was so placed that Archer, by merely raising his eyes, could seeher bent above her work-frame, her ruffled elbow-sleeves slipping backfrom her firm round arms, the betrothal sapphire shining on her lefthand above her broad gold wedding-ring, and the right hand slowly andlaboriously stabbing the canvas. As she sat thus, the lamplight fullon her clear brow, he said to himself with a secret dismay that hewould always know the thoughts behind it, that never, in all the yearsto come, would she surprise him by an unexpected mood, by a new idea, aweakness, a cruelty or an emotion. She had spent her poetry andromance on their short courting: the function was exhausted because theneed was past. Now she was simply ripening into a copy of her mother,and mysteriously, by the very process, trying to turn him into a Mr.Welland. He laid down his book and stood up impatiently; and at onceshe raised her head.

  "What's the matter?"

  "The room is stifling: I want a little air."

  He had insisted that the library curtains should draw backward andforward on a rod, so that they might be closed in the evening, insteadof remaining nailed to a gilt cornice, and immovably looped up overlayers of lace, as in the drawing-room; and he pulled them back andpushed up the sash, leaning out into the icy night. The mere fact ofnot looking at May, seated beside his table, under his lamp, the factof seeing other houses, roofs, chimneys, of getting the sense of otherlives outside his own, other cities beyond New York, and a whole worldbeyond his world, cleared his brain and made it easier to breathe.

  After he had leaned out into the darkness for a few minutes he heardher say: "Newland! Do shut the window. You'll catch your death."

  He pulled the sash down and turned back. "Catch my death!" he echoed;and he felt like adding: "But I've caught it already. I AM dead--I'vebeen dead for months and months."

  And suddenly the play of the word flashed up a wild suggestion. Whatif it were SHE who was dead! If she were going to die--to diesoon--and leave him free! The sensation of standing there, in thatwarm familiar room, and looking at her, and wishing her dead, was sostrange, so fascinating and overmastering, that its enormity did notimmediately strike him. He simply felt that chance had given him a newpossibility to which his sick soul might cling. Yes, May mightdie--people did: young people, healthy people like herself: she mightdie, and set him suddenly free.

  She glanced up, and he saw by her widening eyes that there must besomething strange in his own.

  "Newland! Are you ill?"

  He shook his head and turned toward his arm-chair. She bent over herwork-frame, and as he passed he laid his hand on her hair. "Poor May!"he said.

  "Poor? Why poor?" she echoed with a strained laugh.

  "Because I shall never be able to open a window without worrying you,"he rejoined, laughing also.

  For a moment she was silent; then she said very low, her head bowedover her work: "I shall never worry if you're happy."

  "Ah, my dear; and I shall never be happy unless I can open the windows!"

  "In THIS weather?" she remonstrated; and with a sigh he buried his headin his book.

  Six or seven days passed. Archer heard nothing from Madame Olenska,and became aware that her name would not be mentioned in his presenceby any member of the family. He did not try to see her; to do so whileshe was at old Catherine's guarded bedside would have been almostimpossible. In the uncertainty of the situation he let himself drift,conscious, somewhere below the surface of his thoughts, of a resolvewhich had come to him when he had leaned out from his library windowinto the icy night. The strength of that resolve made it easy to waitand make no sign.

  Then one day May told him that Mrs. Manson Mingott had asked to seehim. There was nothing surprising in the request, for the old lady wassteadily recovering, and she had always openly declared that shepreferred Archer to any of
her other grandsons-in-law. May gave themessage with evident pleasure: she was proud of old Catherine'sappreciation of her husband.

  There was a moment's pause, and then Archer felt it incumbent on him tosay: "All right. Shall we go together this afternoon?"

  His wife's face brightened, but she instantly answered: "Oh, you'd muchbetter go alone. It bores Granny to see the same people too often."

  Archer's heart was beating violently when he rang old Mrs. Mingott'sbell. He had wanted above all things to go alone, for he felt sure thevisit would give him the chance of saying a word in private to theCountess Olenska. He had determined to wait till the chance presenteditself naturally; and here it was, and here he was on the doorstep.Behind the door, behind the curtains of the yellow damask room next tothe hall, she was surely awaiting him; in another moment he should seeher, and be able to speak to her before she led him to the sick-room.

  He wanted only to put one question: after that his course would beclear. What he wished to ask was simply the date of her return toWashington; and that question she could hardly refuse to answer.

  But in the yellow sitting-room it was the mulatto maid who waited. Herwhite teeth shining like a keyboard, she pushed back the sliding doorsand ushered him into old Catherine's presence.

  The old woman sat in a vast throne-like arm-chair near her bed. Besideher was a mahogany stand bearing a cast bronze lamp with an engravedglobe, over which a green paper shade had been balanced. There was nota book or a newspaper in reach, nor any evidence of feminineemployment: conversation had always been Mrs. Mingott's sole pursuit,and she would have scorned to feign an interest in fancywork.

  Archer saw no trace of the slight distortion left by her stroke. Shemerely looked paler, with darker shadows in the folds and recesses ofher obesity; and, in the fluted mob-cap tied by a starched bow betweenher first two chins, and the muslin kerchief crossed over her billowingpurple dressing-gown, she seemed like some shrewd and kindly ancestressof her own who might have yielded too freely to the pleasures of thetable.

  She held out one of the little hands that nestled in a hollow of herhuge lap like pet animals, and called to the maid: "Don't let in anyone else. If my daughters call, say I'm asleep."

  The maid disappeared, and the old lady turned to her grandson.

  "My dear, am I perfectly hideous?" she asked gaily, launching out onehand in search of the folds of muslin on her inaccessible bosom. "Mydaughters tell me it doesn't matter at my age--as if hideousness didn'tmatter all the more the harder it gets to conceal!"

  "My dear, you're handsomer than ever!" Archer rejoined in the sametone; and she threw back her head and laughed.

  "Ah, but not as handsome as Ellen!" she jerked out, twinkling at himmaliciously; and before he could answer she added: "Was she so awfullyhandsome the day you drove her up from the ferry?"

  He laughed, and she continued: "Was it because you told her so thatshe had to put you out on the way? In my youth young men didn't desertpretty women unless they were made to!" She gave another chuckle, andinterrupted it to say almost querulously: "It's a pity she didn'tmarry you; I always told her so. It would have spared me all thisworry. But who ever thought of sparing their grandmother worry?"

  Archer wondered if her illness had blurred her faculties; but suddenlyshe broke out: "Well, it's settled, anyhow: she's going to stay withme, whatever the rest of the family say! She hadn't been here fiveminutes before I'd have gone down on my knees to keep her--if only, forthe last twenty years, I'd been able to see where the floor was!"

  Archer listened in silence, and she went on: "They'd talked me over,as no doubt you know: persuaded me, Lovell, and Letterblair, andAugusta Welland, and all the rest of them, that I must hold out and cutoff her allowance, till she was made to see that it was her duty to goback to Olenski. They thought they'd convinced me when the secretary,or whatever he was, came out with the last proposals: handsomeproposals I confess they were. After all, marriage is marriage, andmoney's money--both useful things in their way ... and I didn't knowwhat to answer--" She broke off and drew a long breath, as if speakinghad become an effort. "But the minute I laid eyes on her, I said:'You sweet bird, you! Shut you up in that cage again? Never!' Andnow it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as longas there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn'tmind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given herproper allowance."

  The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mindhe hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had sodefinitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the momenthe could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over himthe delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunitiesmiraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live withher grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised theimpossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his finalappeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he hadurged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into thethought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to riskeverything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security.

  "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed.

  "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sentfor you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed tocome with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don'twant anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" shedrew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and lookedhim full in the eyes--"you see, we shall have a fight yet. The familydon't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill,because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not wellenough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me."

  "I?" he stammered.

  "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly assharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit onhis with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" shesearchingly repeated.

  Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered hisself-possession.

  "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant."

  "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get atthem through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.

  "Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without myhelp; but you shall have it if you need it," he reassured her.

  "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancientcunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "Ialways knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when theytalk about its being her duty to go home."

  He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask:"And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn thequestion.

  "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said.

  The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through thepantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. MadameOlenska's gone out."

  He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, mychild: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort."

  She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's whatshe's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on herbest bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going tocall on Regina Beaufort. 'I don't know her; who is she?' says I.'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' she says. 'She'sthe wife of a scoundrel,' I answered. 'Well,' she says, 'and so am I,and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' Well, that flooredme, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining toohard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage.'What for?' I asked her; and she said: 'To go and see cousinRegina'--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw itwasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have thecarriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she;
andI've always liked courage above everything."

  Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still layon his.

  "Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, youngman--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mockingcackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her herGranny's love; but you'd better not say anything about our talk."