At that she raised her clearest eyes. "I promise you: not as long as you hold out.Not as long as we can look straight at each other like this."
He dropped into his chair. What her answer really said was:"If you lift a finger you'll drive me back: back to all the abominations you know of,and all the temptations you half guess." He understood it as clearly as if she had uttered the words,and the thought kept him anchored to his side of the table in a kind of moved and sacred submission.
"What a life for you!--" he groaned.
"Oh--as long as it's a part of yours."
"And mine a part of yours?"
She nodded.
"And that's to be all--for either of us?"
"Well; it _is_ all, isn't it?"
At that he sprang up, forgetting everything but the sweetness of her face. She rose too,not as if to meet him or to flee from him, but quietly,as though the worst of the task were done and she had only to wait; so quietly that,as he came close, her outstretched hands acted not as a check but as a guide to him.They fell into his, while her arms, extended but not rigid,kept him far enough off to let her surrendered face say the rest.
They may have stood in that way for a long time, or only for a few moments;but it was long enough for her silence to communicate all she had to say,and for him to feel that only one thing mattered.He must do nothing to make this meeting their last; he must leave their future in her care,asking only that she should keep fast hold of it.
"Don't--don't be unhappy," she said, with a break in her voice, as she drew her hands away;and he answered: "You won't go back--you won't go back?" as if it were the one possibility he could not bear.
"I won't go back," she said; and turning away she opened the door and led the way into the public dining-room.
The strident school-teachers were gathering up their possessions preparatory to a straggling flight to the wharf;across the beach lay the white steam-boat at the pier;and over the sunlit waters Boston loomed in a line of haze.
XXV.
Once more on the boat, and in the presence of others,Archer felt a tranquillity of spirit that surprised as much as it sustained him.
The day, according to any current valuation, had been a rather ridiculous failure;he had not so much as touched Madame Olenska's hand with his lips,or extracted one word from her that gave promise of farther opportunities. Nevertheless,for a man sick with unsatisfied love, and parting for an indefinite period from the object of his passion,he felt himself almost humiliatingly calm and comforted.It was the perfect balance she had held between their loyalty to others and their honesty to themselves that had so stirred and yet tranquillized him;a balance not artfully calculated, as her tears and her falterings showed,but resulting naturally from her unabashed sincerity. It filled him with a tender awe,now the danger was over, and made him thank the fates that no personal vanity,no sense of playing a part before sophisticated witnesses, had tempted him to tempt her.Even after they had clasped hands for good-bye at the Fall River station,and he had turned away alone, the conviction remained with him of having saved out of their meeting much more than he had sacrificed.
He wandered back to the club, and went and sat alone in the deserted library,turning and turning over in his thoughts every separate second of their hours together.It was clear to him, and it grew more clear under closer scrutiny,that if she should finally decide on returning to Europe--returning to her husband--it would not be because her old life tempted her,even on the new terms offered. No: she would go only if she felt herself becoming a temptation to Archer,a temptation to fall away from the standard they had both set up.Her choice would be to stay near him as long as he did not ask her to come nearer;and it depended on himself to keep her just there, safe but secluded.
In the train these thoughts were still with him. They enclosed him in a kind of golden haze,through which the faces about him looked remote and indistinct:he had a feeling that if he spoke to his fellow-travellers they would not understand what he was saying.In this state of abstraction he found himself, the following morning,waking to the reality of a stifling September day in New York.The heat-withered faces in the long train streamed past him,and he continued to stare at them through the same golden blur; but suddenly,as he left the station, one of the faces detached itself,came closer and forced itself upon his consciousness. It was, as he instantly recalled,the face of the young man he had seen, the day before, passing out of the Parker House,and had noted as not conforming to type, as not having an American hotel face.
The same thing struck him now; and again he became aware of a dim stir of former associations.The young man stood looking about him with the dazed air of the foreigner flung upon the harsh mercies of American travel;then he advanced toward Archer, lifted his hat, and said in English: "Surely, Monsieur, we met in London?"
"Ah, to be sure: in London!" Archer grasped his hand with curiosity and sympathy. "So you _did_ get here, after all?" he exclaimed, casting a wondering eye on the astute and haggard little countenance of young Carfry's French tutor.
"Oh, I got here--yes," M. Rivière smiled with drawn lips. "But not for long;I return the day after tomorrow." He stood grasping his light valise in one neatly gloved hand,and gazing anxiously, perplexedly, almost appealingly, into Archer's face.
"I wonder, Monsieur, since I've had the good luck to run across you, if I might--"
"I was just going to suggest it: come to luncheon, won't you?Down town, I mean: if you'll look me up in my office I'll take you to a very decent restaurant in that quarter. "
M. Rivière was visibly touched and surprised. "You're too kind.But I was only going to ask if you would tell me how to reach some sort of conveyance.There are no porters, and no one here seems to listen--"
"I know: our American stations must surprise you.When you ask for a porter they give you chewing-gum. But if you'll come along I'll extricate you;and you must really lunch with me, you know."
The young man, after a just perceptible hesitation, replied, with profuse thanks,and in a tone that did not carry complete conviction, that he was already engaged;but when they had reached the comparative reassurance of the street he asked if he might call that afternoon.
Archer, at ease in the midsummer leisure of the office, fixed an hour and scribbled his address,which the Frenchman pocketed with reiterated thanks and a wide flourish of his hat.A horse-car received him, and Archer walked away.
Punctually at the hour M. Rivière appeared, shaved, smoothed-out,but still unmistakably drawn and serious. Archer was alone in his office, and the young man,before accepting the seat he proffered, began abruptly: "I believe I saw you, sir, yesterday in Boston."
The statement was insignificant enough, and Archer was about to frame an assent when his words were checked by something mysterious yet illuminating in his visitor's insistent gaze.
"It is extraordinary, very extraordinary," M. Rivière continued,"that we should have met in the circumstances in which I find myself."
"What circumstances?" Archer asked, wondering a little crudely if he needed money.
M. Rivière continued to study him with tentative eyes. "I have come, not to look for employment,as I spoke of doing when we last met, but on a special mission--"
"Ah--!" Archer exclaimed. In a flash the two meetings had connected themselves in his mind.He paused to take in the situation thus suddenly lighted up for him, and M.Rivière also remained silent, as if aware that what he had said was enough.
"A special mission," Archer at length repeated.
The young Frenchman, opening his palms, raised them slightly,and the two men continued to look at each other across the office-desk till Archer roused himself to say:"Do sit down"; whereupon M. Rivière bowed, took a distant chair, and again waited.
"It was about this mission that you wanted to consult me?" Archer finally asked.
M. Rivière bent his head. "Not in my own behalf: on that score I--I have fully dealt with myself.I should like--if I may--to speak to you about the Countess Olenska."
Archer had known for the last few minutes that the words were coming;but when they came they sent the blood rushing to his temples as if he had been caught by a bent-back branch in a thicket.
"And on whose behalf," he said, "do you wish to do this?"
M. Rivière met the question sturdily. "Well--I might say _hers_, if it did not sound like a liberty.Shall I say instead: on behalf of abstract justice?"
Archer considered him ironically. "In other words: you are Count Olenski's messenger?"
He saw his blush more darkly reflected in M. Rivière's sallow countenance. "Not to _you_, Monsieur.If I come to you, it is on quite other grounds."
"What right have you, in the circumstances, to _be_ on any other ground?" Archer retorted. "If you're an emissary you're an emissary."
The young man considered. "My mission is over: as far as the Countess Olenska goes, it has failed."
"I can't help that," Archer rejoined on the same note of irony.
"No: but you can help--" M. Rivière paused,turned his hat about in his still carefully gloved hands,looked into its lining and then back at Archer's face. "You can help, Monsieur, I am convinced,to make it equally a failure with her family."
Archer pushed back his chair and stood up. "Well--and by God I will!" he exclaimed. He stood with his hands in his pockets,staring down wrathfully at the little Frenchman, whose face, though he too had risen,was still an inch or two below the line of Archer's eyes.
M. Rivière paled to his normal hue: paler than that his complexion could hardly turn.
"Why the devil," Archer explosively continued,"should you have thought--since I suppose you're appealing to me on the ground of my relationship to Madame Olenska--that I should take a view contrary to the rest of her family?"
The change of expression in M. Rivière's face was for a time his only answer.His look passed from timidity to absolute distress:for a young man of his usually resourceful mien it would have been difficult to appear more disarmed and defenceless. "Oh, Monsieur--"
"I can't imagine," Archer continued, "why you should have come to me when there are others so much nearer to the Countess;still less why you thought I should be more accessible to the arguments I suppose you were sent over with. "
M. Rivière took this onslaught with a disconcerting humility."The arguments I want to present to you, Monsieur, are my own and not those I was sent over with."
"Then I see still less reason for listening to them."
M. Rivière again looked into his hat, as if considering whether these last words were not a sufficiently broad hint to put it on and be gone.Then he spoke with sudden decision. "Monsieur--will you tell me one thing?Is it my right to be here that you question?Or do you perhaps believe the whole matter to be already closed?"
His quiet insistence made Archer feel the clumsiness of his own bluster. M.Rivière had succeeded in imposing himself: Archer, reddening slightly,dropped into his chair again, and signed to the young man to be seated.
"I beg your pardon: but why isn't the matter closed?"
M. Rivière gazed back at him with anguish. "You do, then, agree with the rest of the family that,in face of the new proposals I have brought,it is hardly possible for Madame Olenska not to return to her husband?"
"Good God!" Archer exclaimed; and his visitor gave out a low murmur of confirmation.
"Before seeing her, I saw--at Count Olenski's request--Mr. Lovell Mingott,with whom I had several talks before going to Boston.I understand that he represents his mother's view; and that Mrs.Manson Mingott's influence is great throughout her family."
Archer sat silent, with the sense of clinging to the edge of a sliding precipice.The discovery that he had been excluded from a share in these negotiations,and even from the knowledge that they were on foot,caused him a surprise hardly dulled by the acuter wonder of what he was learning.He saw in a flash that if the family had ceased to consult him it was because some deep tribal instinct warned them that he was no longer on their side;and he recalled, with a start of comprehension, a remark of May's during their drive home from Mrs.Manson Mingott's on the day of the Archery Meeting: "Perhaps, after all,Ellen would be happier with her husband."
Even in the tumult of new discoveries Archer remembered his indignant exclamation,and the fact that since then his wife had never named Madame Olenska to him.Her careless allusion had no doubt been the straw held up to see which way the wind blew;the result had been reported to the family,and thereafter Archer had been tacitly omitted from their counsels.He admired the tribal discipline which made May bow to this decision. She would not have done so,he knew, had her conscience protested; but she probably shared the family view that Madame Olenska would be better off as an unhappy wife than as a separated one, and that there was no use in discussing the case with Newland, who had an awkward way of suddenly not seeming to take the most fundamental things for granted.
Archer looked up and met his visitor's anxious gaze. "Don't you know,Monsieur--is it possible you don't know--that the family begin to doubt if they have the right to advise the Countess to refuse her husband's last proposals?"
"The proposals you brought?"
"The proposals I brought."
It was on Archer's lips to exclaim that whatever he knew or did not know was no concern of M.Rivière's; but something in the humble and yet courageous tenacity of M.Rivière's gaze made him reject this conclusion, and he met the young man's question with another."What is your object in speaking to me of this?"
He had not to wait a moment for the answer. "To beg you,Monsieur--to beg you with all the force I'm capable of--not to let her go back.--Oh, don't let her!" M. Rivière exclaimed.
Archer looked at him with increasing astonishment.There was no mistaking the sincerity of his distress or the strength of his determination:he had evidently resolved to let everything go by the board but the supreme need of thus putting himself on record. Archer considered.
"May I ask," he said at length, "if this is the line you took with the Countess Olenska?"
M. Rivière reddened, but his eyes did not falter. "No, Monsieur:I accepted my mission in good faith. I really believed--for reasons I need not trouble you with--that it would be better for Madame Olenska to recover her situation, her fortune, the social consideration that her husband's standing gives her."
"So I supposed: you could hardly have accepted such a mission otherwise."
"I should not have accepted it."
"Well, then--?" Archer paused again, and their eyes met in another protracted scrutiny.
"Ah, Monsieur, after I had seen her, after I had listened to her, I knew she was better off here."
"You knew--?"
"Monsieur, I discharged my mission faithfully: I put the Count's arguments, I stated his offers,without adding any comment of my own. The Countess was good enough to listen patiently;she carried her goodness so far as to see me twice;she considered impartially all I had come to say.And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently."
"May I ask what led to this change?"
"Simply seeing the change in _her_," M. Rivière replied.
"The change in her?Then you knew her before?"
The young man's colour again rose. "I used to see her in her husband's house.I have known Count Olenski for many years.You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission."
Archer's gaze, wandering away to the blank walls of the office,rested on a hanging calendar surmounted by the rugged features of the President of the United States.That such a conversation should be going on anywhere within the millions of square miles subject to his rule seemed as strange as anything that the imagination could invent.
"The change--what sort of a change?"
"Ah, Monsieur, if I could tell you!" M. Rivière paused. "_Tenez_--the discovery, I suppose, of what I'd never thought of before:that she's an American. And that if you're an American of _her_ kind--of your kind--things that are accepted in certain other societies,or at least put up with as part of a general convenient give-and-take--become unthinkable,simply unthinkable. If Madame Olenska's relations understood what these things were,their opposition to her returning would no doubt be as unconditional as her own;but they seem to regard her husband's wish to have her back as proof of an irresistible longing for domestic life." M. Rivière paused, and then added: "Whereas it's far from being as simple as that."
Archer looked back to the President of the United States,and then down at his desk and at the papers scattered on it.For a second or two he could not trust himself to speak. During this interval he heard M.Rivière's chair pushed back, and was aware that the young man had risen.When he glanced up again he saw that his visitor was as moved as himself.
"Thank you," Archer said simply.
"There's nothing to thank me for, Monsieur: it is I, rather--" M. Rivière broke off,as if speech for him too were difficult. "I should like, though," he continued in a firmer voice,"to add one thing. You asked me if I was in Count Olenski's employ. I am at this moment:I returned to him, a few months ago, for reasons of private necessity such as may happen to any one who has persons,ill and older persons, dependent on him.But from the moment that I have taken the step of coming here to say these things to you I consider myself discharged,and I shall tell him so on my return, and give him the reasons. That's all, Monsieur."
M. Rivière bowed and drew back a step.
"Thank you," Archer said again, as their hands met.
XXVI.
Every year on the fifteenth of October Fifth Avenue opened its shutters,unrolled its carpets and hung up its triple layer of window-curtains.
By the first of November this household ritual was over,and society had begun to look about and take stock of itself.By the fifteenth the season was in full blast,Opera and theatres were putting forth their new attractions, dinner-engagements were accumulating,and dates for dances being fixed. And punctually at about this time Mrs.Archer always said that New York was very much changed.
Observing it from the lofty stand-point of a non-participant, she was able, with the help of Mr.Sillerton Jackson and Miss Sophy, to trace each new crack in its surface,and all the strange weeds pushing up between the ordered rows of social vegetables.It had been one of the amusements of Archer's youth to wait for this annual pronouncement of his mother's,and to hear her enumerate the minute signs of disintegration that his careless gaze had overlooked.For New York, to Mrs. Archer's mind, never changed without changing for the worse;and in this view Miss Sophy Jackson heartily concurred.
Mr. Sillerton Jackson, as became a man of the world,suspended his judgment and listened with an amused impartiality to the lamentations of the ladies.But even he never denied that New York had changed; and Newland Archer,in the winter of the second year of his marriage,was himself obliged to admit that if it had not actually changed it was certainly changing.
These points had been raised, as usual, at Mrs. Archer's Thanksgiving dinner.At the date when she was officially enjoined to give thanks for the blessings of the year it was her habit to take a mournful though not embittered stock of her world, and wonder what there was to be thankful for. At any rate, not the state of society; society, if it could be said to exist, was rather a spectacle on which to call down Biblical imprecations--and in fact, every one knew what the Reverend Dr. Ashmore meant when he chose a text from Jeremiah (chap. ii., verse 25) for his Thanksgiving sermon. Dr. Ashmore, the new Rector of St. Matthew's, had been chosen because he was very "advanced": his sermons were considered bold in thought and novel in language. When he fulminated against fashionable society he always spoke of its "trend"; and to Mrs. Archer it was terrifying and yet fascinating to feel herself part of a community that was trending.
"There's no doubt that Dr. Ashmore is right: there _is_ a marked trend," she said,as if it were something visible and measurable, like a crack in a house.
"It was odd, though, to preach about it on Thanksgiving," Miss Jackson opined;and her hostess drily rejoined: "Oh, he means us to give thanks for what's left."
Archer had been wont to smile at these annual vaticinations of his mother's;but this year even he was obliged to acknowledge, as he listened to an enumeration of the changes, that the "trend" was visible.
"The extravagance in dress--" Miss Jackson began."Sillerton took me to the first night of the Opera,and I can only tell you that Jane Merry's dress was the only one I recognised from last year;and even that had had the front panel changed.Yet I know she got it out from Worth only two years ago,because my seamstress always goes in to make over her Paris dresses before she wears them."
"Ah, Jane Merry is one of _us_," said Mrs. Archer sighing,as if it were not such an enviable thing to be in an age when ladies were beginning to flaunt abroad their Paris dresses as soon as they were out of the Custom House, instead of letting them mellow under lock and key, in the manner of Mrs. Archer's contemporaries.
"Yes; she's one of the few. In my youth," Miss Jackson rejoined,"it was considered vulgar to dress in the newest fashions;and Amy Sillerton has always told me that in Boston the rule was to put away one's Paris dresses for two years.Old Mrs. Baxter Pennilow, who did everything handsomely, used to import twelve a year, two velvet,two satin, two silk, and the other six of poplin and the finest cashmere. It was a standing order,and as she was ill for two years before she died they found forty-eight Worth dresses that had never been taken out of tissue paper;and when the girls left off their mourning they were able to wear the first lot at the Symphony concerts without looking in advance of the fashion. "
"Ah, well, Boston is more conservative than New York;but I always think it's a safe rule for a lady to lay aside her French dresses for one season, " Mrs. Archer conceded.
"It was Beaufort who started the new fashion by making his wife clap her new clothes on her back as soon as they arrived:I must say at times it takes all Regina's distinction not to look like ... like ..." Miss Jackson glanced around the table, caught Janey's bulging gaze,and took refuge in an unintelligible murmur.
"Like her rivals," said Mr. Sillerton Jackson, with the air of producing an epigram.
"Oh,--" the ladies murmured; and Mrs. Archer added,partly to distract her daughter's attention from forbidden topics: "Poor Regina!Her Thanksgiving hasn't been a very cheerful one, I'm afraid.Have you heard the rumours about Beaufort's speculations, Sillerton?"
Mr. Jackson nodded carelessly. Every one had heard the rumours in question,and he scorned to confirm a tale that was already common property.
A gloomy silence fell upon the party. No one really liked Beaufort,and it was not wholly unpleasant to think the worst of his private life;but the idea of his having brought financial dishonour on his wife's family was too shocking to be enjoyed even by his enemies.Archer's New York tolerated hypocrisy in private relations;but in business matters it exacted a limpid and impeccable honesty.It was a long time since any well-known banker had failed discreditably;but every one remembered the social extinction visited on the heads of the firm when the last event of the kind had happened.It would be the same with the Beauforts, in spite of his power and her popularity;not all the leagued strength of the Dallas connection would save poor Regina if there were any truth in the reports of her husband's unlawful speculations.
The talk took refuge in less ominous topics; but everything they touched on seemed to confirm Mrs. Archer's sense of an accelerated trend.
"Of course, Newland, I know you let dear May go to Mrs. Struthers's Sunday evenings--" she began;and May interposed gaily: "Oh, you know, everybody goes to Mrs. Struthers's now;and she was invited to Granny's last reception."
It was thus, Archer reflected, that New York managed its transitions:conspiring to ignore them till they were well over, and then, in all good faith,imagining that they had taken place in a preceding age. There was always a traitor in the citadel;and after he (or generally she) had surrendered the keys,what was the use of pretending that it was impregnable?Once people had tasted of Mrs. Struthers's easy Sunday hospitality they were not likely to sit at home remembering that her champagne was transmuted Shoe-Polish.
"I know, dear, I know," Mrs. Archer sighed. "Such things have to be, I suppose,as long as _amusement_ is what people go out for;but I've never quite forgiven your cousin Madame Olenska for being the first person to countenance Mrs. Struthers."
A sudden blush rose to young Mrs. Archer's face;it surprised her husband as much as the other guests about the table. "Oh, _Ellen_--" she murmured,much in the same accusing and yet deprecating tone in which her parents might have said: "Oh, _the Blenkers_--."
It was the note which the family had taken to sounding on the mention of the Countess Olenska's name,since she had surprised and inconvenienced them by remaining obdurate to her husband's advances;but on May's lips it gave food for thought,and Archer looked at her with the sense of strangeness that sometimes came over him when she was most in the tone of her environment.
His mother, with less than her usual sensitiveness to atmosphere, still insisted:"I've always thought that people like the Countess Olenska,who have lived in aristocratic societies, ought to help us to keep up our social distinctions, instead of ignoring them."
May's blush remained permanently vivid: it seemed to have a significance beyond that implied by the recognition of Madame Olenska's social bad faith.
"I've no doubt we all seem alike to foreigners," said Miss Jackson tartly.
"I don't think Ellen cares for society; but nobody knows exactly what she does care for," May continued, as if she had been groping for something noncommittal.
"Ah, well--" Mrs. Archer sighed again.
Everybody knew that the Countess Olenska was no longer in the good graces of her family.Even her devoted champion, old Mrs. Manson Mingott,had been unable to defend her refusal to return to her husband.The Mingotts had not proclaimed their disapproval aloud: their sense of solidarity was too strong.They had simply, as Mrs. Welland said, "let poor Ellen find her own level"--and that,mortifyingly and incomprehensibly, was in the dim depths where the Blenkers prevailed,and "people who wrote" celebrated their untidy rites. It was incredible, but it was a fact,that Ellen, in spite of all her opportunities and her privileges, had become simply "Bohemian." The fact enforced the contention that she had made a fatal mistake in not returning to Count Olenski.After all, a young woman's place was under her husband's roof,especially when she had left it in circumstances that ... well ... if one had cared to look into them ...
"Madame Olenska is a great favourite with the gentlemen," said Miss Sophy,with her air of wishing to put forth something conciliatory when she knew that she was planting a dart.
"Ah, that's the danger that a young woman like Madame Olenska is always exposed to," Mrs.Archer mournfully agreed; and the ladies, on this conclusion,gathered up their trains to seek the carcel globes of the drawing-room, while Archer and Mr.Sillerton Jackson withdrew to the Gothic library.
Once established before the grate, and consoling himself for the inadequacy of the dinner by the perfection of his cigar,Mr. Jackson became portentous and communicable.
"If the Beaufort smash comes," he announced, "there are going to be disclosures."
Archer raised his head quickly: he could never hear the name without the sharp vision of Beaufort's heavy figure,opulently furred and shod, advancing through the snow at Skuytercliff.
"There's bound to be," Mr. Jackson continued, "the nastiest kind of a cleaning up.He hasn't spent all his money on Regina."
"Oh, well--that's discounted, isn't it?My belief is he'll pull out yet," said the young man, wanting to change the subject.
"Perhaps--perhaps. I know he was to see some of the influential people today. Of course," Mr.Jackson reluctantly conceded, "it's to be hoped they can tide him over--this time anyhow.I shouldn't like to think of poor Regina's spending the rest of her life in some shabby foreign watering-place for bankrupts. "
Archer said nothing. It seemed to him so natural--however tragic--that money ill-gotten should be cruelly expiated,that his mind, hardly lingering over Mrs. Beaufort's doom, wandered back to closer questions.What was the meaning of May's blush when the Countess Olenska had been mentioned?