The Age of Innocence
"Don't you want them to be real sooner? Can't I persuade you to break
away 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 you
understand how I want you for my wife?"
For a moment she remained motionless; then she raised on him eyes of
such despairing clearness that he half-released her waist from his hold.
But suddenly her look changed and deepened inscrutably. "I'm not sure
if I _do_ understand," she said. "Is it--is it because you're not certain
of continuing to care for me?"
Archer sprang up from his seat. "My God--perhaps--I don't know," he
broke out angrily.
May Welland rose also; as they faced each other she seemed to grow
in womanly stature and dignity. Both were silent for a moment, as if
dismayed by the unforeseen trend of their words: then she said in a low
voice: "If that is it--is there some one else?"
"Some one else--between you and me?" He echoed her words slowly, as
though they were only half-intelligible and he wanted time to repeat
the question to himself. She seemed to catch the uncertainty of his
voice, for she went on in a deepening tone: "Let us talk frankly,
Newland. Sometimes I've felt a difference in you; especially since our
engagement 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 to
talk about it." She paused, and added, lifting her head with one of her
noble movements: "Or even if it's true: why shouldn't we speak of it?
You might so easily have made a mistake."
He lowered his head, staring at the black leaf-pattern on the sunny
path at their feet. "Mistakes are always easy to make; but if I had
made one of the kind you suggest, is it likely that I should be
imploring you to hasten our marriage?"
She looked downward too, disturbing the pattern with the point of her
sunshade while she struggled for expression. "Yes," she said at length.
"You might want--once for all--to settle the question: it's one way."
Her quiet lucidity startled him, but did not mislead him into thinking
her 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 at
her with a frown that he tried to make playful.
She dropped back into her seat and went on: "You mustn't think that
a girl knows as little as her parents imagine. One hears and one
notices--one has one's feelings and ideas. And of course, long before
you told me that you cared for me, I'd known that there was some one
else you were interested in; every one was talking about it two years
ago at Newport. And once I saw you sitting together on the verandah at
a dance--and when she came back into the house her face was sad, and I
felt sorry for her; I remembered it afterward, when we were engaged."
Her voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and she sat clasping and
unclasping her hands about the handle of her sunshade. The young man
laid his upon them with a gentle pressure; his heart dilated with an
inexpressible 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 story you
speak of."
"But that's what I want to know, Newland--what I ought to know. I
couldn't have my happiness made out of a wrong--an unfairness--to
somebody else. And I want to believe that it would be the same with
you. 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 like
bowing himself down at her feet. "I've wanted to say this for a long
time," she went on. "I've wanted to tell you that, when two people
really love each other, I understand that there may be situations which
make it right that they should--should go against public opinion. And
if you feel yourself in any way pledged ... pledged to the person
we've spoken of ... and if there is any way ... any way in which you
can fulfill 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 episode
so 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
in wonder at the prodigy of the Wellands' daughter urging him to marry
his former mistress. But he was still dizzy with the glimpse of the
precipice they had skirted, and full of a new awe at the mystery of
young-girlhood.
For a moment he could not speak; then he said: "There is no pledge--no
obligation whatever--of the kind you think. Such cases don't
always--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 own
merits ... irrespective of stupid conventionalities ... I mean, each
woman's right to her liberty--" He pulled himself up, startled by the
turn 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 little
farther, and understand the uselessness of our submitting to another
form of the same foolish conventionalities? If there's no one and
nothing between us, isn't that an argument for marrying quickly, rather
than for more delay?"
She flushed with joy and lifted her face to his; as he bent to it he
saw that her eyes were full of happy tears. But in another moment she
seemed to have descended from her womanly eminence to helpless and
timorous girlhood; and he understood that her courage and initiative
were all for others, and that she had none for herself. It was evident
that the effort of speaking had been much greater than her studied
composure betrayed, and that at his first word of reassurance she had
dropped back into the usual, as a too-adventurous child takes refuge in
its mother's arms.
Archer had no heart to go on pleading with her; he was too much
disappointed at the vanishing of the new being who had cast that one
deep look at him from her transparent eyes. May seemed to be aware of
his disappointment, but without knowing how to alleviate it; and they
stood up and walked silently home.
XVII.
"Your cousin the Countess called on mother while you were away," Janey
Archer announced to her brother on the evening of his return.
The young man, who was dining alone with his mother and sister, glanced
up in surprise and saw Mrs. Archer's gaze demurely bent on her plate.
Mrs. Archer did not regard her seclusion from the world as a reason
for being forgotten by it; and Newland guessed that she was slightly
annoyed that he should be surprised by Madame Olenska's visit.
"She had on a black velvet polonaise with jet buttons, and a tiny green
monkey muff; I never saw her so stylishly dressed," Janey continued.
"She came alone, early on Sunday afternoon; luckily the fire was lit
in the drawing-room. She had one of those new card-cases. She said she
wanted to know us because you'd been so good to her."
Newland laughed. "Madame Olenska always takes that tone about her
friends. She's very happy at being among her own people again."
"Yes, so she told us," said Mrs. Archer. "I must say she seems thankful
to be here."
"I hope you liked her, mother."
Mrs. Archer drew her lips together. "She certainly lays herself out to
please, even when she is calling on an old lady."
"Mother doesn't think her simple," Janey interjected, her eyes screwed
upon her brother's face.
"It's just my old-fashioned feeling; dear May is my ideal," said Mrs.
Archer.
"Ah," said her son, "they're not alike."
Archer had left St. Augustine charged with many messages for old Mrs.
Mingott; and a day or two after his return to town he called on her.
The old lady received him with unusual warmth; she was grateful to him
for persuading the Countess Olenska to give up the idea of a divorce;
and when he told her that he had deserted the office without leave, and
rushed down to St. Augustine simply because he wanted to see May, she
gave an adipose chuckle and patted his knee with her puff-ball hand.
"Ah, ah--so you kicked over the traces, did you? And I suppose Augusta
and Welland pulled long faces, and behaved as if the end of the world
had come? But little May--she knew better, I'll be bound?"
"I hoped she did; but after all she wouldn't agree to what I'd gone
down to ask for."
"Wouldn't she indeed? And what was that?"
"I wanted to get her to promise that we should be married in April.
What's the use of our wasting another year?"
Mrs. Manson Mingott screwed up her little mouth into a grimace of mimic
prudery and twinkled at him through malicious lids. "'Ask Mamma,' I
suppose--the usual story. Ah, these Mingotts--all alike! Born in a
rut, and you can't root 'em out of it. When I built this house you'd
have thought I was moving to California! Nobody ever _had_ built above
Fortieth Street--no, says I, nor above the Battery either, before
Christopher Columbus discovered America. No, no; not one of them wants
to be different; they're as scared of it as the small-pox. Ah, my dear
Mr. Archer, I thank my stars I'm nothing but a vulgar Spicer; but
there's not one of my own children that takes after me but my little
Ellen." She broke off, still twinkling at him, and asked, with the
casual irrelevance of old age: "Now, why in the world didn't you marry
my little Ellen?"
Archer laughed. "For one thing, she wasn't there to be married."
"No--to be sure; more's the pity. And now it's too late; her life is
finished." She spoke with the cold-blooded complacency of the aged
throwing earth into the grave of young hopes. The young man's heart
grew chill, and he said hurriedly: "Can't I persuade you to use your
influence with the Wellands, Mrs. Mingott? I wasn't made for long
engagements."
Old Catherine beamed on him approvingly. "No; I can see that. You've
got a quick eye. When you were a little boy I've no doubt you liked
to be helped first." She threw back her head with a laugh that made
her chins ripple like little waves. "Ah, here's my Ellen now!" she
exclaimed, as the portières parted behind her.
Madame Olenska came forward with a smile. Her face looked vivid and
happy, and she held out her hand gaily to Archer while she stooped to
her grandmother's kiss.
"I was just saying to him, my dear: 'Now, why didn't you marry my
little Ellen?'"
Madame Olenska looked at Archer, still smiling. "And what did he
answer?"
"Oh, my darling, I leave you to find that out! He's been down to
Florida to see his sweetheart."
"Yes, I know." She still looked at him. "I went to see your mother, to
ask where you'd gone. I sent a note that you never answered, and I was
afraid you were ill."
He muttered something about leaving unexpectedly, in a great hurry, and
having intended to write to her from St. Augustine.
"And of course once you were there you never thought of me again!" She
continued to beam on him with a gaiety that might have been a studied
assumption of indifference.
"If she still needs me, she's determined not to let me see it," he
thought, stung by her manner. He wanted to thank her for having been
to see his mother, but under the ancestress's malicious eye he felt
himself tongue-tied and constrained.
"Look at him--in such hot haste to get married that he took French
leave and rushed down to implore the silly girl on his knees! That's