XVII.
Your cousin the Countess called on mother while you were away, JaneyArcher announced to her brother on the evening of his return.
The young man, who was dining alone with his mother and sister, glancedup 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 forbeing forgotten by it; and Newland guessed that she was slightlyannoyed that he should be surprised by Madame Olenska's visit.
She had on a black velvet polonaise with jet buttons, and a tiny greenmonkey muff; I never saw her so stylishly dressed, Janey continued.She came alone, early on Sunday afternoon; luckily the fire was lit inthe drawing-room. She had one of those new card-cases. She said shewanted to know us because you'd been so good to her.
Newland laughed. Madame Olenska always takes that tone about herfriends. She's very happy at being among her own people again.
Yes, so she told us, said Mrs. Archer. I must say she seemsthankful to be here.
I hope you liked her, mother.
Mrs. Archer drew her lips together. She certainly lays herself out toplease, even when she is calling on an old lady.
Mother doesn't think her simple, Janey interjected, her eyes screwedupon 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 himfor 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, andrushed down to St. Augustine simply because he wanted to see May, shegave 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 Augustaand Welland pulled long faces, and behaved as if the end of the worldhad 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 gonedown 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 mimicprudery and twinkled at him through malicious lids. 'Ask Mamma,' Isuppose--the usual story. Ah, these Mingotts--all alike! Born in arut, and you can't root 'em out of it. When I built this house you'dhave thought I was moving to California! Nobody ever HAD built aboveFortieth Street--no, says I, nor above the Battery either, beforeChristopher Columbus discovered America. No, no; not one of them wantsto be different; they're as scared of it as the small-pox. Ah, my dearMr. Archer, I thank my stars I'm nothing but a vulgar Spicer; butthere's not one of my own children that takes after me but my littleEllen. She broke off, still twinkling at him, and asked, with thecasual irrelevance of old age: Now, why in the world didn't you marrymy 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 isfinished. She spoke with the cold-blooded complacency of the agedthrowing earth into the grave of young hopes. The young man's heartgrew chill, and he said hurriedly: Can't I persuade you to use yourinfluence with the Wellands, Mrs. Mingott? I wasn't made for longengagements.
Old Catherine beamed on him approvingly. No; I can see that. You'vegot a quick eye. When you were a little boy I've no doubt you liked tobe helped first. She threw back her head with a laugh that made herchins ripple like little waves. Ah, here's my Ellen now! sheexclaimed, as the portieres parted behind her.
Madame Olenska came forward with a smile. Her face looked vivid andhappy, and she held out her hand gaily to Archer while she stooped toher grandmother's kiss.
I was just saying to him, my dear: 'Now, why didn't you marry mylittle Ellen?'
Madame Olenska looked at Archer, still smiling. And what did heanswer?
Oh, my darling, I leave you to find that out! He's been down toFlorida 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 Iwas afraid you were ill.
He muttered something about leaving unexpectedly, in a great hurry, andhaving intended to write to her from St. Augustine.
And of course once you were there you never thought of me again! Shecontinued to beam on him with a gaiety that might have been a studiedassumption of indifference.
If she still needs me, she's determined not to let me see it, hethought, stung by her manner. He wanted to thank her for having beento see his mother, but under the ancestress's malicious eye he felthimself tongue-tied and constrained.
Look at him--in such hot haste to get married that he took Frenchleave and rushed down to implore the silly girl on his knees! That'ssomething like a lover--that's the way handsome Bob Spicer carried offmy poor mother; and then got tired of her before I was weaned--thoughthey only had to wait eight months for me! But there--you're not aSpicer, young man; luckily for you and for May. It's only my poorEllen that has kept any of their wicked blood; the rest of them are allmodel Mingotts, cried the old lady scornfully.
Archer was aware that Madame Olenska, who had seated herself at hergrandmother's side, was still thoughtfully scrutinising him. Thegaiety had faded from her eyes, and she said with great gentleness:Surely, Granny, we can persuade them between us to do as he wishes.
Archer rose to go, and as his hand met Madame Olenska's he felt thatshe was waiting for him to make some allusion to her unanswered letter.
When can I see you? he asked, as she walked with him to the door ofthe room.
Whenever you like; but it must be soon if you want to see the littlehouse again. I am moving next week.
A pang shot through him at the memory of his lamplit hours in thelow-studded drawing-room. Few as they had been, they were thick withmemories.
Tomorrow evening?
She nodded. Tomorrow; yes; but early. I'm going out.
The next day was a Sunday, and if she were going out on a Sundayevening it could, of course, be only to Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's. Hefelt a slight movement of annoyance, not so much at her going there(for he rather liked her going where she pleased in spite of the vander Luydens), but because it was the kind of house at which she wassure to meet Beaufort, where she must have known beforehand that shewould meet him--and where she was probably going for that purpose.
Very well; tomorrow evening, he repeated, inwardly resolved that hewould not go early, and that by reaching her door late he would eitherprevent her from going to Mrs. Struthers's, or else arrive after shehad started--which, all things considered, would no doubt be thesimplest solution.
It was only half-past eight, after all, when he rang the bell under thewisteria; not as late as he had intended by half an hour--but asingular restlessness had driven him to her door. He reflected,however, that Mrs. Struthers's Sunday evenings were not like a ball,and that her guests, as if to minimise their delinquency, usually wentearly.
The one thing he had not counted on, in entering Madame Olenska's hall,was to find hats and overcoats there. Why had she bidden him to comeearly if she was having people to dine? On a closer inspection of thegarments besides which Nastasia was laying his own, his resentment gaveway to curiosity. The overcoats were in fact the very strangest he hadever seen under a polite roof; and it took but a glance to assurehimself that neither of them belonged to Julius Beaufort. One was ashaggy yellow ulster of reach-me-down cut, the other a very old andrusty cloak with a cape--something like what the French called aMacfarlane. This garment, which appeared to be made for a person ofprodigious size, had evidently seen long and hard wear, and itsgreenish-black folds gave out a moist sawdusty smell suggestive ofprolonged sessions against bar-room walls. On it lay a ragged greyscarf and an odd felt hat of semiclerical shape.
Archer raised his eyebrows enquiringly at Nastasia, who raised hers inreturn with a fatalistic Gia! as she threw open the drawing-room door.
The young man saw at once that his hostess was not in the room; then,with surprise, he discovered another lady standing by the fire. Thislady, who was long, lean and loosely put together, was clad in raimentintricately looped and fringed, with plaids and stripes and bands ofplain colour disposed in a design to which the clue seemed missing.Her hair, which had tried to turn white and only succeeded in fading,was surmounted by a Spanish comb and black lace scarf, and silkmittens, visibly darned, covered her rheumatic hands.
Beside her, in a cloud of cigar-smoke, stood the owners of the twoovercoats, both in morning clothes that they had evidently not takenoff since morning. In one of the two, Archer, to his surprise,recognised Ned Winsett; the other and older, who was unknown to him,and whose gigantic frame declared him to be the wearer of theMacfarlane, had a feebly leonine head with crumpled grey hair, andmoved his arms with large pawing gestures, as though he weredistributing lay blessings to a kneeling multitude.
These three persons stood together on the hearth-rug, their eyes fixedon an extraordinarily large bouquet of crimson roses, with a knot ofpurple pansies at their base, that lay on the sofa where Madame Olenskausually sat.
What they must have cost at this season--though of course it's thesentiment one cares about! the lady was saying in a sighing staccatoas Archer came in.
The three turned with surprise at his appearance, and the lady,advancing, held out her hand.
Dear Mr. Archer--almost my cousin Newland! she said. I am theMarchioness Manson.
Archer bowed, and she continued: My Ellen has taken me in for a fewdays. I came from Cuba, where I have been spending the winter withSpanish friends--such delightful distinguished people: the highestnobility of old Castile--how I wish you could know them! But I wascalled away by our dear great friend here, Dr. Carver. You don't knowDr. Agathon Carver, founder of the Valley of Love Community?
Dr. Carver inclined his leonine head, and the Marchioness continued:Ah, New York--New York--how little the life of the spirit has reachedit! But I see you do know Mr. Winsett.
Oh, yes--I reached him some time ago; but not by that route, Winsettsaid with his dry smile.
The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly. How do you know, Mr.Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it listeth.
List--oh, list! interjected Dr. Carver in a stentorian murmur.
But do sit down, Mr. Archer. We four have been having a delightfullittle dinner together, and my child has gone up to dress. She expectsyou; she will be down in a moment. We were just admiring thesemarvellous flowers, which will surprise her when she reappears.
Winsett remained on his feet. I'm afraid I must be off. Please tellMadame Olenska that we shall all feel lost when she abandons ourstreet. This house has been an oasis.
Ah, but she won't abandon YOU. Poetry and art are the breath of lifeto her. It IS poetry you write, Mr. Winsett?
Well, no; but I sometimes read it, said Winsett, including the groupin a general nod and slipping out of the room.
A caustic spirit--un peu sauvage. But so witty; Dr. Carver, you DOthink him witty?
I never think of wit, said Dr. Carver severely.
Ah--ah--you never think of wit! How merciless he is to us weakmortals, Mr. Archer! But he lives only in the life of the spirit; andtonight he is mentally preparing the lecture he is to deliver presentlyat Mrs. Blenker's. Dr. Carver, would there be time, before you startfor the Blenkers' to explain to Mr. Archer your illuminating discoveryof the Direct Contact? But no; I see it is nearly nine o'clock, and wehave no right to detain you while so many are waiting for your message.
Dr. Carver looked slightly disappointed at this conclusion, but, havingcompared his ponderous gold time-piece with Madame Olenska's littletravelling-clock, he reluctantly gathered up his mighty limbs fordeparture.
I shall see you later, dear friend? he suggested to the Marchioness,who replied with a smile: As soon as Ellen's carriage comes I willjoin you; I do hope the lecture won't have begun.
Dr. Carver looked thoughtfully at Archer. Perhaps, if this younggentleman is interested in my experiences, Mrs. Blenker might allow youto bring him with you?
Oh, dear friend, if it were possible--I am sure she would be toohappy. But I fear my Ellen counts on Mr. Archer herself.
That, said Dr. Carver, is unfortunate--but here is my card. Hehanded it to Archer, who read on it, in Gothic characters:
+---------------------------+ | Agathon Carver | | The Valley of Love | | Kittasquattamy, N. Y. | +---------------------------+
Dr. Carver bowed himself out, and Mrs. Manson, with a sigh that mighthave been either of regret or relief, again waved Archer to a seat.
Ellen will be down in a moment; and before she comes, I am so glad ofthis quiet moment with you.
Archer murmured his pleasure at their meeting, and the Marchionesscontinued, in her low sighing accents: I know everything, dear Mr.Archer--my child has told me all you have done for her. Your wiseadvice: your courageous firmness--thank heaven it was not too late!
The young man listened with considerable embarrassment. Was there anyone, he wondered, to whom Madame Olenska had not proclaimed hisintervention in her private affairs?
Madame Olenska exaggerates; I simply gave her a legal opinion, as sheasked me to.
Ah, but in doing it--in doing it you were the unconscious instrumentof--of--what word have we moderns for Providence, Mr. Archer? criedthe lady, tilting her head on one side and drooping her lidsmysteriously. Little did you know that at that very moment I wasbeing appealed to: being approached, in fact--from the other side ofthe Atlantic!
She glanced over her shoulder, as though fearful of being overheard,and then, drawing her chair nearer, and raising a tiny ivory fan to herlips, breathed behind it: By the Count himself--my poor, mad, foolishOlenski; who asks only to take her back on her own terms.
Good God! Archer exclaimed, springing up.
You are horrified? Yes, of course; I understand. I don't defend poorStanislas, though he has always called me his best friend. He does notdefend himself--he casts himself at her feet: in my person. Shetapped her emaciated bosom. I have his letter here.
A letter?--Has Madame Olenska seen it? Archer stammered, his brainwhirling with the shock of the announcement.
The Marchioness Manson shook her head softly. Time--time; I must havetime. I know my Ellen--haughty, intractable; shall I say, just a shadeunforgiving?
But, good heavens, to forgive is one thing; to go back into thathell--
Ah, yes, the Marchioness acquiesced. So she describes it--mysensitive child! But on the material side, Mr. Archer, if one maystoop to consider such things; do you know what she is giving up?Those roses there on the sofa--acres like them, under glass and in theopen, in his matchless terraced gardens at Nice! Jewels--historicpearls: the Sobieski emeralds--sables,--but she cares nothing for allthese! Art and beauty, those she does care for, she lives for, as Ialways have; and those also surrounded her. Pictures, pricelessfurniture, music, brilliant conversation--ah, that, my dear young man,if you'll excuse me, is what you've no conception of here! And she hadit all; and the homage of the greatest. She tells me she is notthought handsome in New York--good heavens! Her portrait has beenpainted nine times; the greatest artists in Europe have begged for theprivilege. Are these things nothing? And the remorse of an adoringhusband?
As the Marchioness Manson rose to her climax her face assumed anexpression of ecstatic retrospection which would have moved Archer'smirth had he not been numb with amazement.
He would have laughed if any one had foretold to him that his firstsight of poor Medora Manson would have been in the guise of a messengerof Satan; but he was in no mood for laughing now, and she seemed to himto come straight out of the hell from which Ellen Olenska had justescaped.
She knows nothing yet--of all this? he asked abruptly.
Mrs. Manson laid a purple finger on her lips. Nothing directly--butdoes she suspect? Who can tell? The truth is, Mr. Archer, I have beenwaiting to see you. From the moment I heard of the firm stand you hadtaken, and of your influence over her, I hoped it might be possible tocount on your support--to convince you ...
That she ought to go back? I would rather see her dead! cried theyoung man violently.
Ah, the Marchioness murmured, without visible resentment. For awhile she sat in her arm-chair, opening and shutting the absurd ivoryfan between her mittened fingers; but suddenly she lifted her head andlistened.
Here she comes, she said in a rapid whisper; and then, pointing tothe bouquet on the sofa: Am I to understand that you prefer THAT, Mr.Archer? After all, marriage is marriage ... and my niece is still awife...