The Reef

by Edith Wharton

  XXXII

  She drove from Miss Painter's to her own apartment. The maid-servant whohad it in charge had been apprised of her coming, and had opened one ortwo of the rooms, and prepared a fire in her bedroom. Anna shut herselfin, refusing the woman's ministrations. She felt cold and faint, andafter she had taken off her hat and cloak she knelt down by the fire andstretched her hands to it.

  In one respect, at least, it was clear to her that she would do wellto follow Sophy Viner's counsel. It had been an act of folly to followOwen, and her first business was to get back to Givre before him. Butthe only train leaving that evening was a slow one, which did not reachFrancheuil till midnight, and she knew that her taking it would exciteMadame de Chantelle's wonder and lead to interminable talk. She had comeup to Paris on the pretext of finding a new governess for Effie, and thenatural thing was to defer her return till the next morning. She knewOwen well enough to be sure that he would make another attempt to seeMiss Viner, and failing that, would write again and await her answer:so that there was no likelihood of his reaching Givre till the followingevening.

  Her sense of relief at not having to start out at once showed her forthe first time how tired she was. The bonne had suggested a cup of tea,but the dread of having any one about her had made Anna refuse, and shehad eaten nothing since morning but a sandwich bought at a buffet. Shewas too tired to get up, but stretching out her arm she drew toward herthe arm-chair which stood beside the hearth and rested her head againstits cushions. Gradually the warmth of the fire stole into her veins andher heaviness of soul was replaced by a dreamy buoyancy. She seemed tobe seated on the hearth in her sitting-room at Givre, and Darrow wasbeside her, in the chair against which she leaned. He put his arms abouther shoulders and drawing her head back looked into her eyes. "Of allthe ways you do your hair, that's the way I like best," he said...

  A log dropped, and she sat up with a start. There was a warmth in herheart, and she was smiling. Then she looked about her, and saw where shewas, and the glory fell. She hid her face and sobbed.

  Presently she perceived that it was growing dark, and getting upstiffly she began to undo the things in her bag and spread them on thedressing-table. She shrank from lighting the lights, and groped her wayabout, trying to find what she needed. She seemed immeasurably faroff from every one, and most of all from herself. It was as if herconsciousness had been transmitted to some stranger whose thoughts andgestures were indifferent to her...

  Suddenly she heard a shrill tinkle, and with a beating heart shestood still in the middle of the room. It was the telephone in herdressing-room--a call, no doubt, from Adelaide Painter. Or could Owenhave learned she was in town? The thought alarmed her and she opened thedoor and stumbled across the unlit room to the instrument. She held itto her ear, and heard Darrow's voice pronounce her name.

  "Will you let me see you? I've come back--I had to come. Miss Paintertold me you were here."

  She began to tremble, and feared that he would guess it from her voice.She did not know what she answered: she heard him say: "I can'thear." She called "Yes!" and laid the telephone down, and caught it upagain--but he was gone. She wondered if her "Yes" had reached him.

  She sat in her chair and listened. Why had she said that she would seehim? What did she mean to say to him when he came? Now and then, as shesat there, the sense of his presence enveloped her as in her dream, andshe shut her eyes and felt his arms about her. Then she woke to realityand shivered. A long time elapsed, and at length she said to herself:"He isn't coming."

  The door-bell rang as she said it, and she stood up, cold and trembling.She thought: "Can he imagine there's any use in coming?" and movedforward to bid the servant say she could not see him.

  The door opened and she saw him standing in the drawing-room. The roomwas cold and fireless, and a hard glare fell from the wall-lights on theshrouded furniture and the white slips covering the curtains. He lookedpale and stern, with a frown of fatigue between his eyes; and sheremembered that in three days he had travelled from Givre to London andback. It seemed incredible that all that had befallen her should havebeen compressed within the space of three days!

  "Thank you," he said as she came in.

  She answered: "It's better, I suppose----"

  He came toward her and took her in his arms. She struggled a little,afraid of yielding, but he pressed her to him, not bending to her butholding her fast, as though he had found her after a long search: sheheard his hurried breathing. It seemed to come from her own breast, soclose he held her; and it was she who, at last, lifted up her face anddrew down his.

  She freed herself and went and sat on a sofa at the other end of theroom. A mirror between the shrouded window-curtains showed her crumpledtravelling dress and the white face under her disordered hair.

  She found her voice, and asked him how he had been able to leave London.He answered that he had managed--he'd arranged it; and she saw he hardlyheard what she was saying.

  "I had to see you," he went on, and moved nearer, sitting down at herside.

  "Yes; we must think of Owen----"

  "Oh, Owen--!"

  Her mind had flown back to Sophy Viner's plea that she should let Darrowreturn to Givre in order that Owen might be persuaded of the folly ofhis suspicions. The suggestion was absurd, of course. She could not askDarrow to lend himself to such a fraud, even had she had the inhumancourage to play her part in it. She was suddenly overwhelmed by thefutility of every attempt to reconstruct her ruined world. No, it wasuseless; and since it was useless, every moment with Darrow was purepain...

  "I've come to talk of myself, not of Owen," she heard him saying."When you sent me away the other day I understood that it couldn't beotherwise--then. But it's not possible that you and I should part likethat. If I'm to lose you, it must be for a better reason."

  "A better reason?"

  "Yes: a deeper one. One that means a fundamental disaccord between us.This one doesn't--in spite of everything it doesn't. That's what I wantyou to see, and have the courage to acknowledge."

  "If I saw it I should have the courage!"

  "Yes: courage was the wrong word. You have that. That's why I'm here."

  "But I don't see it," she continued sadly. "So it's useless, isn'tit?--and so cruel..." He was about to speak, but she went on: "I shallnever understand it--never!"

  He looked at her. "You will some day: you were made to feel everything"

  "I should have thought this was a case of not feeling----"

  "On my part, you mean?" He faced her resolutely. "Yes, it was: to myshame...What I meant was that when you've lived a little longeryou'll see what complex blunderers we all are: how we're struck blindsometimes, and mad sometimes--and then, when our sight and our sensescome back, how we have to set to work, and build up, little by little,bit by bit, the precious things we'd smashed to atoms without knowingit. Life's just a perpetual piecing together of broken bits."

  She looked up quickly. "That's what I feel: that you ought to----"

  He stood up, interrupting her with a gesture. "Oh, don't--don't say whatyou're going to! Men don't give their lives away like that. If you won'thave mine, it's at least my own, to do the best I can with."

  "The best you can--that's what I mean! How can there be a 'best' for youthat's made of some one else's worst?"

  He sat down again with a groan. "I don't know! It seemed such a slightthing--all on the surface--and I've gone aground on it because it was onthe surface. I see the horror of it just as you do. But I see, a littlemore clearly, the extent, and the limits, of my wrong. It's not as blackas you imagine."

  She lowered her voice to say: "I suppose I shall never understand; butshe seems to love you..."

  "There's my shame! That I didn't guess it, didn't fly from it. You sayyou'll never understand: but why shouldn't you? Is it anything to beproud of, to know so little of the strings that pull us? If you knew alittle more, I could tell you how such things happen without offendingyou; and perhaps you'd listen without con
demning me."

  "I don't condemn you." She was dizzy with struggling impulses. Shelonged to cry out: "I DO understand! I've understood ever since you'vebeen here!" For she was aware, in her own bosom, of sensations soseparate from her romantic thoughts of him that she saw her body andsoul divided against themselves. She recalled having read somewhere thatin ancient Rome the slaves were not allowed to wear a distinctive dresslest they should recognize each other and learn their numbers and theirpower. So, in herself, she discerned for the first time instinctsand desires, which, mute and unmarked, had gone to and fro in the dimpassages of her mind, and now hailed each other with a cry of mutiny.

  "Oh, I don't know what to think!" she broke out. "You say you didn'tknow she loved you. But you know it now. Doesn't that show you how youcan put the broken bits together?"

  "Can you seriously think it would be doing so to marry one woman while Icare for another?"

  "Oh, I don't know...I don't know..." The sense of her weakness made hertry to harden herself against his arguments.

  "You do know! We've often talked of such things: of the monstrousness ofuseless sacrifices. If I'm to expiate, it's not in that way." He addedabruptly: "It's in having to say this to you now..."

  She found no answer.

  Through the silent apartment they heard the sudden peal of thedoor-bell, and she rose to her feet. "Owen!" she instantly exclaimed.

  "Is Owen in Paris?"

  She explained in a rapid undertone what she had learned from SophyViner.

  "Shall I leave you?" Darrow asked.

  "Yes...no..." She moved to the dining-room door, with the half-formedpurpose of making him pass out, and then turned back. "It may beAdelaide."

  They heard the outer door open, and a moment later Owen walked into theroom. He was pale, with excited eyes: as they fell on Darrow, Anna sawhis start of wonder. He made a slight sign of recognition, and then wentup to his step-mother with an air of exaggerated gaiety.

  "You furtive person! I ran across the omniscient Adelaide and heard fromher that you'd rushed up suddenly and secretly." He stood between Annaand Darrow, strained, questioning, dangerously on edge.

  "I came up to meet Mr. Darrow," Anna answered. "His leave's beenprolonged--he's going back with me."

  The words seemed to have uttered themselves without her will, yet shefelt a great sense of freedom as she spoke them.

  The hard tension of Owen's face changed to incredulous surprise. Helooked at Darrow. "The merest luck...a colleague whose wife was ill...Icame straight back," she heard the latter tranquilly explaining. Hisself-command helped to steady her, and she smiled at Owen.

  "We'll all go back together tomorrow morning," she said as she slippedher arm through his.