The Age of Innocence
fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving.
"Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--"
"You thought?"
"Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"
Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck
to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.
"I do ask you."
"Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--"
"My husband's letter?"
"Yes."
"I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I
feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May."
"Good God," he groaned again, bowing his face in his hands.
The silence that followed lay on them with the weight of things final
and irrevocable. It seemed to Archer to be crushing him down like his
own grave-stone; in all the wide future he saw nothing that would ever
lift that load from his heart. He did not move from his place, or raise
his head from his hands; his hidden eyeballs went on staring into utter
darkness.
"At least I loved you--" he brought out.
On the other side of the hearth, from the sofa-corner where he supposed
that she still crouched, he heard a faint stifled crying like a
child's. He started up and came to her side.
"Ellen! What madness! Why are you crying? Nothing's done that can't
be undone. I'm still free, and you're going to be." He had her in
his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, and all their vain
terrors shrivelling up like ghosts at sunrise. The one thing that
astonished him now was that he should have stood for five minutes
arguing with her across the width of the room, when just touching her
made everything so simple.
She gave him back all his kiss, but after a moment he felt her
stiffening in his arms, and she put him aside and stood up.
"Ah, my poor Newland--I suppose this had to be. But it doesn't in the
least alter things," she said, looking down at him in her turn from the
hearth.
"It alters the whole of life for me."
"No, no--it mustn't, it can't. You're engaged to May Welland; and I'm
married."
He stood up too, flushed and resolute. "Nonsense! It's too late for
that sort of thing. We've no right to lie to other people or to
ourselves. We won't talk of your marriage; but do you see me marrying
May after this?"
She stood silent, resting her thin elbows on the mantelpiece, her
profile reflected in the glass behind her. One of the locks of her
chignon had become loosened and hung on her neck; she looked haggard
and almost old.
"I don't see you," she said at length, "putting that question to May.
Do you?"
He gave a reckless shrug. "It's too late to do anything else."
"You say that because it's the easiest thing to say at this moment--not
because it's true. In reality it's too late to do anything but what
we'd both decided on."
"Ah, I don't understand you!"
She forced a pitiful smile that pinched her face instead of smoothing
it. "You don't understand because you haven't yet guessed how you've
changed things for me: oh, from the first--long before I knew all you'd
done."
"All I'd done?"
"Yes. I was perfectly unconscious at first that people here were shy of
me--that they thought I was a dreadful sort of person. It seems they
had even refused to meet me at dinner. I found that out afterward; and
how you'd made your mother go with you to the van der Luydens'; and how
you'd insisted on announcing your engagement at the Beaufort ball, so
that I might have two families to stand by me instead of one--"
At that he broke into a laugh.
"Just imagine," she said, "how stupid and unobservant I was! I knew
nothing of all this till Granny blurted it out one day. New York simply
meant peace and freedom to me: it was coming home. And I was so happy
at being among my own people that every one I met seemed kind and good,
and glad to see me. But from the very beginning," she continued, "I
felt there was no one as kind as you; no one who gave me reasons that
I understood for doing what at first seemed so hard and--unnecessary.
The very good people didn't convince me; I felt they'd never been
tempted. But you knew; you understood; you had felt the world outside
tugging at one with all its golden hands--and yet you hated the things
it asks of one; you hated happiness bought by disloyalty and cruelty
and indifference. That was what I'd never known before--and it's better
than anything I've known."
She spoke in a low even voice, without tears or visible agitation; and
each word, as it dropped from her, fell into his breast like burning
lead. He sat bowed over, his head between his hands, staring at the
hearth rug, and at the tip of the satin shoe that showed under her
dress. Suddenly he knelt down and kissed the shoe.
She bent over him, laying her hands on his shoulders, and looking at
him with eyes so deep that he remained motionless under her gaze.
"Ah, don't let us undo what you've done!" she cried. "I can't go back
now to that other way of thinking. I can't love you unless I give you
up."
His arms were yearning up to her; but she drew away, and they remained
facing each other, divided by the distance that her words had created.
Then, abruptly, his anger overflowed.
"And Beaufort? Is he to replace me?"
As the words sprang out he was prepared for an answering flare of
anger; and he would have welcomed it as fuel for his own. But Madame
Olenska only grew a shade paler, and stood with her arms hanging
down before her, and her head slightly bent, as her way was when she
pondered a question.
"He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to
him?" Archer sneered.
She turned to ring the bell. "I shall not go out this evening; tell the
carriage to go and fetch the Signora Marchesa," she said when the maid
came.
After the door had closed again Archer continued to look at her with
bitter eyes. "Why this sacrifice? Since you tell me that you're lonely
I've no right to keep you from your friends."
She smiled a little under her wet lashes. "I shan't be lonely now. I
_was_ lonely; I _was_ afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone;
when I turn back into myself now I'm like a child going at night into a
room where there's always a light."
Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility,
and Archer groaned out again: "I don't understand you!"
"Yet you understand May!"
He reddened under the retort, but kept his eyes on her. "May is ready
to give me up."
"What! Three days after you've entreated her on your knees to hasten
your marriage?"
"She's refused; that gives me the right--"
"Ah, you've taught me what an ugly word that is," she said.
He turned away with a sense of utter weariness. He felt as though he
had been struggling for hours up the face of a steep precipice, and
now, just as he had fought his way to the top, his hold had given way
and he was pitching down headlong into darkness.
If he could have got her in his arms again he might have swept away
her arguments; but she still held him at a distance by something
inscrutably aloof in her look and attitude, and by his own awed sense
of her sincerity. At length he began to plead again.
"If we do this now it will be worse afterward--worse for every one--"
"No--no--no!" she almost screamed, as if he frightened her.
At that moment the bell sent a long tinkle through the house. They had
heard no carriage stopping at the door, and they stood motionless,
looking at each other with startled eyes.
Outside, Nastasia's step crossed the hall, the outer door opened, and
a moment later she came in carrying a telegram which she handed to the
Countess Olenska.
"The lady was very happy at the flowers," Nastasia said, smoothing her
apron. "She thought it was her signor marito who had sent them, and she
cried a little and said it was a folly."
Her mistress smiled and took the yellow envelope. She tore it open
and carried it to the lamp; then, when the door had closed again, she
handed the telegram to Archer.
It was dated from St. Augustine, and addressed to the Countess Olenska.
In it he read: "Granny's telegram successful. Papa and Mamma agree
marriage after Easter. Am telegraphing Newland. Am too happy for words
and love you dearly. Your grateful May."
Half an hour later, when Archer unlocked his own front-door, he found
a similar envelope on the hall-table on top of his pile of notes and
letters. The message inside the envelope was also from May Welland, and
ran as follows: "Parents consent wedding Tuesday after Easter at twelve
Grace Church eight bridesmaids please see Rector so happy love May."
Archer crumpled up the yellow sheet as if the gesture could annihilate
the news it contained. Then he pulled out a small pocket-diary and
turned over the pages with trembling fingers; but he did not find what
he wanted, and cramming the telegram into his pocket he mounted the
stairs.
A light was shining through the door of the little hall-room which
served Janey as a dressing-room and boudoir, and her brother rapped
impatiently on the panel. The door opened, and his sister stood before
him in her immemorial purple flannel dressing-gown, with her hair "on
pins." Her face looked pale and apprehensive.
"Newland! I hope there's no bad news in that telegram? I waited on
purpose, in case--" (No item of his correspondence was safe from Janey.)
He took no notice of her question. "Look here--what day is Easter this
year?"
She looked shocked at such unchristian ignorance. "Easter? Newland!
Why, of course, the first week in April. Why?"
"The first week?" He turned again to the pages of his diary,
calculating rapidly under his breath. "The first week, did you say?" He
threw back his head with a long laugh.
"For mercy's sake what's the matter?"
"Nothing's the matter, except that I'm going to be married in a month."
Janey fell upon his neck and pressed him to her purple flannel breast.
"Oh Newland, how wonderful! I'm so glad! But, dearest, why do you keep
on laughing? Do hush, or you'll wake Mamma."
Book II
XIX.
The day was fresh, with a lively spring wind full of dust. All the old
ladies in both families had got out their faded sables and yellowing
ermines, and the smell of camphor from the front pews almost smothered
the faint spring scent of the lilies banking the altar.
Newland Archer, at a signal from the sexton, had come out of the vestry
and placed himself with his best man on the chancel step of Grace
Church.
The signal meant that the brougham bearing the bride and her father
was in sight; but there was sure to be a considerable interval of
adjustment and consultation in the lobby, where the bridesmaids were
already hovering like a cluster of Easter blossoms. During this
unavoidable lapse of time the bridegroom, in proof of his eagerness,
was expected to expose himself alone to the gaze of the assembled
company; and Archer had gone through this formality as resignedly as
through all the others which made of a nineteenth century New York
wedding a rite that seemed to belong to the dawn of history. Everything
was equally easy--or equally painful, as one chose to put it--in
the path he was committed to tread, and he had obeyed the flurried
injunctions of his best man as piously as other bridegrooms had obeyed
his own, in the days when he had guided them through the same labyrinth.
So far he was reasonably sure of having fulfilled all his obligations.
The bridesmaids' eight bouquets of white lilac and lilies-of-the-valley
had been sent in due time, as well as the gold and sapphire
sleeve-links of the eight ushers and the best man's cat's-eye
scarf-pin; Archer had sat up half the night trying to vary the wording
of his thanks for the last batch of presents from men friends and