Archer made no comment on this, and Mrs.Welland continued: "But we do most thoroughly appreciate your persuading Ellen to give up the idea. Her grandmother and her uncle Lovell could do nothing with her; both of them have written that her changing her mind was entirely due to your influence--in fact she said so to her grandmother. She has an unbounded admiration for you. Poor Ellen--she was always a wayward child. I wonder what her fate will be?"
"What we've all contrived to make it," he felt like answering."If you'd all of you rather she should be Beaufort's mistress than some decent fellow's wife you've certainly gone the right way about it."
He wondered what Mrs.Welland would have said if he had uttered the words instead of merely thinking them. He could picture the sudden decomposure of her firm placid features, to which a lifelong mastery over trifles had given an air of factitious authority. Traces still lingered on them of a fresh beauty like her daughter's; and he asked himself if May's face was doomed to thicken into the same middle-aged image of invincible innocence.
Ah, no, he did not want May to have that kind of innocence,the innocence that seals the mind against imagination and the heart against experience!
"I verily believe," Mrs. Welland continued,"that if the horrible business had come out in the newspapers it would have been my husband's death-blow. I don't know any of the details; I only ask not to, as I told poor Ellen when she tried to talk to me about it. Having an invalid to care for, I have to keep my mind bright and happy. But Mr. Welland was terribly upset; he had a slight temperature every morning while we were waiting to hear what had been decided. It was the horror of his girl's learning that such things were possible--but of course, dear Newland, you felt that too. We all knew that you were thinking of May."
"I'm always thinking of May," the young man rejoined,rising to cut short the conversation.
He had meant to seize the opportunity of his private talk with Mrs.Welland to urge her to advance the date of his marriage.But he could think of no arguments that would move her,and with a sense of relief he saw Mr.Welland and May driving up to the door.
His only hope was to plead again with May,and on the day before his departure he walked with her to the ruinous garden of the Spanish Mission. The background lent itself to allusions to European scenes; and May, who was looking her loveliest under a wide-brimmed hat that cast a shadow of mystery over her too-clear eyes, kindled into eagerness as he spoke of Granada and the Alhambra.
"We might be seeing it all this spring--even the Easter ceremonies at Seville," he urged, exaggerating his demands in the hope of a larger concession.
"Easter in Seville?And it will be Lent next week!" she laughed.
"Why shouldn't we be married in Lent?" he rejoined; but she looked so shocked that he saw his mistake.
"Of course I didn't mean that, dearest;but soon after Easter--so that we could sail at the end of April.I know I could arrange it at the office."
She smiled dreamily upon the possibility;but he perceived that to dream of it sufficed her.It was like hearing him read aloud out of his poetry books the beautiful things that could not possibly happen in real life.
"Oh, do go on, Newland; I do love your descriptions."
"But why should they be only descriptions?Why shouldn't we make them real?"
"We shall, dearest, of course; next year." Her voice lingered over it.
"Don't you want them to be real sooner?Can't I persuade you to break away now?"
She bowed her head, vanishing from him under her conniving hat-brim.
"Why should we dream away another year?Look at me, dear!Don't you understand how I want you for my wife?"
For a moment she remained motionless;then she raised on him eyes of such despairing clearness that he half-released her waist from his hold. But suddenly her look changed and deepened inscrutably. "I'm not sure if I _do_ understand," she said. "Is it--is it because you're not certain of continuing to care for me?"
Archer sprang up from his seat."My God--perhaps--I don't know," he broke out angrily.
May Welland rose also;as they faced each other she seemed to grow in womanly stature and dignity.Both were silent for a moment,as if dismayed by the unforeseen trend of their words:then she said in a low voice:"If that is it--is there some one else?"
"Some one else--between you and me?" He echoed her words slowly,as though they were only half-intelligible and he wanted time to repeat the question to himself. She seemed to catch the uncertainty of his voice, for she went on in a deepening tone: "Let us talk frankly, Newland. Sometimes I've felt a difference in you; especially since our engagement has been announced."
"Dear--what madness!" he recovered himself to exclaim.
She met his protest with a faint smile. "If it is,it won't hurt us to talk about it." She paused,and added, lifting her head with one of her noble movements:"Or even if it's true: why shouldn't we speak of it?You might so easily have made a mistake."
He lowered his head,staring at the black leaf-pattern on the sunny path at their feet."Mistakes are always easy to make;but if I had made one of the kind you suggest,is it likely that I should be imploring you to hasten our marriage?"
She looked downward too,disturbing the pattern with the point of her sunshade while she struggled for expression. "Yes," she said at length."You might want--once for all--to settle the question: it's one way."
Her quiet lucidity startled him,but did not mislead him into thinking her insensible.Under her hat-brim he saw the pallor of her profile,and a slight tremor of the nostril above her resolutely steadied lips.
"Well--?" he questioned, sitting down on the bench,and looking up at her with a frown that he tried to make playful.
She dropped back into her seat and went on:"You mustn't think that a girl knows as little as her parents imagine.One hears and one notices--one has one's feelings and ideas.And of course, long before you told me that you cared for me,I'd known that there was some one else you were interested in;every one was talking about it two years ago at Newport.And once I saw you sitting together on the verandah at a dance--and when she came back into the house her face was sad, and I felt sorry for her; I remembered it afterward, when we were engaged."
Her voice had sunk almost to a whisper,and she sat clasping and unclasping her hands about the handle of her sunshade.The young man laid his upon them with a gentle pressure;his heart dilated with an inexpressible relief.
"My dear child--was _that_ it?If you only knew the truth!"
She raised her head quickly."Then there is a truth I don't know?"
He kept his hand over hers. "I meant,the truth about the old story you speak of."