The Age of Innocence
since, if Mr. Welland were "upset" by seeing his mother-in-law for
the first time after her attack, he might have to be taken home at a
moment's notice. The Welland sons would of course be "down town," Mr.
Lovell Mingott would be just hurrying back from his shooting, and the
Mingott carriage engaged in meeting him; and one could not ask May,
at the close of a winter afternoon, to go alone across the ferry to
Jersey City, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear
inhospitable--and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame
Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the
station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired
voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma. "It's always one
thing after another," the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts
against fate; "the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less
well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen
come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her."
The words had been thoughtless, as the utterances of impatience often
are; and Mr. Welland was upon them with a pounce.
"Augusta," he said, turning pale and laying down his fork, "have you
any other reason for thinking that Bencomb is less to be relied on than
he was? Have you noticed that he has been less conscientious than usual
in following up my case or your mother's?"
It was Mrs. Welland's turn to grow pale as the endless consequences
of her blunder unrolled themselves before her; but she managed to
laugh, and take a second helping of scalloped oysters, before she
said, struggling back into her old armour of cheerfulness: "My dear,
how could you imagine such a thing? I only meant that, after the
decided stand Mamma took about its being Ellen's duty to go back to her
husband, it seems strange that she should be seized with this sudden
whim to see her, when there are half a dozen other grandchildren that
she might have asked for. But we must never forget that Mamma, in spite
of her wonderful vitality, is a very old woman."
Mr. Welland's brow remained clouded, and it was evident that his
perturbed imagination had fastened at once on this last remark. "Yes:
your mother's a very old woman; and for all we know Bencomb may not be
as successful with very old people. As you say, my dear, it's always
one thing after another; and in another ten or fifteen years I suppose
I shall have the pleasing duty of looking about for a new doctor. It's
always better to make such a change before it's absolutely necessary."
And having arrived at this Spartan decision Mr. Welland firmly took up
his fork.
"But all the while," Mrs. Welland began again, as she rose from the
luncheon-table, and led the way into the wilderness of purple satin and
malachite known as the back drawing-room, "I don't see how Ellen's to
be got here tomorrow evening; and I do like to have things settled for
at least twenty-four hours ahead."
Archer turned from the fascinated contemplation of a small painting
representing two Cardinals carousing, in an octagonal ebony frame set
with medallions of onyx.
"Shall I fetch her?" he proposed. "I can easily get away from the
office in time to meet the brougham at the ferry, if May will send it
there." His heart was beating excitedly as he spoke.
Mrs. Welland heaved a sigh of gratitude, and May, who had moved away
to the window, turned to shed on him a beam of approval. "So you see,
Mamma, everything _will_ be settled twenty-four hours in advance," she
said, stooping over to kiss her mother's troubled forehead.
May's brougham awaited her at the door, and she was to drive Archer to
Union Square, where he could pick up a Broadway car to carry him to
the office. As she settled herself in her corner she said: "I didn't
want to worry Mamma by raising fresh obstacles; but how can you meet
Ellen tomorrow, and bring her back to New York, when you're going to
Washington?"
"Oh, I'm not going," Archer answered.
"Not going? Why, what's happened?" Her voice was as clear as a bell,
and full of wifely solicitude.
"The case is off--postponed."
"Postponed? How odd! I saw a note this morning from Mr. Letterblair
to Mamma saying that he was going to Washington tomorrow for the big
patent case that he was to argue before the Supreme Court. You said it
was a patent case, didn't you?"
"Well--that's it: the whole office can't go. Letterblair decided to go
this morning."
"Then it's _not_ postponed?" she continued, with an insistence so unlike
her that he felt the blood rising to his face, as if he were blushing
for her unwonted lapse from all the traditional delicacies.
"No: but my going is," he answered, cursing the unnecessary
explanations that he had given when he had announced his intention of
going to Washington, and wondering where he had read that clever liars
give details, but that the cleverest do not. It did not hurt him half
as much to tell May an untruth as to see her trying to pretend that she
had not detected him.
"I'm not going till later on: luckily for the convenience of your
family," he continued, taking base refuge in sarcasm. As he spoke
he felt that she was looking at him, and he turned his eyes to hers
in order not to appear to be avoiding them. Their glances met for a
second, and perhaps let them into each other's meanings more deeply
than either cared to go.
"Yes; it _is_ awfully convenient," May brightly agreed, "that you should
be able to meet Ellen after all; you saw how much Mamma appreciated
your offering to do it."
"Oh, I'm delighted to do it." The carriage stopped, and as he jumped
out she leaned to him and laid her hand on his. "Good-bye, dearest,"
she said, her eyes so blue that he wondered afterward if they had shone
on him through tears.
He turned away and hurried across Union Square, repeating to himself,
in a sort of inward chant: "It's all of two hours from Jersey City to
old Catherine's. It's all of two hours--and it may be more."
XXIX.
His wife's dark blue brougham (with the wedding varnish still on
it) met Archer at the ferry, and conveyed him luxuriously to the
Pennsylvania terminus in Jersey City.
It was a sombre snowy afternoon, and the gas-lamps were lit in the
big reverberating station. As he paced the platform, waiting for the
Washington express, he remembered that there were people who thought
there would one day be a tunnel under the Hudson through which the
trains of the Pennsylvania railway would run straight into New York.
They were of the brotherhood of visionaries who likewise predicted
the building of ships that would cross the Atlantic in five days, the
invention of a flying machine, lighting by electricity, telephonic
communication without wires, and other Arabian Night marvels.
"I don't care which of their visions comes true," Archer mused, "as
long as the tunnel isn't built yet." In his senseless school-boy
happiness he pictured Madame Olenska's descent from the train, his
discovery of her a long way off, among the throngs of meaningless
faces, her clinging to his arm as he guided her to the carriage,
their slow approach to the wharf among slipping horses, laden carts,
vociferating teamsters, and then the startling quiet of the ferry-boat,
where they would sit side by side under the snow, in the motionless
carriage, while the earth seemed to glide away under them, rolling to
the other side of the sun. It was incredible, the number of things
he had to say to her, and in what eloquent order they were forming
themselves on his lips ...
The clanging and groaning of the train came nearer, and it staggered
slowly into the station like a prey-laden monster into its lair. Archer
pushed forward, elbowing through the crowd, and staring blindly into
window after window of the high-hung carriages. And then, suddenly, he
saw Madame Olenska's pale and surprised face close at hand, and had
again the mortified sensation of having forgotten what she looked like.
They reached each other, their hands met, and he drew her arm through
his. "This way--I have the carriage," he said.
After that it all happened as he had dreamed. He helped her into the
brougham with her bags, and had afterward the vague recollection of
having properly reassured her about her grandmother and given her a
summary of the Beaufort situation (he was struck by the softness of
her: "Poor Regina!"). Meanwhile the carriage had worked its way out of
the coil about the station, and they were crawling down the slippery
incline to the wharf, menaced by swaying coal-carts, bewildered horses,
dishevelled express-wagons, and an empty hearse--ah, that hearse! She
shut her eyes as it passed, and clutched at Archer's hand.
"If only it doesn't mean--poor Granny!"
"Oh, no, no--she's much better--she's all right, really. There--we've
passed it!" he exclaimed, as if that made all the difference. Her hand
remained in his, and as the carriage lurched across the gang-plank onto
the ferry he bent over, unbuttoned her tight brown glove, and kissed
her palm as if he had kissed a relic. She disengaged herself with a
faint smile, and he said: "You didn't expect me today?"
"Oh, no."
"I meant to go to Washington to see you. I'd made all my
arrangements--I very nearly crossed you in the train."
"Oh--" she exclaimed, as if terrified by the narrowness of their escape.
"Do you know--I hardly remembered you?"
"Hardly remembered me?"
"I mean: how shall I explain? I--it's always so. _Each time you happen
to me all over again._"
"Oh, yes: I know! I know!"
"Does it--do I too: to you?" he insisted.
She nodded, looking out of the window.
"Ellen--Ellen--Ellen!"
She made no answer, and he sat in silence, watching her profile grow
indistinct against the snow-streaked dusk beyond the window. What had
she been doing in all those four long months, he wondered? How little
they knew of each other, after all! The precious moments were slipping
away, but he had forgotten everything that he had meant to say to her
and could only helplessly brood on the mystery of their remoteness
and their proximity, which seemed to be symbolised by the fact of
their sitting so close to each other, and yet being unable to see each
other's faces.
"What a pretty carriage! Is it May's?" she asked, suddenly turning her
face from the window.
"Yes."
"It was May who sent you to fetch me, then? How kind of her!"
He made no answer for a moment; then he said explosively: "Your
husband's secretary came to see me the day after we met in Boston."
In his brief letter to her he had made no allusion to M. Rivière's
visit, and his intention had been to bury the incident in his bosom.
But her reminder that they were in his wife's carriage provoked him
to an impulse of retaliation. He would see if she liked his reference
to Rivière any better than he liked hers to May! As on certain other
occasions when he had expected to shake her out of her usual composure,
she betrayed no sign of surprise: and at once he concluded: "He writes
to her, then."
"M. Rivière went to see you?"
"Yes: didn't you know?"
"No," she answered simply.
"And you're not surprised?"
She hesitated. "Why should I be? He told me in Boston that he knew you;
that he'd met you in England I think."
"Ellen--I must ask you one thing."
"Yes."
"I wanted to ask it after I saw him, but I couldn't put it in a letter.
It was Rivière who helped you to get away--when you left your husband?"
His heart was beating suffocatingly. Would she meet this question with
the same composure?
"Yes: I owe him a great debt," she answered, without the least tremor
in her quiet voice.
Her tone was so natural, so almost indifferent, that Archer's turmoil
subsided. Once more she had managed, by her sheer simplicity, to make