The Age of Innocence

hat evening when Archer came down before dinner he found the
drawing-room empty.

He and May were dining alone, all the family engagements having been
postponed since Mrs. Manson Mingott's illness; and as May was the more
punctual of the two he was surprised that she had not preceded him. He
knew that she was at home, for while he dressed he had heard her moving
about in her room; and he wondered what had delayed her.

He had fallen into the way of dwelling on such conjectures as a means
of tying his thoughts fast to reality. Sometimes he felt as if he had
found the clue to his father-in-law's absorption in trifles; perhaps
even Mr. Welland, long ago, had had escapes and visions, and had
conjured up all the hosts of domesticity to defend himself against them.

When May appeared he thought she looked tired. She had put on the
low-necked and tightly-laced dinner-dress which the Mingott ceremonial
exacted on the most informal occasions, and had built her fair hair
into its usual accumulated coils; and her face, in contrast, was wan
and almost faded. But she shone on him with her usual tenderness, and
her eyes had kept the blue dazzle of the day before.

"What became of you, dear?" she asked. "I was waiting at Granny's, and
Ellen came alone, and said she had dropped you on the way because you
had to rush off on business. There's nothing wrong?"

"Only some letters I'd forgotten, and wanted to get off before dinner."

"Ah--" she said; and a moment afterward: "I'm sorry you didn't come to
Granny's--unless the letters were urgent."

"They were," he rejoined, surprised at her insistence. "Besides, I
don't see why I should have gone to your grandmother's. I didn't know
you were there."

She turned and moved to the looking-glass above the mantel-piece. As
she stood there, lifting her long arm to fasten a puff that had slipped
from its place in her intricate hair, Archer was struck by something
languid and inelastic in her attitude, and wondered if the deadly
monotony of their lives had laid its weight on her also. Then he
remembered that, as he had left the house that morning, she had called
over the stairs that she would meet him at her grandmother's so that
they might drive home together. He had called back a cheery "Yes!" and
then, absorbed in other visions, had forgotten his promise. Now he was
smitten with compunction, yet irritated that so trifling an omission
should be stored up against him after nearly two years of marriage. He
was weary of living in a perpetual tepid honeymoon, without the
temperature of passion yet with all its exactions. If May had spoken
out her grievances (he suspected her of many) he might have laughed
them away; but she was trained to conceal imaginary wounds under a
Spartan smile.

To disguise his own annoyance he asked how her grandmother was, and she
answered that Mrs. Mingott was still improving, but had been rather
disturbed by the last news about the Beauforts.

"What news?"

"It seems they're going to stay in New York. I believe he's going into
an insurance business, or something. They're looking about for a small
house."

The preposterousness of the case was beyond discussion, and they went
in to dinner. During dinner their talk moved in its usual limited
circle; but Archer noticed that his wife made no allusion to Madame
Olenska, nor to old Catherine's reception of her. He was thankful for
the fact, yet felt it to be vaguely ominous.

They went up to the library for coffee, and Archer lit a cigar and took
down a volume of Michelet. He had taken to history in the evenings
since May had shown a tendency to ask him to read aloud whenever she
saw him with a volume of poetry: not that he disliked the sound of his
own voice, but because he could always foresee her comments on what he
read. In the days of their engagement she had simply (as he now
perceived) echoed what he told her; but since he had ceased to provide
her with opinions she had begun to hazard her own, with results
destructive to his enjoyment of the works commented on.

Seeing that he had chosen history she fetched her workbasket, drew up
an arm-chair to the green-shaded student lamp, and uncovered a cushion
she was embroidering for his sofa. She was not a clever needle-woman;
her large capable hands were made for riding, rowing and open-air
activities; but since other wives embroidered cushions for their
husbands she did not wish to omit this last link in her devotion.

She was so placed that Archer, by merely raising his eyes, could see
her bent above her work-frame, her ruffled elbow-sleeves slipping back
from her firm round arms, the betrothal sapphire shining on her left
hand above her broad gold wedding-ring, and the right hand slowly and
laboriously stabbing the canvas. As she sat thus, the lamplight full
on her clear brow, he said to himself with a secret dismay that he
would always know the thoughts behind it, that never, in all the years
to come, would she surprise him by an unexpected mood, by a new idea, a
weakness, a cruelty or an emotion. She had spent her poetry and
romance on their short courting: the function was exhausted because the
need was past. Now she was simply ripening into a copy of her mother,
and mysteriously, by the very process, trying to turn him into a Mr.
Welland. He laid down his book and stood up impatiently; and at once
she raised her head.

"What's the matter?"

"The room is stifling: I want a little air."

He had insisted that the library curtains should draw backward and
forward on a rod, so that they might be closed in the evening, instead
of remaining nailed to a gilt cornice, and immovably looped up over
layers of lace, as in the drawing-room; and he pulled them back and
pushed up the sash, leaning out into the icy night. The mere fact of
not looking at May, seated beside his table, under his lamp, the fact
of seeing other houses, roofs, chimneys, of getting the sense of other
lives outside his own, other cities beyond New York, and a whole world
beyond his world, cleared his brain and made it easier to breathe.

After he had leaned out into the darkness for a few minutes he heard
her say: "Newland! Do shut the window. You'll catch your death."

He pulled the sash down and turned back. "Catch my death!" he echoed;
and he felt like adding: "But I've caught it already. I AM dead--I've
been dead for months and months."

And suddenly the play of the word flashed up a wild suggestion. What
if it were SHE who was dead! If she were going to die--to die
soon--and leave him free! The sensation of standing there, in that
warm familiar room, and looking at her, and wishing her dead, was so
strange, so fascinating and overmastering, that its enormity did not
immediately strike him. He simply felt that chance had given him a new
possibility to which his sick soul might cling. Yes, May might
die--people did: young people, healthy people like herself: she might
die, and set him suddenly free.

She glanced up, and he saw by her widening eyes that there must be
something strange in his own.

"Newland! Are you ill?"

He shook his head and turned toward his arm-chair. She bent over her
work-frame, and as he passed he laid his hand on her hair. "Poor May!"
he said.

"Poor? Why poor?" she echoed with a strained laugh.

"Because I shall never be able to open a window without worrying you,"
he rejoined, laughing also.

For a moment she was silent; then she said very low, her head bowed
over her work: "I shall never worry if you're happy."

"Ah, my dear; and I shall never be happy unless I can open the windows!"

"In THIS weather?" she remonstrated; and with a sigh he buried his head
in his book.

Six or seven days passed. Archer heard nothing from Madame Olenska,
and became aware that her name would not be mentioned in his presence
by any member of the family. He did not try to see her; to do so while
she was at old Catherine's guarded bedside would have been almost
impossible. In the uncertainty of the situation he let himself drift,
conscious, somewhere below the surface of his thoughts, of a resolve
which had come to him when he had leaned out from his library window
into the icy night. The strength of that resolve made it easy to wait
and make no sign.

Then one day May told him that Mrs. Manson Mingott had asked to see
him. There was nothing surprising in the request, for the old lady was
steadily recovering, and she had always openly declared that she
preferred Archer to any of her other grandsons-in-law. May gave the
message with evident pleasure: she was proud of old Catherine's
appreciation of her husband.

There was a moment's pause, and then Archer felt it incumbent on him to
say: "All right. Shall we go together this afternoon?"

His wife's face brightened, but she instantly answered: "Oh, you'd much
better go alone. It bores Granny to see the same people too often."

Archer's heart was beating violently when he rang old Mrs. Mingott's
bell. He had wanted above all things to go alone, for he felt sure the
visit would give him the chance of saying a word in private to the
Countess Olenska. He had determined to wait till the chance presented
itself naturally; and here it was, and here he was on the doorstep.
Behind the door, behind the curtains of the yellow damask room next to
the hall, she was surely awaiting him; in another moment he should see
her, and be able to speak to her before she led him to the sick-room.

He wanted only to put one question: after that his course would be
clear. What he wished to ask was simply the date of her return to
Washington; and that question she could hardly refuse to answer.

But in the yellow sitting-room it was the mulatto maid who waited. Her
white teeth shining like a keyboard, she pushed back the sliding doors
and ushered him into old Catherine's presence.

The old woman sat in a vast throne-like arm-chair near her bed. Beside
her was a mahogany stand bearing a cast bronze lamp with an engraved
globe, over which a green paper shade had been balanced. There was not
a book or a newspaper in reach, nor any evidence of feminine
employment: conversation had always been Mrs. Mingott's sole pursuit,
and she would have scorned to feign an interest in fancywork.

Archer saw no trace of the slight distortion left by her stroke. She
merely looked paler, with darker shadows in the folds and recesses of
her obesity; and, in the fluted mob-cap tied by a starched bow between
her first two chins, and the muslin kerchief crossed over her billowing
purple dressing-gown, she seemed like some shrewd and kindly ancestress
of her own who might have yielded too freely to the pleasures of the
table.

She held out one of the little hands that nestled in a hollow of her
huge lap like pet animals, and called to the maid: "Don't let in any
one else. If my daughters call, say I'm asleep."

The maid disappeared, and the old lady turned to her grandson.

"My dear, am I perfectly hideous?" she asked gaily, launching out one
hand in search of the folds of muslin on her inaccessible bosom. "My
daughters tell me it doesn't matter at my age--as if hideousness didn't
matter all the more the harder it gets to conceal!"

"My dear, you're handsomer than ever!" Archer rejoined in the same
tone; and she threw back her head and laughed.

"Ah, but not as handsome as Ellen!" she jerked out, twinkling at him
maliciously; and before he could answer she added: "Was she so awfully
handsome the day you drove her up from the ferry?"

He laughed, and she continued: "Was it because you told her so that
she had to put you out on the way? In my youth young men didn't desert
pretty women unless they were made to!" She gave another chuckle, and
interrupted it to say almost querulously: "It's a pity she didn't
marry you; I always told her so. It would have spared me all this
worry. But who ever thought of sparing their grandmother worry?"

Archer wondered if her illness had blurred her faculties; but suddenly
she broke out: "Well, it's settled, anyhow: she's going to stay with
me, whatever the rest of the family say! She hadn't been here five
minutes before I'd have gone down on my knees to keep her--if only, for
the last twenty years, I'd been able to see where the floor was!"

Archer listened in silence, and she went on: "They'd talked me over,
as no doubt you know: persuaded me, Lovell, and Letterblair, and
Augusta Welland, and all the rest of them, that I must hold out and cut
off her allowance, till she was made to see that it was her duty to go
back to Olenski. They thought they'd convinced me when the secretary,
or whatever he was, came out with the last proposals: handsome
proposals I confess they were. After all, marriage is marriage, and
money's money--both useful things in their way ... and I didn't know
what to answer--" She broke off and drew a long breath, as if speaking
had become an effort. "But the minute I laid eyes on her, I said:
'You sweet bird, you! Shut you up in that cage again? Never!' And
now it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long
as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't
mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her
proper allowance."

The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind
he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so
definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment
he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him
the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities
miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with
her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the
impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final
appeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he had
urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the
thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk
everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security.

"She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed.

"Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent
for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to
come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't
want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she
drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked
him full in the eyes--"you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family
don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill,
because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well
enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me."

"I?" he stammered.

"You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as
sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on
his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she
searchingly repeated.

Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his
self-possession.

"Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant."

"Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at
them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.

"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my
help; but you shall have it if you need it," he reassured her.

"Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient
cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I
always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they
talk about its being her duty to go home."

He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask:
"And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the
question.

"And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said.

The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the
pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame
Olenska's gone out."

He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my
child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort."

She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what
she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her
best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to
call on Regina Beaufort. 'I don't know her; who is she?' says I.
'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' she says. 'She's
the wife of a scoundrel,' I answered. 'Well,' she says, 'and so am I,
and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' Well, that floored
me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too
hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage.
'What for?' I asked her; and she said: 'To go and see cousin
Regina'--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it
wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the
carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and
I've always liked courage above everything."

Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still lay
on his.

"Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, young
man--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mocking
cackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her her
Granny's love; but you'd better not say anything about our talk."