wand streichen decke schützen

the age of innocence by edith whartonchapter x. the next day he persuaded may to escape fora walk in the park after luncheon. as was the custom in old-fashionedepiscopalian new york, she usually accompanied her parents to church on sundayafternoons; but mrs. welland condoned her truancy, having that very morning won her over to the necessity of a long engagement,with time to prepare a hand-embroidered trousseau containing the proper number ofdozens. the day was delectable. the bare vaulting of trees along the mallwas ceiled with lapis lazuli, and arched

above snow that shone like splinteredcrystals. it was the weather to call out may'sradiance, and she burned like a young maple in the frost. archer was proud of the glances turned onher, and the simple joy of possessorship cleared away his underlying perplexities. "it's so delicious--waking every morning tosmell lilies-of-the-valley in one's room!" she said."yesterday they came late. i hadn't time in the morning--" "but your remembering each day to send themmakes me love them so much more than if

you'd given a standing order, and they cameevery morning on the minute, like one's music-teacher--as i know gertrude lefferts's did, for instance, when she andlawrence were engaged." "ah--they would!" laughed archer, amused ather keenness. he looked sideways at her fruit-like cheekand felt rich and secure enough to add: "when i sent your lilies yesterdayafternoon i saw some rather gorgeous yellow roses and packed them off to madameolenska. was that right?""how dear of you! anything of that kind delights her.

it's odd she didn't mention it: she lunchedwith us today, and spoke of mr. beaufort's having sent her wonderful orchids, andcousin henry van der luyden a whole hamper of carnations from skuytercliff. she seems so surprised to receive flowers.don't people send them in europe? she thinks it such a pretty custom.""oh, well, no wonder mine were overshadowed by beaufort's," said archer irritably. then he remembered that he had not put acard with the roses, and was vexed at having spoken of them.he wanted to say: "i called on your cousin yesterday," but hesitated.

if madame olenska had not spoken of hisvisit it might seem awkward that he should. yet not to do so gave the affair an air ofmystery that he disliked. to shake off the question he began to talkof their own plans, their future, and mrs. welland's insistence on a long engagement."if you call it long! isabel chivers and reggie were engaged fortwo years: grace and thorley for nearly a year and a half.why aren't we very well off as we are?" it was the traditional maidenlyinterrogation, and he felt ashamed of himself for finding it singularly childish. no doubt she simply echoed what was saidfor her; but she was nearing her twenty-

second birthday, and he wondered at whatage "nice" women began to speak for themselves. "never, if we won't let them, i suppose,"he mused, and recalled his mad outburst to mr. sillerton jackson: "women ought to beas free as we are--" it would presently be his task to take thebandage from this young woman's eyes, and bid her look forth on the world. but how many generations of the women whohad gone to her making had descended bandaged to the family vault? he shivered a little, remembering some ofthe new ideas in his scientific books, and

the much-cited instance of the kentuckycave-fish, which had ceased to develop eyes because they had no use for them. what if, when he had bidden may welland toopen hers, they could only look out blankly at blankness?"we might be much better off. we might be altogether together--we mighttravel." her face lit up."that would be lovely," she owned: she would love to travel. but her mother would not understand theirwanting to do things so differently. "as if the mere 'differently' didn'taccount for it!" the wooer insisted.

"newland! you're so original!" she exulted. his heart sank, for he saw that he wassaying all the things that young men in the same situation were expected to say, andthat she was making the answers that instinct and tradition taught her to make--even to the point of calling him original. "original!we're all as like each other as those dolls cut out of the same folded paper. we're like patterns stencilled on a wall.can't you and i strike out for ourselves, may?"

he had stopped and faced her in theexcitement of their discussion, and her eyes rested on him with a bright uncloudedadmiration. "mercy--shall we elope?" she laughed. "if you would--""you do love me, newland! i'm so happy.""but then--why not be happier?" "we can't behave like people in novels,though, can we?" "why not--why not--why not?"she looked a little bored by his insistence. she knew very well that they couldn't, butit was troublesome to have to produce a

reason."i'm not clever enough to argue with you. but that kind of thing is rather--vulgar,isn't it?" she suggested, relieved to have hit on a word that would assuredlyextinguish the whole subject. "are you so much afraid, then, of beingvulgar?" she was evidently staggered by this."of course i should hate it--so would you," she rejoined, a trifle irritably. he stood silent, beating his sticknervously against his boot-top; and feeling that she had indeed found the right way ofclosing the discussion, she went on light- heartedly: "oh, did i tell you that ishowed ellen my ring?

she thinks it the most beautiful settingshe ever saw. there's nothing like it in the rue de lapaix, she said. i do love you, newland, for being soartistic!" the next afternoon, as archer, beforedinner, sat smoking sullenly in his study, janey wandered in on him. he had failed to stop at his club on theway up from the office where he exercised the profession of the law in the leisurelymanner common to well-to-do new yorkers of his class. he was out of spirits and slightly out oftemper, and a haunting horror of doing the

same thing every day at the same hourbesieged his brain. "sameness--sameness!" he muttered, the wordrunning through his head like a persecuting tune as he saw the familiar tall-hattedfigures lounging behind the plate-glass; and because he usually dropped in at theclub at that hour he had gone home instead. he knew not only what they were likely tobe talking about, but the part each one would take in the discussion. the duke of course would be their principaltheme; though the appearance in fifth avenue of a golden-haired lady in a smallcanary-coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs (for which beaufort was

generally thought responsible) would alsodoubtless be thoroughly gone into. such "women" (as they were called) were fewin new york, those driving their own carriages still fewer, and the appearanceof miss fanny ring in fifth avenue at the fashionable hour had profoundly agitatedsociety. only the day before, her carriage hadpassed mrs. lovell mingott's, and the latter had instantly rung the little bellat her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. "what if it had happened to mrs. van derluyden?" people asked each other with a shudder.

archer could hear lawrence lefferts, atthat very hour, holding forth on the disintegration of society. he raised his head irritably when hissister janey entered, and then quickly bent over his book (swinburne's "chastelard"--just out) as if he had not seen her. she glanced at the writing-table heapedwith books, opened a volume of the "contes drolatiques," made a wry face over thearchaic french, and sighed: "what learned things you read!" "well--?" he asked, as she hoveredcassandra-like before him. "mother's very angry.""angry?

with whom? about what?""miss sophy jackson has just been here. she brought word that her brother wouldcome in after dinner: she couldn't say very much, because he forbade her to: he wishesto give all the details himself. he's with cousin louisa van der luydennow." "for heaven's sake, my dear girl, try afresh start. it would take an omniscient deity to knowwhat you're talking about." "it's not a time to be profane, newland....mother feels badly enough about your not going to church..."

with a groan he plunged back into his book."newland! do listen. your friend madame olenska was at mrs.lemuel struthers's party last night: she went there with the duke and mr. beaufort." at the last clause of this announcement asenseless anger swelled the young man's breast.to smother it he laughed. "well, what of it? i knew she meant to."janey paled and her eyes began to project. "you knew she meant to--and you didn't tryto stop her?

to warn her?" "stop her?warn her?" he laughed again."i'm not engaged to be married to the countess olenska!" the words had a fantastic sound in his ownears. "you're marrying into her family.""oh, family--family!" he jeered. "newland--don't you care about family?" "not a brass farthing.""nor about what cousin louisa van der luyden will think?""not the half of one--if she thinks such

old maid's rubbish." "mother is not an old maid," said hisvirgin sister with pinched lips. he felt like shouting back: "yes, she is,and so are the van der luydens, and so we all are, when it comes to being so much asbrushed by the wing-tip of reality." but he saw her long gentle face puckeringinto tears, and felt ashamed of the useless pain he was inflicting."hang countess olenska! don't be a goose, janey--i'm not herkeeper." "no; but you did ask the wellands toannounce your engagement sooner so that we might all back her up; and if it hadn'tbeen for that cousin louisa would never

have invited her to the dinner for theduke." "well--what harm was there in inviting her? she was the best-looking woman in the room;she made the dinner a little less funereal than the usual van der luyden banquet.""you know cousin henry asked her to please you: he persuaded cousin louisa. and now they're so upset that they're goingback to skuytercliff tomorrow. i think, newland, you'd better come down.you don't seem to understand how mother feels." in the drawing-room newland found hismother.

she raised a troubled brow from herneedlework to ask: "has janey told you?" "yes." he tried to keep his tone as measured asher own. "but i can't take it very seriously.""not the fact of having offended cousin louisa and cousin henry?" "the fact that they can be offended by sucha trifle as countess olenska's going to the house of a woman they consider common.""consider--!" "well, who is; but who has good music, andamuses people on sunday evenings, when the whole of new york is dying of inanition.""good music?

all i know is, there was a woman who got upon a table and sang the things they sing at the places you go to in paris.there was smoking and champagne." "well--that kind of thing happens in otherplaces, and the world still goes on." "i don't suppose, dear, you're reallydefending the french sunday?" "i've heard you often enough, mother,grumble at the english sunday when we've been in london.""new york is neither paris nor london." "oh, no, it's not!" her son groaned. "you mean, i suppose, that society here isnot as brilliant? you're right, i daresay; but we belonghere, and people should respect our ways

when they come among us. ellen olenska especially: she came back toget away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." newland made no answer, and after a momenthis mother ventured: "i was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to seecousin louisa for a moment before dinner." he frowned, and she continued: "i thoughtyou might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad isdifferent...that people are not as particular, and that madame olenska may not have realised how we feel about suchthings.

it would be, you know, dear," she addedwith an innocent adroitness, "in madame olenska's interest if you did." "dearest mother, i really don't see howwe're concerned in the matter. the duke took madame olenska to mrs.struthers's--in fact he brought mrs. struthers to call on her. i was there when they came.if the van der luydens want to quarrel with anybody, the real culprit is under theirown roof." "quarrel? newland, did you ever know of cousinhenry's quarrelling?

besides, the duke's his guest; and astranger too. strangers don't discriminate: how shouldthey? countess olenska is a new yorker, andshould have respected the feelings of new york." "well, then, if they must have a victim,you have my leave to throw madame olenska to them," cried her son, exasperated. "i don't see myself--or you either--offering ourselves up to expiate her crimes." "oh, of course you see only the mingottside," his mother answered, in the

sensitive tone that was her nearestapproach to anger. the sad butler drew back the drawing-roomportieres and announced: "mr. henry van der luyden."mrs. archer dropped her needle and pushed her chair back with an agitated hand. "another lamp," she cried to the retreatingservant, while janey bent over to straighten her mother's cap. mr. van der luyden's figure loomed on thethreshold, and newland archer went forward to greet his cousin."we were just talking about you, sir," he said.

mr. van der luyden seemed overwhelmed bythe announcement. he drew off his glove to shake hands withthe ladies, and smoothed his tall hat shyly, while janey pushed an arm-chairforward, and archer continued: "and the countess olenska." mrs. archer paled."ah--a charming woman. i have just been to see her," said mr. vander luyden, complacency restored to his brow. he sank into the chair, laid his hat andgloves on the floor beside him in the old- fashioned way, and went on: "she has areal gift for arranging flowers.

i had sent her a few carnations fromskuytercliff, and i was astonished. instead of massing them in big bunches asour head-gardener does, she had scattered them about loosely, here and there... i can't say how.the duke had told me: he said: 'go and see how cleverly she's arranged her drawing-room.' and she has. i should really like to take louisa to seeher, if the neighbourhood were not so-- unpleasant."a dead silence greeted this unusual flow of words from mr. van der luyden.

mrs. archer drew her embroidery out of thebasket into which she had nervously tumbled it, and newland, leaning against thechimney-place and twisting a humming-bird- feather screen in his hand, saw janey's gaping countenance lit up by the coming ofthe second lamp. "the fact is," mr. van der luydencontinued, stroking his long grey leg with a bloodless hand weighed down by thepatroon's great signet-ring, "the fact is, i dropped in to thank her for the very pretty note she wrote me about my flowers;and also--but this is between ourselves, of course--to give her a friendly warningabout allowing the duke to carry her off to

parties with him. i don't know if you've heard--"mrs. archer produced an indulgent smile. "has the duke been carrying her off toparties?" "you know what these english grandees are. they're all alike. louisa and i are very fond of our cousin--but it's hopeless to expect people who are accustomed to the european courts totrouble themselves about our little republican distinctions. the duke goes where he's amused."mr. van der luyden paused, but no one

spoke."yes--it seems he took her with him last night to mrs. lemuel struthers's. sillerton jackson has just been to us withthe foolish story, and louisa was rather troubled. so i thought the shortest way was to gostraight to countess olenska and explain-- by the merest hint, you know--how we feelin new york about certain things. i felt i might, without indelicacy, becausethe evening she dined with us she rather suggested...rather let me see that shewould be grateful for guidance. and she was."

mr. van der luyden looked about the roomwith what would have been self-satisfaction on features less purged of the vulgarpassions. on his face it became a mild benevolencewhich mrs. archer's countenance dutifully reflected."how kind you both are, dear henry--always! newland will particularly appreciate whatyou have done because of dear may and his new relations."she shot an admonitory glance at her son, who said: "immensely, sir. but i was sure you'd like madame olenska."mr. van der luyden looked at him with extreme gentleness."i never ask to my house, my dear newland,"

he said, "any one whom i do not like. and so i have just told sillerton jackson."with a glance at the clock he rose and added: "but louisa will be waiting.we are dining early, to take the duke to the opera." after the portieres had solemnly closedbehind their visitor a silence fell upon the archer family."gracious--how romantic!" at last broke explosively from janey. no one knew exactly what inspired herelliptic comments, and her relations had long since given up trying to interpretthem.

mrs. archer shook her head with a sigh. "provided it all turns out for the best,"she said, in the tone of one who knows how surely it will not. "newland, you must stay and see sillertonjackson when he comes this evening: i really shan't know what to say to him.""poor mother! but he won't come--" her son laughed,stooping to kiss away her frown. > the age of innocence by edith whartonchapter xi. some two weeks later, newland archer,sitting in abstracted idleness in his

private compartment of the office ofletterblair, lamson and low, attorneys at law, was summoned by the head of the firm. old mr. letterblair, the accredited legaladviser of three generations of new york gentility, throned behind his mahogany deskin evident perplexity. as he stroked his closeclipped whitewhiskers and ran his hand through the rumpled grey locks above his jutting brows,his disrespectful junior partner thought how much he looked like the family physician annoyed with a patient whosesymptoms refuse to be classified. "my dear sir--" he always addressed archeras "sir"--"i have sent for you to go into a

little matter; a matter which, for themoment, i prefer not to mention either to mr. skipworth or mr. redwood." the gentlemen he spoke of were the othersenior partners of the firm; for, as was always the case with legal associations ofold standing in new york, all the partners named on the office letter-head were long since dead; and mr. letterblair, forexample, was, professionally speaking, his own grandson.he leaned back in his chair with a furrowed "for family reasons--" he continued.archer looked up. "the mingott family," said mr. letterblairwith an explanatory smile and bow.

"mrs. manson mingott sent for me yesterday. her grand-daughter the countess olenskawishes to sue her husband for divorce. certain papers have been placed in myhands." he paused and drummed on his desk. "in view of your prospective alliance withthe family i should like to consult you--to consider the case with you--before takingany farther steps." archer felt the blood in his temples. he had seen the countess olenska only oncesince his visit to her, and then at the opera, in the mingott box.

during this interval she had become a lessvivid and importunate image, receding from his foreground as may welland resumed herrightful place in it. he had not heard her divorce spoken ofsince janey's first random allusion to it, and had dismissed the tale as unfoundedgossip. theoretically, the idea of divorce wasalmost as distasteful to him as to his mother; and he was annoyed that mr.letterblair (no doubt prompted by old catherine mingott) should be so evidentlyplanning to draw him into the affair. after all, there were plenty of mingott menfor such jobs, and as yet he was not even a mingott by marriage.

he waited for the senior partner tocontinue. mr. letterblair unlocked a drawer and drewout a packet. "if you will run your eye over thesepapers--" archer frowned. "i beg your pardon, sir; but just becauseof the prospective relationship, i should prefer your consulting mr. skipworth or mr.redwood." mr. letterblair looked surprised andslightly offended. it was unusual for a junior to reject suchan opening. he bowed.

"i respect your scruple, sir; but in thiscase i believe true delicacy requires you to do as i ask.indeed, the suggestion is not mine but mrs. manson mingott's and her son's. i have seen lovell mingott; and also mr.welland. they all named you."archer felt his temper rising. he had been somewhat languidly driftingwith events for the last fortnight, and letting may's fair looks and radiant natureobliterate the rather importunate pressure of the mingott claims. but this behest of old mrs. mingott'sroused him to a sense of what the clan

thought they had the right to exact from aprospective son-in-law; and he chafed at the role. "her uncles ought to deal with this," hesaid. "they have.the matter has been gone into by the family. they are opposed to the countess's idea;but she is firm, and insists on a legal opinion."the young man was silent: he had not opened the packet in his hand. "does she want to marry again?""i believe it is suggested; but she denies

it.""then--" "will you oblige me, mr. archer, by firstlooking through these papers? afterward, when we have talked the caseover, i will give you my opinion." archer withdrew reluctantly with theunwelcome documents. since their last meeting he had half-unconsciously collaborated with events in ridding himself of the burden of madameolenska. his hour alone with her by the firelighthad drawn them into a momentary intimacy on which the duke of st. austrey's intrusionwith mrs. lemuel struthers, and the countess's joyous greeting of them, hadrather providentially broken.

two days later archer had assisted at thecomedy of her reinstatement in the van der luydens' favour, and had said to himself,with a touch of tartness, that a lady who knew how to thank all-powerful elderly gentlemen to such good purpose for a bunchof flowers did not need either the private consolations or the public championship ofa young man of his small compass. to look at the matter in this lightsimplified his own case and surprisingly furbished up all the dim domestic virtues. he could not picture may welland, inwhatever conceivable emergency, hawking about her private difficulties andlavishing her confidences on strange men;

and she had never seemed to him finer orfairer than in the week that followed. he had even yielded to her wish for a longengagement, since she had found the one disarming answer to his plea for haste. "you know, when it comes to the point, yourparents have always let you have your way ever since you were a little girl," heargued; and she had answered, with her clearest look: "yes; and that's what makes it so hard to refuse the very last thingthey'll ever ask of me as a little girl." that was the old new york note; that wasthe kind of answer he would like always to be sure of his wife's making.

if one had habitually breathed the new yorkair there were times when anything less crystalline seemed stifling. the papers he had retired to read did nottell him much in fact; but they plunged him into an atmosphere in which he choked andspluttered. they consisted mainly of an exchange ofletters between count olenski's solicitors and a french legal firm to whom thecountess had applied for the settlement of her financial situation. there was also a short letter from thecount to his wife: after reading it, newland archer rose, jammed the papers backinto their envelope, and reentered mr.

letterblair's office. "here are the letters, sir.if you wish, i'll see madame olenska," he said in a constrained voice."thank you--thank you, mr. archer. come and dine with me tonight if you'refree, and we'll go into the matter afterward: in case you wish to call on ourclient tomorrow." newland archer walked straight home againthat afternoon. it was a winter evening of transparentclearness, with an innocent young moon above the house-tops; and he wanted to fillhis soul's lungs with the pure radiance, and not exchange a word with any one till

he and mr. letterblair were closetedtogether after dinner. it was impossible to decide otherwise thanhe had done: he must see madame olenska himself rather than let her secrets bebared to other eyes. a great wave of compassion had swept awayhis indifference and impatience: she stood before him as an exposed and pitifulfigure, to be saved at all costs from farther wounding herself in her mad plungesagainst fate. he remembered what she had told him of mrs.welland's request to be spared whatever was "unpleasant" in her history, and winced atthe thought that it was perhaps this attitude of mind which kept the new yorkair so pure.

"are we only pharisees after all?" hewondered, puzzled by the effort to reconcile his instinctive disgust at humanvileness with his equally instinctive pity for human frailty. for the first time he perceived howelementary his own principles had always been. he passed for a young man who had not beenafraid of risks, and he knew that his secret love-affair with poor silly mrs.thorley rushworth had not been too secret to invest him with a becoming air ofadventure. but mrs. rushworth was "that kind ofwoman"; foolish, vain, clandestine by

nature, and far more attracted by thesecrecy and peril of the affair than by such charms and qualities as he possessed. when the fact dawned on him it nearly brokehis heart, but now it seemed the redeeming feature of the case. the affair, in short, had been of the kindthat most of the young men of his age had been through, and emerged from with calmconsciences and an undisturbed belief in the abysmal distinction between the women one loved and respected and those oneenjoyed--and pitied. in this view they were sedulously abettedby their mothers, aunts and other elderly

female relatives, who all shared mrs.archer's belief that when "such things happened" it was undoubtedly foolish of the man, but somehow always criminal of thewoman. all the elderly ladies whom archer knewregarded any woman who loved imprudently as necessarily unscrupulous and designing, andmere simple-minded man as powerless in her clutches. the only thing to do was to persuade him,as early as possible, to marry a nice girl, and then trust to her to look after him. in the complicated old europeancommunities, archer began to guess, love-

problems might be less simple and lesseasily classified. rich and idle and ornamental societies mustproduce many more such situations; and there might even be one in which a womannaturally sensitive and aloof would yet, from the force of circumstances, from sheer defencelessness and loneliness, be drawninto a tie inexcusable by conventional standards. on reaching home he wrote a line to thecountess olenska, asking at what hour of the next day she could receive him, anddespatched it by a messenger-boy, who returned presently with a word to the

effect that she was going to skuytercliffthe next morning to stay over sunday with the van der luydens, but that he would findher alone that evening after dinner. the note was written on a rather untidyhalf-sheet, without date or address, but her hand was firm and free. he was amused at the idea of her week-ending in the stately solitude of skuytercliff, but immediately afterwardfelt that there, of all places, she would most feel the chill of minds rigorouslyaverted from the "unpleasant." he was at mr. letterblair's punctually atseven, glad of the pretext for excusing himself soon after dinner.

he had formed his own opinion from thepapers entrusted to him, and did not especially want to go into the matter withhis senior partner. mr. letterblair was a widower, and theydined alone, copiously and slowly, in a dark shabby room hung with yellowing printsof "the death of chatham" and "the coronation of napoleon." on the sideboard, between fluted sheratonknife-cases, stood a decanter of haut brion, and another of the old lanning port(the gift of a client), which the wastrel tom lanning had sold off a year or two before his mysterious and discreditabledeath in san francisco--an incident less

publicly humiliating to the family than thesale of the cellar. after a velvety oyster soup came shad andcucumbers, then a young broiled turkey with corn fritters, followed by a canvas-backwith currant jelly and a celery mayonnaise. mr. letterblair, who lunched on a sandwichand tea, dined deliberately and deeply, and insisted on his guest's doing the same. finally, when the closing rites had beenaccomplished, the cloth was removed, cigars were lit, and mr. letterblair, leaning backin his chair and pushing the port westward, said, spreading his back agreeably to the coal fire behind him: "the whole familyare against a divorce.

and i think rightly."archer instantly felt himself on the other side of the argument. "but why, sir?if there ever was a case--" "well--what's the use?she's here--he's there; the atlantic's between them. she'll never get back a dollar more of hermoney than what he's voluntarily returned to her: their damned heathen marriagesettlements take precious good care of that. as things go over there, olenski's actedgenerously: he might have turned her out

without a penny."the young man knew this and was silent. "i understand, though," mr. letterblaircontinued, "that she attaches no importance to the money.therefore, as the family say, why not let well enough alone?" archer had gone to the house an hourearlier in full agreement with mr. letterblair's view; but put into words bythis selfish, well-fed and supremely indifferent old man it suddenly became the pharisaic voice of a society whollyabsorbed in barricading itself against the unpleasant."i think that's for her to decide."

"h'm--have you considered the consequencesif she decides for divorce?" "you mean the threat in her husband'sletter? what weight would that carry? it's no more than the vague charge of anangry blackguard." "yes; but it might make some unpleasanttalk if he really defends the suit." "unpleasant--!" said archer explosively. mr. letterblair looked at him from underenquiring eyebrows, and the young man, aware of the uselessness of trying toexplain what was in his mind, bowed acquiescently while his senior continued:"divorce is always unpleasant."

"you agree with me?"mr. letterblair resumed, after a waiting silence. "naturally," said archer."well, then, i may count on you; the mingotts may count on you; to use yourinfluence against the idea?" archer hesitated. "i can't pledge myself till i've seen thecountess olenska," he said at length. "mr. archer, i don't understand you.do you want to marry into a family with a scandalous divorce-suit hanging over it?" "i don't think that has anything to do withthe case."

mr. letterblair put down his glass of portand fixed on his young partner a cautious and apprehensive gaze. archer understood that he ran the risk ofhaving his mandate withdrawn, and for some obscure reason he disliked the prospect. now that the job had been thrust on him hedid not propose to relinquish it; and, to guard against the possibility, he saw thathe must reassure the unimaginative old man who was the legal conscience of themingotts. "you may be sure, sir, that i shan't commitmyself till i've reported to you; what i meant was that i'd rather not give anopinion till i've heard what madame olenska

has to say." mr. letterblair nodded approvingly at anexcess of caution worthy of the best new york tradition, and the young man, glancingat his watch, pleaded an engagement and took leave. the age of innocence by edith whartonchapter xii. old-fashioned new york dined at seven, andthe habit of after-dinner calls, though derided in archer's set, still generallyprevailed. as the young man strolled up fifth avenuefrom waverley place, the long thoroughfare was deserted but for a group of carriagesstanding before the reggie chiverses'

(where there was a dinner for the duke), and the occasional figure of an elderlygentleman in heavy overcoat and muffler ascending a brownstone doorstep anddisappearing into a gas-lit hall. thus, as archer crossed washington square,he remarked that old mr. du lac was calling on his cousins the dagonets, and turningdown the corner of west tenth street he saw mr. skipworth, of his own firm, obviouslybound on a visit to the miss lannings. a little farther up fifth avenue, beaufortappeared on his doorstep, darkly projected against a blaze of light, descended to hisprivate brougham, and rolled away to a mysterious and probably unmentionabledestination.

it was not an opera night, and no one wasgiving a party, so that beaufort's outing was undoubtedly of a clandestine nature. archer connected it in his mind with alittle house beyond lexington avenue in which beribboned window curtains andflower-boxes had recently appeared, and before whose newly painted door the canary- coloured brougham of miss fanny ring wasfrequently seen to wait. beyond the small and slippery pyramid whichcomposed mrs. archer's world lay the almost unmapped quarter inhabited by artists,musicians and "people who wrote." these scattered fragments of humanity hadnever shown any desire to be amalgamated

with the social structure. in spite of odd ways they were said to be,for the most part, quite respectable; but they preferred to keep to themselves. medora manson, in her prosperous days, hadinaugurated a "literary salon"; but it had soon died out owing to the reluctance ofthe literary to frequent it. others had made the same attempt, and therewas a household of blenkers--an intense and voluble mother, and three blowsy daughterswho imitated her--where one met edwin booth and patti and william winter, and the new shakespearian actor george rignold, andsome of the magazine editors and musical

and literary critics.mrs. archer and her group felt a certain timidity concerning these persons. they were odd, they were uncertain, theyhad things one didn't know about in the background of their lives and minds. literature and art were deeply respected inthe archer set, and mrs. archer was always at pains to tell her children how much moreagreeable and cultivated society had been when it included such figures as washington irving, fitz-greene halleck and the poet of"the culprit fay." the most celebrated authors of thatgeneration had been "gentlemen"; perhaps

the unknown persons who succeeded them hadgentlemanly sentiments, but their origin, their appearance, their hair, their intimacy with the stage and the opera, madeany old new york criterion inapplicable to them. "when i was a girl," mrs. archer used tosay, "we knew everybody between the battery and canal street; and only the people oneknew had carriages. it was perfectly easy to place any onethen; now one can't tell, and i prefer not to try." only old catherine mingott, with herabsence of moral prejudices and almost

parvenu indifference to the subtlerdistinctions, might have bridged the abyss; but she had never opened a book or looked at a picture, and cared for music onlybecause it reminded her of gala nights at the italiens, in the days of her triumph atthe tuileries. possibly beaufort, who was her match indaring, would have succeeded in bringing about a fusion; but his grand house andsilk-stockinged footmen were an obstacle to informal sociability. moreover, he was as illiterate as old mrs.mingott, and considered "fellows who wrote" as the mere paid purveyors of rich men'spleasures; and no one rich enough to

influence his opinion had ever questionedit. newland archer had been aware of thesethings ever since he could remember, and had accepted them as part of the structureof his universe. he knew that there were societies wherepainters and poets and novelists and men of science, and even great actors, were assought after as dukes; he had often pictured to himself what it would have been to live in the intimacy of drawing-roomsdominated by the talk of merimee (whose "lettres a une inconnue" was one of hisinseparables), of thackeray, browning or william morris.

but such things were inconceivable in newyork, and unsettling to think of. archer knew most of the "fellows whowrote," the musicians and the painters: he met them at the century, or at the littlemusical and theatrical clubs that were beginning to come into existence. he enjoyed them there, and was bored withthem at the blenkers', where they were mingled with fervid and dowdy women whopassed them about like captured curiosities; and even after his most exciting talks with ned winsett he alwayscame away with the feeling that if his world was small, so was theirs, and thatthe only way to enlarge either was to reach

a stage of manners where they wouldnaturally merge. he was reminded of this by trying topicture the society in which the countess olenska had lived and suffered, and also--perhaps--tasted mysterious joys. he remembered with what amusement she hadtold him that her grandmother mingott and the wellands objected to her living in a"bohemian" quarter given over to "people who wrote." it was not the peril but the poverty thather family disliked; but that shade escaped her, and she supposed they consideredliterature compromising. she herself had no fears of it, and thebooks scattered about her drawing-room (a

part of the house in which books wereusually supposed to be "out of place"), though chiefly works of fiction, had whetted archer's interest with such newnames as those of paul bourget, huysmans, and the goncourt brothers. ruminating on these things as he approachedher door, he was once more conscious of the curious way in which she reversed hisvalues, and of the need of thinking himself into conditions incredibly different from any that he knew if he were to be of use inher present difficulty. nastasia opened the door, smilingmysteriously.

on the bench in the hall lay a sable-linedovercoat, a folded opera hat of dull silk with a gold j. b. on the lining, and awhite silk muffler: there was no mistaking the fact that these costly articles werethe property of julius beaufort. archer was angry: so angry that he camenear scribbling a word on his card and going away; then he remembered that inwriting to madame olenska he had been kept by excess of discretion from saying that hewished to see her privately. he had therefore no one but himself toblame if she had opened her doors to other visitors; and he entered the drawing-roomwith the dogged determination to make beaufort feel himself in the way, and tooutstay him.

the banker stood leaning against themantelshelf, which was draped with an old embroidery held in place by brasscandelabra containing church candies of yellowish wax. he had thrust his chest out, supporting hisshoulders against the mantel and resting his weight on one large patent-leatherfoot. as archer entered he was smiling andlooking down on his hostess, who sat on a sofa placed at right angles to the chimney. a table banked with flowers formed a screenbehind it, and against the orchids and azaleas which the young man recognised astributes from the beaufort hot-houses,

madame olenska sat half-reclined, her head propped on a hand and her wide sleeveleaving the arm bare to the elbow. it was usual for ladies who received in theevenings to wear what were called "simple dinner dresses": a close-fitting armour ofwhale-boned silk, slightly open in the neck, with lace ruffles filling in the crack, and tight sleeves with a flounceuncovering just enough wrist to show an etruscan gold bracelet or a velvet band. but madame olenska, heedless of tradition,was attired in a long robe of red velvet bordered about the chin and down the frontwith glossy black fur.

archer remembered, on his last visit toparis, seeing a portrait by the new painter, carolus duran, whose pictures werethe sensation of the salon, in which the lady wore one of these bold sheath-likerobes with her chin nestling in fur. there was something perverse andprovocative in the notion of fur worn in the evening in a heated drawing-room, andin the combination of a muffled throat and bare arms; but the effect was undeniablypleasing. "lord love us--three whole days atskuytercliff!" beaufort was saying in his loud sneeringvoice as archer entered. "you'd better take all your furs, and ahot-water-bottle."

"why? is the house so cold?" she asked,holding out her left hand to archer in a way mysteriously suggesting that sheexpected him to kiss it. "no; but the missus is," said beaufort,nodding carelessly to the young man. "but i thought her so kind.she came herself to invite me. granny says i must certainly go." "granny would, of course. and i say it's a shame you're going to missthe little oyster supper i'd planned for you at delmonico's next sunday, withcampanini and scalchi and a lot of jolly people."

she looked doubtfully from the banker toarcher. "ah--that does tempt me! except the other evening at mrs.struthers's i've not met a single artist since i've been here.""what kind of artists? i know one or two painters, very goodfellows, that i could bring to see you if you'd allow me," said archer boldly."painters? are there painters in new york?" askedbeaufort, in a tone implying that there could be none since he did not buy theirpictures; and madame olenska said to archer, with her grave smile: "that wouldbe charming.

but i was really thinking of dramaticartists, singers, actors, musicians. my husband's house was always full ofthem." she said the words "my husband" as if nosinister associations were connected with them, and in a tone that seemed almost tosigh over the lost delights of her married life. archer looked at her perplexedly, wonderingif it were lightness or dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the pastat the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it. "i do think," she went on, addressing bothmen, "that the imprevu adds to one's

enjoyment.it's perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day." "it's confoundedly dull, anyhow; new yorkis dying of dullness," beaufort grumbled. "and when i try to liven it up for you, yougo back on me. come--think better of it! sunday is your last chance, for campaninileaves next week for baltimore and philadelphia; and i've a private room, anda steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "how delicious!may i think it over, and write to you

tomorrow morning?"she spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. beaufort evidently felt it, and beingunused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes."why not now?" "it's too serious a question to decide atthis late hour." "do you call it late?"she returned his glance coolly. "yes; because i have still to talk businesswith mr. archer for a little while." "ah," beaufort snapped. there was no appeal from her tone, and witha slight shrug he recovered his composure,

took her hand, which he kissed with apractised air, and calling out from the threshold: "i say, newland, if you can persuade the countess to stop in town ofcourse you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. for a moment archer fancied that mr.letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her nextremark made him change his mind. "you know painters, then? you live in their milieu?" she asked, hereyes full of interest. "oh, not exactly.

i don't know that the arts have a milieuhere, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt.""but you care for such things?" "immensely. when i'm in paris or london i never miss anexhibition. i try to keep up." she looked down at the tip of the littlesatin boot that peeped from her long draperies."i used to care immensely too: my life was full of such things. but now i want to try not to.""you want to try not to?"

"yes: i want to cast off all my old life,to become just like everybody else here." archer reddened. "you'll never be like everybody else," hesaid. she raised her straight eyebrows a little."ah, don't say that. if you knew how i hate to be different!" her face had grown as sombre as a tragicmask. she leaned forward, clasping her knee inher thin hands, and looking away from him into remote dark distances. "i want to get away from it all," sheinsisted.

he waited a moment and cleared his throat."i know. mr. letterblair has told me." "ah?""that's the reason i've come. he asked me to--you see i'm in the firm."she looked slightly surprised, and then her eyes brightened. "you mean you can manage it for me?i can talk to you instead of mr. letterblair?oh, that will be so much easier!" her tone touched him, and his confidencegrew with his self-satisfaction. he perceived that she had spoken ofbusiness to beaufort simply to get rid of

him; and to have routed beaufort wassomething of a triumph. "i am here to talk about it," he repeated. she sat silent, her head still propped bythe arm that rested on the back of the sofa.her face looked pale and extinguished, as if dimmed by the rich red of her dress. she struck archer, of a sudden, as apathetic and even pitiful figure. "now we're coming to hard facts," hethought, conscious in himself of the same instinctive recoil that he had so oftencriticised in his mother and her contemporaries.

how little practice he had had in dealingwith unusual situations! their very vocabulary was unfamiliar tohim, and seemed to belong to fiction and the stage. in face of what was coming he felt asawkward and embarrassed as a boy. after a pause madame olenska broke out withunexpected vehemence: "i want to be free; i want to wipe out all the past." "i understand that."her face warmed. "then you'll help me?""first--" he hesitated--"perhaps i ought to know a little more."

she seemed surprised."you know about my husband--my life with him?"he made a sign of assent. "well--then--what more is there? in this country are such things tolerated?i'm a protestant--our church does not forbid divorce in such cases.""certainly not." they were both silent again, and archerfelt the spectre of count olenski's letter grimacing hideously between them. the letter filled only half a page, and wasjust what he had described it to be in speaking of it to mr. letterblair: thevague charge of an angry blackguard.

but how much truth was behind it? only count olenski's wife could tell."i've looked through the papers you gave to mr. letterblair," he said at length."well--can there be anything more abominable?" "no."she changed her position slightly, screening her eyes with her lifted hand. "of course you know," archer continued,"that if your husband chooses to fight the case--as he threatens to--""yes--?" "he can say things--things that might beunpl--might be disagreeable to you: say

them publicly, so that they would getabout, and harm you even if--" "if--?" "i mean: no matter how unfounded theywere." she paused for a long interval; so longthat, not wishing to keep his eyes on her shaded face, he had time to imprint on hismind the exact shape of her other hand, the one on her knee, and every detail of the three rings on her fourth and fifthfingers; among which, he noticed, a wedding ring did not appear."what harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?"

it was on his lips to exclaim: "my poorchild--far more harm than anywhere else!" instead, he answered, in a voice thatsounded in his ears like mr. letterblair's: "new york society is a very small worldcompared with the one you've lived in. and it's ruled, in spite of appearances, bya few people with--well, rather old- fashioned ideas." she said nothing, and he continued: "ourideas about marriage and divorce are particularly old-fashioned.our legislation favours divorce--our social customs don't." "never?"

"well--not if the woman, however injured,however irreproachable, has appearances in the least degree against her, has exposedherself by any unconventional action to--to offensive insinuations--" she drooped her head a little lower, and hewaited again, intensely hoping for a flash of indignation, or at least a brief cry ofdenial. none came. a little travelling clock ticked purringlyat her elbow, and a log broke in two and sent up a shower of sparks.the whole hushed and brooding room seemed to be waiting silently with archer.

"yes," she murmured at length, "that's whatmy family tell me." he winced a little."it's not unnatural--" "our family," she corrected herself; andarcher coloured. "for you'll be my cousin soon," shecontinued gently. "i hope so." "and you take their view?"he stood up at this, wandered across the room, stared with void eyes at one of thepictures against the old red damask, and came back irresolutely to her side. how could he say: "yes, if what yourhusband hints is true, or if you've no way

of disproving it?""sincerely--" she interjected, as he was about to speak. he looked down into the fire."sincerely, then--what should you gain that would compensate for the possibility--thecertainty--of a lot of beastly talk?" "but my freedom--is that nothing?" it flashed across him at that instant thatthe charge in the letter was true, and that she hoped to marry the partner of herguilt. how was he to tell her that, if she reallycherished such a plan, the laws of the state were inexorably opposed to it?

the mere suspicion that the thought was inher mind made him feel harshly and impatiently toward her."but aren't you as free as air as it is?" he returned. "who can touch you?mr. letterblair tells me the financial question has been settled--""oh, yes," she said indifferently. "well, then: is it worth while to risk whatmay be infinitely disagreeable and painful? think of the newspapers--their vileness!it's all stupid and narrow and unjust--but one can't make over society." "no," she acquiesced; and her tone was sofaint and desolate that he felt a sudden

remorse for his own hard thoughts. "the individual, in such cases, is nearlyalways sacrificed to what is supposed to be the collective interest: people cling toany convention that keeps the family together--protects the children, if there are any," he rambled on, pouring out allthe stock phrases that rose to his lips in his intense desire to cover over the uglyreality which her silence seemed to have laid bare. since she would not or could not say theone word that would have cleared the air, his wish was not to let her feel that hewas trying to probe into her secret.

better keep on the surface, in the prudentold new york way, than risk uncovering a wound he could not heal. "it's my business, you know," he went on,"to help you to see these things as the people who are fondest of you see them. the mingotts, the wellands, the van derluydens, all your friends and relations: if i didn't show you honestly how they judgesuch questions, it wouldn't be fair of me, would it?" he spoke insistently, almost pleading withher in his eagerness to cover up that yawning silence.she said slowly: "no; it wouldn't be

fair." the fire had crumbled down to greyness, andone of the lamps made a gurgling appeal for attention. madame olenska rose, wound it up andreturned to the fire, but without resuming her seat. her remaining on her feet seemed to signifythat there was nothing more for either of them to say, and archer stood up also."very well; i will do what you wish," she said abruptly. the blood rushed to his forehead; and,taken aback by the suddenness of her

surrender, he caught her two handsawkwardly in his. "i--i do want to help you," he said. "you do help me.good night, my cousin." he bent and laid his lips on her hands,which were cold and lifeless. she drew them away, and he turned to thedoor, found his coat and hat under the faint gas-light of the hall, and plungedout into the winter night bursting with the belated eloquence of the inarticulate. the age of innocence by edith whartonchapter xiii. it was a crowded night at wallack'stheatre.

the play was "the shaughraun," with dionboucicault in the title role and harry montague and ada dyas as the lovers. the popularity of the admirable englishcompany was at its height, and the shaughraun always packed the house. in the galleries the enthusiasm wasunreserved; in the stalls and boxes, people smiled a little at the hackneyed sentimentsand clap-trap situations, and enjoyed the play as much as the galleries did. there was one episode, in particular, thatheld the house from floor to ceiling. it was that in which harry montague, aftera sad, almost monosyllabic scene of parting

with miss dyas, bade her good-bye, andturned to go. the actress, who was standing near themantelpiece and looking down into the fire, wore a gray cashmere dress withoutfashionable loopings or trimmings, moulded to her tall figure and flowing in longlines about her feet. around her neck was a narrow black velvetribbon with the ends falling down her back. when her wooer turned from her she restedher arms against the mantel-shelf and bowed her face in her hands. on the threshold he paused to look at her;then he stole back, lifted one of the ends of velvet ribbon, kissed it, and left theroom without her hearing him or changing

her attitude. and on this silent parting the curtainfell. it was always for the sake of thatparticular scene that newland archer went to see "the shaughraun." he thought the adieux of montague and adadyas as fine as anything he had ever seen croisette and bressant do in paris, ormadge robertson and kendal in london; in its reticence, its dumb sorrow, it moved him more than the most famous histrionicoutpourings. on the evening in question the little sceneacquired an added poignancy by reminding

him--he could not have said why--of hisleave-taking from madame olenska after their confidential talk a week or ten daysearlier. it would have been as difficult to discoverany resemblance between the two situations as between the appearance of the personsconcerned. newland archer could not pretend toanything approaching the young english actor's romantic good looks, and miss dyaswas a tall red-haired woman of monumental build whose pale and pleasantly ugly face was utterly unlike ellen olenska's vividcountenance. nor were archer and madame olenska twolovers parting in heart-broken silence;

they were client and lawyer separatingafter a talk which had given the lawyer the worst possible impression of the client'scase. wherein, then, lay the resemblance thatmade the young man's heart beat with a kind of retrospective excitement? it seemed to be in madame olenska'smysterious faculty of suggesting tragic and moving possibilities outside the daily runof experience. she had hardly ever said a word to him toproduce this impression, but it was a part of her, either a projection of hermysterious and outlandish background or of something inherently dramatic, passionateand unusual in herself.

archer had always been inclined to thinkthat chance and circumstance played a small part in shaping people's lots compared withtheir innate tendency to have things happen to them. this tendency he had felt from the first inmadame olenska. the quiet, almost passive young womanstruck him as exactly the kind of person to whom things were bound to happen, no matterhow much she shrank from them and went out of her way to avoid them. the exciting fact was her having lived inan atmosphere so thick with drama that her own tendency to provoke it had apparentlypassed unperceived.

it was precisely the odd absence ofsurprise in her that gave him the sense of her having been plucked out of a verymaelstrom: the things she took for granted gave the measure of those she had rebelledagainst. archer had left her with the convictionthat count olenski's accusation was not unfounded. the mysterious person who figured in hiswife's past as "the secretary" had probably not been unrewarded for his share in herescape. the conditions from which she had fled wereintolerable, past speaking of, past believing: she was young, she wasfrightened, she was desperate--what more

natural than that she should be grateful toher rescuer? the pity was that her gratitude put her, inthe law's eyes and the world's, on a par with her abominable husband. archer had made her understand this, as hewas bound to do; he had also made her understand that simplehearted kindly newyork, on whose larger charity she had apparently counted, was precisely the placewhere she could least hope for indulgence. to have to make this fact plain to her--andto witness her resigned acceptance of it-- had been intolerably painful to him. he felt himself drawn to her by obscurefeelings of jealousy and pity, as if her

dumbly-confessed error had put her at hismercy, humbling yet endearing her. he was glad it was to him she had revealedher secret, rather than to the cold scrutiny of mr. letterblair, or theembarrassed gaze of her family. he immediately took it upon himself toassure them both that she had given up her idea of seeking a divorce, basing herdecision on the fact that she had understood the uselessness of the proceeding; and with infinite relief theyhad all turned their eyes from the "unpleasantness" she had spared them. "i was sure newland would manage it," mrs.welland had said proudly of her future son-

in-law; and old mrs. mingott, who hadsummoned him for a confidential interview, had congratulated him on his cleverness,and added impatiently: "silly goose! i told her myself what nonsense it was. wanting to pass herself off as ellenmingott and an old maid, when she has the luck to be a married woman and a countess!" these incidents had made the memory of hislast talk with madame olenska so vivid to the young man that as the curtain fell onthe parting of the two actors his eyes filled with tears, and he stood up to leavethe theatre. in doing so, he turned to the side of thehouse behind him, and saw the lady of whom

he was thinking seated in a box with thebeauforts, lawrence lefferts and one or two other men. he had not spoken with her alone sincetheir evening together, and had tried to avoid being with her in company; but nowtheir eyes met, and as mrs. beaufort recognised him at the same time, and made her languid little gesture of invitation,it was impossible not to go into the box. beaufort and lefferts made way for him, andafter a few words with mrs. beaufort, who always preferred to look beautiful and nothave to talk, archer seated himself behind madame olenska.

there was no one else in the box but mr.sillerton jackson, who was telling mrs. beaufort in a confidential undertone aboutmrs. lemuel struthers's last sunday reception (where some people reported thatthere had been dancing). under cover of this circumstantialnarrative, to which mrs. beaufort listened with her perfect smile, and her head atjust the right angle to be seen in profile from the stalls, madame olenska turned andspoke in a low voice. "do you think," she asked, glancing towardthe stage, "he will send her a bunch of yellow roses tomorrow morning?" archer reddened, and his heart gave a leapof surprise.

he had called only twice on madame olenska,and each time he had sent her a box of yellow roses, and each time without a card. she had never before made any allusion tothe flowers, and he supposed she had never thought of him as the sender. now her sudden recognition of the gift, andher associating it with the tender leave- taking on the stage, filled him with anagitated pleasure. "i was thinking of that too--i was going toleave the theatre in order to take the picture away with me," he said.to his surprise her colour rose, reluctantly and duskily.

she looked down at the mother-of-pearlopera-glass in her smoothly gloved hands, and said, after a pause: "what do you dowhile may is away?" "i stick to my work," he answered, faintlyannoyed by the question. in obedience to a long-established habit,the wellands had left the previous week for st. augustine, where, out of regard for thesupposed susceptibility of mr. welland's bronchial tubes, they always spent thelatter part of the winter. mr. welland was a mild and silent man, withno opinions but with many habits. with these habits none might interfere; andone of them demanded that his wife and daughter should always go with him on hisannual journey to the south.

to preserve an unbroken domesticity wasessential to his peace of mind; he would not have known where his hair-brushes were,or how to provide stamps for his letters, if mrs. welland had not been there to tellhim. as all the members of the family adoredeach other, and as mr. welland was the central object of their idolatry, it neveroccurred to his wife and may to let him go to st. augustine alone; and his sons, who were both in the law, and could not leavenew york during the winter, always joined him for easter and travelled back with him.it was impossible for archer to discuss the necessity of may's accompanying her father.

the reputation of the mingotts' familyphysician was largely based on the attack of pneumonia which mr. welland had neverhad; and his insistence on st. augustine was therefore inflexible. originally, it had been intended that may'sengagement should not be announced till her return from florida, and the fact that ithad been made known sooner could not be expected to alter mr. welland's plans. archer would have liked to join thetravellers and have a few weeks of sunshine and boating with his betrothed; but he toowas bound by custom and conventions. little arduous as his professional dutieswere, he would have been convicted of

frivolity by the whole mingott clan if hehad suggested asking for a holiday in mid- winter; and he accepted may's departure with the resignation which he perceivedwould have to be one of the principal constituents of married life.he was conscious that madame olenska was looking at him under lowered lids. "i have done what you wished--what youadvised," she said abruptly. "ah--i'm glad," he returned, embarrassed byher broaching the subject at such a moment. "i understand--that you were right," shewent on a little breathlessly; "but sometimes life isdifficult...perplexing..."

"i know." "and i wanted to tell you that i do feelyou were right; and that i'm grateful to you," she ended, lifting her opera-glassquickly to her eyes as the door of the box opened and beaufort's resonant voice brokein on them. archer stood up, and left the box and thetheatre. only the day before he had received aletter from may welland in which, with characteristic candour, she had asked himto "be kind to ellen" in their absence. "she likes you and admires you so much--andyou know, though she doesn't show it, she's still very lonely and unhappy.

i don't think granny understands her, oruncle lovell mingott either; they really think she's much worldlier and fonder ofsociety than she is. and i can quite see that new york must seemdull to her, though the family won't admit it. i think she's been used to lots of thingswe haven't got; wonderful music, and picture shows, and celebrities--artists andauthors and all the clever people you admire. granny can't understand her wantinganything but lots of dinners and clothes-- but i can see that you're almost the onlyperson in new york who can talk to her

about what she really cares for." his wise may--how he had loved her for thatletter! but he had not meant to act on it; he wastoo busy, to begin with, and he did not care, as an engaged man, to play tooconspicuously the part of madame olenska's champion. he had an idea that she knew how to takecare of herself a good deal better than the ingenuous may imagined. she had beaufort at her feet, mr. van derluyden hovering above her like a protecting deity, and any number of candidates(lawrence lefferts among them) waiting

their opportunity in the middle distance. yet he never saw her, or exchanged a wordwith her, without feeling that, after all, may's ingenuousness almost amounted to agift of divination. ellen olenska was lonely and she wasunhappy. the age of innocence by edith whartonchapter xiv. as he came out into the lobby archer ranacross his friend ned winsett, the only one among what janey called his "clever people"with whom he cared to probe into things a little deeper than the average level ofclub and chop-house banter. he had caught sight, across the house, ofwinsett's shabby round-shouldered back, and

had once noticed his eyes turned toward thebeaufort box. the two men shook hands, and winsettproposed a bock at a little german restaurant around the corner. archer, who was not in the mood for thekind of talk they were likely to get there, declined on the plea that he had work to doat home; and winsett said: "oh, well so have i for that matter, and i'll be theindustrious apprentice too." they strolled along together, and presentlywinsett said: "look here, what i'm really after is the name of the dark lady in thatswell box of yours--with the beauforts, wasn't she?

the one your friend lefferts seems sosmitten by." archer, he could not have said why, wasslightly annoyed. what the devil did ned winsett want withellen olenska's name? and above all, why did he couple it withlefferts's? it was unlike winsett to manifest suchcuriosity; but after all, archer remembered, he was a journalist."it's not for an interview, i hope?" he laughed. "well--not for the press; just for myself,"winsett rejoined. "the fact is she's a neighbour of mine--queer quarter for such a beauty to settle

in--and she's been awfully kind to mylittle boy, who fell down her area chasing his kitten, and gave himself a nasty cut. she rushed in bareheaded, carrying him inher arms, with his knee all beautifully bandaged, and was so sympathetic andbeautiful that my wife was too dazzled to ask her name." a pleasant glow dilated archer's heart.there was nothing extraordinary in the tale: any woman would have done as much fora neighbour's child. but it was just like ellen, he felt, tohave rushed in bareheaded, carrying the boy in her arms, and to have dazzled poor mrs.winsett into forgetting to ask who she was.

"that is the countess olenska--agranddaughter of old mrs. mingott's." "whew--a countess!" whistled ned winsett."well, i didn't know countesses were so neighbourly. mingotts ain't.""they would be, if you'd let them." "ah, well--" it was their old interminableargument as to the obstinate unwillingness of the "clever people" to frequent thefashionable, and both men knew that there was no use in prolonging it. "i wonder," winsett broke off, "how acountess happens to live in our slum?" "because she doesn't care a hang aboutwhere she lives--or about any of our little

social sign-posts," said archer, with asecret pride in his own picture of her. "h'm--been in bigger places, i suppose,"the other commented. "well, here's my corner." he slouched off across broadway, and archerstood looking after him and musing on his last words. ned winsett had those flashes ofpenetration; they were the most interesting thing about him, and always made archerwonder why they had allowed him to accept failure so stolidly at an age when most menare still struggling. archer had known that winsett had a wifeand child, but he had never seen them.

the two men always met at the century, orat some haunt of journalists and theatrical people, such as the restaurant wherewinsett had proposed to go for a bock. he had given archer to understand that hiswife was an invalid; which might be true of the poor lady, or might merely mean thatshe was lacking in social gifts or in evening clothes, or in both. winsett himself had a savage abhorrence ofsocial observances: archer, who dressed in the evening because he thought it cleanerand more comfortable to do so, and who had never stopped to consider that cleanliness and comfort are two of the costliest itemsin a modest budget, regarded winsett's

attitude as part of the boring "bohemian"pose that always made fashionable people, who changed their clothes without talking about it, and were not forever harping onthe number of servants one kept, seem so much simpler and less self-conscious thanthe others. nevertheless, he was always stimulated bywinsett, and whenever he caught sight of the journalist's lean bearded face andmelancholy eyes he would rout him out of his corner and carry him off for a longtalk. winsett was not a journalist by choice. he was a pure man of letters, untimely bornin a world that had no need of letters; but

after publishing one volume of brief andexquisite literary appreciations, of which one hundred and twenty copies were sold, thirty given away, and the balanceeventually destroyed by the publishers (as per contract) to make room for moremarketable material, he had abandoned his real calling, and taken a sub-editorial job on a women's weekly, where fashion-platesand paper patterns alternated with new england love-stories and advertisements oftemperance drinks. on the subject of "hearth-fires" (as thepaper was called) he was inexhaustibly entertaining; but beneath his fun lurkedthe sterile bitterness of the still young

man who has tried and given up. his conversation always made archer takethe measure of his own life, and feel how little it contained; but winsett's, afterall, contained still less, and though their common fund of intellectual interests and curiosities made their talks exhilarating,their exchange of views usually remained within the limits of a pensivedilettantism. "the fact is, life isn't much a fit foreither of us," winsett had once said. "i'm down and out; nothing to be done aboutit. i've got only one ware to produce, andthere's no market for it here, and won't be

in my time.but you're free and you're well-off. why don't you get into touch? there's only one way to do it: to go intopolitics." archer threw his head back and laughed. there one saw at a flash the unbridgeabledifference between men like winsett and the others--archer's kind. every one in polite circles knew that, inamerica, "a gentleman couldn't go into politics." but, since he could hardly put it in thatway to winsett, he answered evasively:

"look at the career of the honest man inamerican politics! they don't want us." "who's 'they'?why don't you all get together and be 'they' yourselves?"archer's laugh lingered on his lips in a slightly condescending smile. it was useless to prolong the discussion:everybody knew the melancholy fate of the few gentlemen who had risked their cleanlinen in municipal or state politics in new york. the day was past when that sort of thingwas possible: the country was in possession

of the bosses and the emigrant, and decentpeople had to fall back on sport or culture. "culture!yes--if we had it! but there are just a few little localpatches, dying out here and there for lack of--well, hoeing and cross-fertilising: thelast remnants of the old european tradition that your forebears brought with them. but you're in a pitiful little minority:you've got no centre, no competition, no audience. you're like the pictures on the walls of adeserted house: 'the portrait of a

gentleman.' you'll never amount to anything, any ofyou, till you roll up your sleeves and get right down into the muck.that, or emigrate... god! if i could emigrate..." archer mentally shrugged his shoulders andturned the conversation back to books, where winsett, if uncertain, was alwaysinteresting. emigrate! as if a gentleman could abandon his owncountry! one could no more do that than one couldroll up one's sleeves and go down into the

muck. a gentleman simply stayed at home andabstained. but you couldn't make a man like winsettsee that; and that was why the new york of literary clubs and exotic restaurants,though a first shake made it seem more of a kaleidoscope, turned out, in the end, to be a smaller box, with a more monotonouspattern, than the assembled atoms of fifth avenue.the next morning archer scoured the town in vain for more yellow roses. in consequence of this search he arrivedlate at the office, perceived that his

doing so made no difference whatever to anyone, and was filled with sudden exasperation at the elaborate futility ofhis life. why should he not be, at that moment, onthe sands of st. augustine with may welland? no one was deceived by his pretense ofprofessional activity. in old-fashioned legal firms like that ofwhich mr. letterblair was the head, and which were mainly engaged in the managementof large estates and "conservative" investments, there were always two or three young men, fairly well-off, and withoutprofessional ambition, who, for a certain

number of hours of each day, sat at theirdesks accomplishing trivial tasks, or simply reading the newspapers. though it was supposed to be proper forthem to have an occupation, the crude fact of money-making was still regarded asderogatory, and the law, being a profession, was accounted a moregentlemanly pursuit than business. but none of these young men had much hopeof really advancing in his profession, or any earnest desire to do so; and over manyof them the green mould of the perfunctory was already perceptibly spreading. it made archer shiver to think that itmight be spreading over him too.

he had, to be sure, other tastes andinterests; he spent his vacations in european travel, cultivated the "cleverpeople" may spoke of, and generally tried to "keep up," as he had somewhat wistfullyput it to madame olenska. but once he was married, what would becomeof this narrow margin of life in which his real experiences were lived? he had seen enough of other young men whohad dreamed his dream, though perhaps less ardently, and who had gradually sunk intothe placid and luxurious routine of their elders. from the office he sent a note by messengerto madame olenska, asking if he might call

that afternoon, and begging her to let himfind a reply at his club; but at the club he found nothing, nor did he receive anyletter the following day. this unexpected silence mortified himbeyond reason, and though the next morning he saw a glorious cluster of yellow rosesbehind a florist's window-pane, he left it there. it was only on the third morning that hereceived a line by post from the countess olenska. to his surprise it was dated fromskuytercliff, whither the van der luydens had promptly retreated after putting theduke on board his steamer.

"i ran away," the writer began abruptly(without the usual preliminaries), "the day after i saw you at the play, and these kindfriends have taken me in. i wanted to be quiet, and think thingsover. you were right in telling me how kind theywere; i feel myself so safe here. i wish that you were with us." she ended with a conventional "yourssincerely," and without any allusion to the date of her return.the tone of the note surprised the young man. what was madame olenska running away from,and why did she feel the need to be safe?

his first thought was of some dark menacefrom abroad; then he reflected that he did not know her epistolary style, and that itmight run to picturesque exaggeration. women always exaggerated; and moreover shewas not wholly at her ease in english, which she often spoke as if she weretranslating from the french. "je me suis evadee--" put in that way, theopening sentence immediately suggested that she might merely have wanted to escape froma boring round of engagements; which was very likely true, for he judged her to be capricious, and easily wearied of thepleasure of the moment. it amused him to think of the van derluydens' having carried her off to

skuytercliff on a second visit, and thistime for an indefinite period. the doors of skuytercliff were rarely andgrudgingly opened to visitors, and a chilly week-end was the most ever offered to thefew thus privileged. but archer had seen, on his last visit toparis, the delicious play of labiche, "le voyage de m. perrichon," and he rememberedm. perrichon's dogged and undiscouraged attachment to the young man whom he hadpulled out of the glacier. the van der luydens had rescued madameolenska from a doom almost as icy; and though there were many other reasons forbeing attracted to her, archer knew that beneath them all lay the gentle and

obstinate determination to go on rescuingher. he felt a distinct disappointment onlearning that she was away; and almost immediately remembered that, only the daybefore, he had refused an invitation to spend the following sunday with the reggie chiverses at their house on the hudson, afew miles below skuytercliff. he had had his fill long ago of the noisyfriendly parties at highbank, with coasting, ice-boating, sleighing, longtramps in the snow, and a general flavour of mild flirting and milder practicaljokes. he had just received a box of new booksfrom his london book-seller, and had

preferred the prospect of a quiet sunday athome with his spoils. but he now went into the club writing-room,wrote a hurried telegram, and told the servant to send it immediately. he knew that mrs. reggie didn't object toher visitors' suddenly changing their minds, and that there was always a room tospare in her elastic house. the age of innocence by edith whartonchapter xv. newland archer arrived at the chiverses' onfriday evening, and on saturday went conscientiously through all the ritesappertaining to a week-end at highbank. in the morning he had a spin in the ice-boat with his hostess and a few of the

hardier guests; in the afternoon he "wentover the farm" with reggie, and listened, in the elaborately appointed stables, to long and impressive disquisitions on thehorse; after tea he talked in a corner of the firelit hall with a young lady who hadprofessed herself broken-hearted when his engagement was announced, but was now eager to tell him of her own matrimonial hopes;and finally, about midnight, he assisted in putting a gold-fish in one visitor's bed,dressed up a burglar in the bath-room of a nervous aunt, and saw in the small hours by joining in a pillow-fight that ranged fromthe nurseries to the basement.

but on sunday after luncheon he borrowed acutter, and drove over to skuytercliff. people had always been told that the houseat skuytercliff was an italian villa. those who had never been to italy believedit; so did some who had. the house had been built by mr. van derluyden in his youth, on his return from the "grand tour," and in anticipation of hisapproaching marriage with miss louisa dagonet. it was a large square wooden structure,with tongued and grooved walls painted pale green and white, a corinthian portico, andfluted pilasters between the windows. from the high ground on which it stood aseries of terraces bordered by balustrades

and urns descended in the steel-engravingstyle to a small irregular lake with an asphalt edge overhung by rare weepingconifers. to the right and left, the famous weedlesslawns studded with "specimen" trees (each of a different variety) rolled away to longranges of grass crested with elaborate cast-iron ornaments; and below, in a hollow, lay the four-roomed stone housewhich the first patroon had built on the land granted him in 1612. against the uniform sheet of snow and thegreyish winter sky the italian villa loomed up rather grimly; even in summer it keptits distance, and the boldest coleus bed

had never ventured nearer than thirty feetfrom its awful front. now, as archer rang the bell, the longtinkle seemed to echo through a mausoleum; and the surprise of the butler who atlength responded to the call was as great as though he had been summoned from hisfinal sleep. happily archer was of the family, andtherefore, irregular though his arrival was, entitled to be informed that thecountess olenska was out, having driven to afternoon service with mrs. van der luydenexactly three quarters of an hour earlier. "mr. van der luyden," the butler continued,"is in, sir; but my impression is that he is either finishing his nap or else readingyesterday's evening post.

i heard him say, sir, on his return fromchurch this morning, that he intended to look through the evening post afterluncheon; if you like, sir, i might go to the library door and listen--" but archer, thanking him, said that hewould go and meet the ladies; and the butler, obviously relieved, closed the dooron him majestically. a groom took the cutter to the stables, andarcher struck through the park to the high- road. the village of skuytercliff was only a mileand a half away, but he knew that mrs. van der luyden never walked, and that he mustkeep to the road to meet the carriage.

presently, however, coming down a foot-paththat crossed the highway, he caught sight of a slight figure in a red cloak, with abig dog running ahead. he hurried forward, and madame olenskastopped short with a smile of welcome. "ah, you've come!" she said, and drew herhand from her muff. the red cloak made her look gay and vivid,like the ellen mingott of old days; and he laughed as he took her hand, and answered:"i came to see what you were running away from." her face clouded over, but she answered:"ah, well--you will see, presently." the answer puzzled him."why--do you mean that you've been

overtaken?" she shrugged her shoulders, with a littlemovement like nastasia's, and rejoined in a lighter tone: "shall we walk on?i'm so cold after the sermon. and what does it matter, now you're here toprotect me?" the blood rose to his temples and he caughta fold of her cloak. "ellen--what is it? you must tell me." "oh, presently--let's run a race first: myfeet are freezing to the ground," she cried; and gathering up the cloak she fledaway across the snow, the dog leaping about

her with challenging barks. for a moment archer stood watching, hisgaze delighted by the flash of the red meteor against the snow; then he startedafter her, and they met, panting and laughing, at a wicket that led into thepark. she looked up at him and smiled."i knew you'd come!" "that shows you wanted me to," he returned,with a disproportionate joy in their nonsense. the white glitter of the trees filled theair with its own mysterious brightness, and as they walked on over the snow the groundseemed to sing under their feet.

"where did you come from?" madame olenska asked.he told her, and added: "it was because i got your note." after a pause she said, with a justperceptible chill in her voice: "may asked you to take care of me.""i didn't need any asking." "you mean--i'm so evidently helpless anddefenceless? what a poor thing you must all think me! but women here seem not--seem never to feelthe need: any more than the blessed in heaven."he lowered his voice to ask: "what sort of

a need?" "ah, don't ask me!i don't speak your language," she retorted petulantly. the answer smote him like a blow, and hestood still in the path, looking down at her."what did i come for, if i don't speak yours?" "oh, my friend--!"she laid her hand lightly on his arm, and he pleaded earnestly: "ellen--why won'tyou tell me what's happened?" she shrugged again.

"does anything ever happen in heaven?"he was silent, and they walked on a few yards without exchanging a word.finally she said: "i will tell you--but where, where, where? one can't be alone for a minute in thatgreat seminary of a house, with all the doors wide open, and always a servantbringing tea, or a log for the fire, or the newspaper! is there nowhere in an american house whereone may be by one's self? you're so shy, and yet you're so public. i always feel as if i were in the conventagain--or on the stage, before a dreadfully

polite audience that never applauds.""ah, you don't like us!" archer exclaimed. they were walking past the house of the oldpatroon, with its squat walls and small square windows compactly grouped about acentral chimney. the shutters stood wide, and through one ofthe newly-washed windows archer caught the light of a fire."why--the house is open!" he said. she stood still. "no; only for today, at least.i wanted to see it, and mr. van der luyden had the fire lit and the windows opened, sothat we might stop there on the way back

from church this morning." she ran up the steps and tried the door."it's still unlocked--what luck! come in and we can have a quiet talk. mrs. van der luyden has driven over to seeher old aunts at rhinebeck and we shan't be missed at the house for another hour."he followed her into the narrow passage. his spirits, which had dropped at her lastwords, rose with an irrational leap. the homely little house stood there, itspanels and brasses shining in the firelight, as if magically created toreceive them. a big bed of embers still gleamed in thekitchen chimney, under an iron pot hung

from an ancient crane. rush-bottomed arm-chairs faced each otheracross the tiled hearth, and rows of delft plates stood on shelves against the walls.archer stooped over and threw a log upon the embers. madame olenska, dropping her cloak, satdown in one of the chairs. archer leaned against the chimney andlooked at her. "you're laughing now; but when you wrote meyou were unhappy," he said. "yes."she paused. "but i can't feel unhappy when you'rehere."

"i sha'n't be here long," he rejoined, hislips stiffening with the effort to say just so much and no more. "no; i know.but i'm improvident: i live in the moment when i'm happy." the words stole through him like atemptation, and to close his senses to it he moved away from the hearth and stoodgazing out at the black tree-boles against the snow. but it was as if she too had shifted herplace, and he still saw her, between himself and the trees, drooping over thefire with her indolent smile.

archer's heart was beating insubordinately. what if it were from him that she had beenrunning away, and if she had waited to tell him so till they were here alone togetherin this secret room? "ellen, if i'm really a help to you--if youreally wanted me to come--tell me what's wrong, tell me what it is you're runningaway from," he insisted. he spoke without shifting his position,without even turning to look at her: if the thing was to happen, it was to happen inthis way, with the whole width of the room between them, and his eyes still fixed onthe outer snow. for a long moment she was silent; and inthat moment archer imagined her, almost

heard her, stealing up behind him to throwher light arms about his neck. while he waited, soul and body throbbingwith the miracle to come, his eyes mechanically received the image of aheavily-coated man with his fur collar turned up who was advancing along the pathto the house. the man was julius beaufort."ah--!" archer cried, bursting into a laugh. madame olenska had sprung up and moved tohis side, slipping her hand into his; but after a glance through the window her facepaled and she shrank back. "so that was it?"

archer said derisively."i didn't know he was here," madame olenska murmured. her hand still clung to archer's; but hedrew away from her, and walking out into the passage threw open the door of thehouse. "hallo, beaufort--this way! madame olenska was expecting you," he said.during his journey back to new york the next morning, archer relived with afatiguing vividness his last moments at skuytercliff. beaufort, though clearly annoyed at findinghim with madame olenska, had, as usual,

carried off the situation high-handedly. his way of ignoring people whose presenceinconvenienced him actually gave them, if they were sensitive to it, a feeling ofinvisibility, of nonexistence. archer, as the three strolled back throughthe park, was aware of this odd sense of disembodiment; and humbling as it was tohis vanity it gave him the ghostly advantage of observing unobserved. beaufort had entered the little house withhis usual easy assurance; but he could not smile away the vertical line between hiseyes. it was fairly clear that madame olenska hadnot known that he was coming, though her

words to archer had hinted at thepossibility; at any rate, she had evidently not told him where she was going when she left new york, and her unexplaineddeparture had exasperated him. the ostensible reason of his appearance wasthe discovery, the very night before, of a "perfect little house," not in the market,which was really just the thing for her, but would be snapped up instantly if she didn't take it; and he was loud in mock-reproaches for the dance she had led him in running away just as he had found it. "if only this new dodge for talking along awire had been a little bit nearer

perfection i might have told you all thisfrom town, and been toasting my toes before the club fire at this minute, instead of tramping after you through the snow," hegrumbled, disguising a real irritation under the pretence of it; and at thisopening madame olenska twisted the talk away to the fantastic possibility that they might one day actually converse with eachother from street to street, or even-- incredible dream!--from one town toanother. this struck from all three allusions toedgar poe and jules verne, and such platitudes as naturally rise to the lips ofthe most intelligent when they are talking

against time, and dealing with a new invention in which it would seem ingenuousto believe too soon; and the question of the telephone carried them safely back tothe big house. mrs. van der luyden had not yet returned;and archer took his leave and walked off to fetch the cutter, while beaufort followedthe countess olenska indoors. it was probable that, little as the van derluydens encouraged unannounced visits, he could count on being asked to dine, andsent back to the station to catch the nine o'clock train; but more than that he would certainly not get, for it would beinconceivable to his hosts that a gentleman

travelling without luggage should wish tospend the night, and distasteful to them to propose it to a person with whom they were on terms of such limited cordiality asbeaufort. beaufort knew all this, and must haveforeseen it; and his taking the long journey for so small a reward gave themeasure of his impatience. he was undeniably in pursuit of thecountess olenska; and beaufort had only one object in view in his pursuit of prettywomen. his dull and childless home had long sincepalled on him; and in addition to more permanent consolations he was always inquest of amorous adventures in his own set.

this was the man from whom madame olenskawas avowedly flying: the question was whether she had fled because hisimportunities displeased her, or because she did not wholly trust herself to resist them; unless, indeed, all her talk offlight had been a blind, and her departure no more than a manoeuvre.archer did not really believe this. little as he had actually seen of madameolenska, he was beginning to think that he could read her face, and if not her face,her voice; and both had betrayed annoyance, and even dismay, at beaufort's suddenappearance. but, after all, if this were the case, wasit not worse than if she had left new york

for the express purpose of meeting him? if she had done that, she ceased to be anobject of interest, she threw in her lot with the vulgarest of dissemblers: a womanengaged in a love affair with beaufort "classed" herself irretrievably. no, it was worse a thousand times if,judging beaufort, and probably despising him, she was yet drawn to him by all thatgave him an advantage over the other men about her: his habit of two continents and two societies, his familiar associationwith artists and actors and people generally in the world's eye, and hiscareless contempt for local prejudices.

beaufort was vulgar, he was uneducated, hewas purse-proud; but the circumstances of his life, and a certain native shrewdness,made him better worth talking to than many men, morally and socially his betters, whose horizon was bounded by the batteryand the central park. how should any one coming from a widerworld not feel the difference and be attracted by it? madame olenska, in a burst of irritation,had said to archer that he and she did not talk the same language; and the young manknew that in some respects this was true. but beaufort understood every turn of herdialect, and spoke it fluently: his view of

life, his tone, his attitude, were merely acoarser reflection of those revealed in count olenski's letter. this might seem to be to his disadvantagewith count olenski's wife; but archer was too intelligent to think that a young womanlike ellen olenska would necessarily recoil from everything that reminded her of herpast. she might believe herself wholly in revoltagainst it; but what had charmed her in it would still charm her, even though it wereagainst her will. thus, with a painful impartiality, did theyoung man make out the case for beaufort, and for beaufort's victim.

a longing to enlighten her was strong inhim; and there were moments when he imagined that all she asked was to beenlightened. that evening he unpacked his books fromlondon. the box was full of things he had beenwaiting for impatiently; a new volume of herbert spencer, another collection of theprolific alphonse daudet's brilliant tales, and a novel called "middlemarch," as to which there had lately been interestingthings said in the reviews. he had declined three dinner invitations infavour of this feast; but though he turned the pages with the sensuous joy of thebook-lover, he did not know what he was

reading, and one book after another droppedfrom his hand. suddenly, among them, he lit on a smallvolume of verse which he had ordered because the name had attracted him: "thehouse of life." he took it up, and found himself plunged inan atmosphere unlike any he had ever breathed in books; so warm, so rich, andyet so ineffably tender, that it gave a new and haunting beauty to the most elementaryof human passions. all through the night he pursued throughthose enchanted pages the vision of a woman who had the face of ellen olenska; but whenhe woke the next morning, and looked out at the brownstone houses across the street,

and thought of his desk in mr.letterblair's office, and the family pew in grace church, his hour in the park ofskuytercliff became as far outside the pale of probability as the visions of the night. "mercy, how pale you look, newland!" janey commented over the coffee-cups atbreakfast; and his mother added: "newland, dear, i've noticed lately that you've beencoughing; i do hope you're not letting yourself be overworked?" for it was the conviction of both ladiesthat, under the iron despotism of his senior partners, the young man's life wasspent in the most exhausting professional

labours--and he had never thought itnecessary to undeceive them. the next two or three days dragged byheavily. the taste of the usual was like cinders inhis mouth, and there were moments when he felt as if he were being buried alive underhis future. he heard nothing of the countess olenska,or of the perfect little house, and though he met beaufort at the club they merelynodded at each other across the whist- tables. it was not till the fourth evening that hefound a note awaiting him on his return home."come late tomorrow: i must explain to you.

ellen." these were the only words it contained.the young man, who was dining out, thrust the note into his pocket, smiling a littleat the frenchness of the "to you." after dinner he went to a play; and it wasnot until his return home, after midnight, that he drew madame olenska's missive outagain and re-read it slowly a number of times. there were several ways of answering it,and he gave considerable thought to each one during the watches of an agitatednight. that on which, when morning came, hefinally decided was to pitch some clothes

into a portmanteau and jump on board a boatthat was leaving that very afternoon for st. augustine. the age of innocence by edith whartonchapter xvi. when archer walked down the sandy mainstreet of st. augustine to the house which had been pointed out to him as mr.welland's, and saw may welland standing under a magnolia with the sun in her hair, he wondered why he had waited so long tocome. here was the truth, here was reality, herewas the life that belonged to him; and he, who fancied himself so scornful ofarbitrary restraints, had been afraid to

break away from his desk because of what people might think of his stealing aholiday! her first exclamation was: "newland--hasanything happened?" and it occurred to him that it would have been more "feminine" ifshe had instantly read in his eyes why he had come. but when he answered: "yes--i found i hadto see you," her happy blushes took the chill from her surprise, and he saw howeasily he would be forgiven, and how soon even mr. letterblair's mild disapprovalwould be smiled away by a tolerant family. early as it was, the main street was noplace for any but formal greetings, and

archer longed to be alone with may, and topour out all his tenderness and his impatience. it still lacked an hour to the late wellandbreakfast-time, and instead of asking him to come in she proposed that they shouldwalk out to an old orange-garden beyond the town. she had just been for a row on the river,and the sun that netted the little waves with gold seemed to have caught her in itsmeshes. across the warm brown of her cheek herblown hair glittered like silver wire; and her eyes too looked lighter, almost pale intheir youthful limpidity.

as she walked beside archer with her longswinging gait her face wore the vacant serenity of a young marble athlete. to archer's strained nerves the vision wasas soothing as the sight of the blue sky and the lazy river. they sat down on a bench under the orange-trees and he put his arm about her and kissed her. it was like drinking at a cold spring withthe sun on it; but his pressure may have been more vehement than he had intended,for the blood rose to her face and she drew back as if he had startled her.

"what is it?" he asked, smiling; and shelooked at him with surprise, and answered: "nothing."a slight embarrassment fell on them, and her hand slipped out of his. it was the only time that he had kissed heron the lips except for their fugitive embrace in the beaufort conservatory, andhe saw that she was disturbed, and shaken out of her cool boyish composure. "tell me what you do all day," he said,crossing his arms under his tilted-back head, and pushing his hat forward to screenthe sun-dazzle. to let her talk about familiar and simplethings was the easiest way of carrying on

his own independent train of thought; andhe sat listening to her simple chronicle of swimming, sailing and riding, varied by an occasional dance at the primitive inn whena man-of-war came in. a few pleasant people from philadelphia andbaltimore were picknicking at the inn, and the selfridge merrys had come down forthree weeks because kate merry had had bronchitis. they were planning to lay out a lawn tenniscourt on the sands; but no one but kate and may had racquets, and most of the peoplehad not even heard of the game. all this kept her very busy, and she hadnot had time to do more than look at the

little vellum book that archer had sent herthe week before (the "sonnets from the portuguese"); but she was learning by heart "how they brought the good news from ghentto aix," because it was one of the first things he had ever read to her; and itamused her to be able to tell him that kate merry had never even heard of a poet calledrobert browning. presently she started up, exclaiming thatthey would be late for breakfast; and they hurried back to the tumble-down house withits pointless porch and unpruned hedge of plumbago and pink geraniums where thewellands were installed for the winter. mr. welland's sensitive domesticity shrankfrom the discomforts of the slovenly

southern hotel, and at immense expense, andin face of almost insuperable difficulties, mrs. welland was obliged, year after year, to improvise an establishment partly madeup of discontented new york servants and partly drawn from the local african supply. "the doctors want my husband to feel thathe is in his own home; otherwise he would be so wretched that the climate would notdo him any good," she explained, winter after winter, to the sympathising philadelphians and baltimoreans; and mr.welland, beaming across a breakfast table miraculously supplied with the most varieddelicacies, was presently saying to archer:

"you see, my dear fellow, we camp--weliterally camp. i tell my wife and may that i want to teachthem how to rough it." mr. and mrs. welland had been as muchsurprised as their daughter by the young man's sudden arrival; but it had occurredto him to explain that he had felt himself on the verge of a nasty cold, and this seemed to mr. welland an all-sufficientreason for abandoning any duty. "you can't be too careful, especiallytoward spring," he said, heaping his plate with straw-coloured griddle-cakes anddrowning them in golden syrup. "if i'd only been as prudent at your agemay would have been dancing at the

assemblies now, instead of spending herwinters in a wilderness with an old invalid." "oh, but i love it here, papa; you know ido. if only newland could stay i should like ita thousand times better than new york." "newland must stay till he has quite thrownoff his cold," said mrs. welland indulgently; and the young man laughed, andsaid he supposed there was such a thing as one's profession. he managed, however, after an exchange oftelegrams with the firm, to make his cold last a week; and it shed an ironic light onthe situation to know that mr.

letterblair's indulgence was partly due to the satisfactory way in which his brilliantyoung junior partner had settled the troublesome matter of the olenski divorce. mr. letterblair had let mrs. welland knowthat mr. archer had "rendered an invaluable service" to the whole family, and that oldmrs. manson mingott had been particularly pleased; and one day when may had gone for a drive with her father in the only vehiclethe place produced mrs. welland took occasion to touch on a topic which shealways avoided in her daughter's presence. "i'm afraid ellen's ideas are not at alllike ours.

she was barely eighteen when medora mansontook her back to europe--you remember the excitement when she appeared in black ather coming-out ball? another of medora's fads--really this timeit was almost prophetic! that must have been at least twelve yearsago; and since then ellen has never been to america. no wonder she is completely europeanised.""but european society is not given to divorce: countess olenska thought she wouldbe conforming to american ideas in asking for her freedom." it was the first time that the young manhad pronounced her name since he had left

skuytercliff, and he felt the colour riseto his cheek. mrs. welland smiled compassionately. "that is just like the extraordinary thingsthat foreigners invent about us. they think we dine at two o'clock andcountenance divorce! that is why it seems to me so foolish toentertain them when they come to new york. they accept our hospitality, and then theygo home and repeat the same stupid stories." archer made no comment on this, and mrs.welland continued: "but we do most thoroughly appreciate your persuading ellento give up the idea.

her grandmother and her uncle lovell coulddo nothing with her; both of them have written that her changing her mind wasentirely 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 bebeaufort's mistress than some decent fellow's wife you've certainly gone theright way about it." he wondered what mrs. welland would havesaid if he had uttered the words instead of

merely thinking them. he could picture the sudden decomposure ofher firm placid features, to which a lifelong mastery over trifles had given anair of factitious authority. traces still lingered on them of a freshbeauty like her daughter's; and he asked himself if may's face was doomed to thickeninto the same middle-aged image of invincible innocence. ah, no, he did not want may to have thatkind of innocence, the innocence that seals the mind against imagination and the heartagainst experience! "i verily believe," mrs. welland continued,"that if the horrible business had come out

in the newspapers it would have been myhusband's death-blow. i don't know any of the details; i only asknot 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 hada slight temperature every morning while we were waiting to hear what had been decided. it was the horror of his girl's learningthat 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 manrejoined, rising to cut short the

conversation. he had meant to seize the opportunity ofhis private talk with mrs. welland to urge her to advance the date of his marriage. but he could think of no arguments thatwould move her, and with a sense of relief he saw mr. welland and may driving up tothe 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 ofthe spanish mission. the background lent itself to allusions toeuropean scenes; and may, who was looking her loveliest under a wide-brimmed hat thatcast a shadow of mystery over her too-clear

eyes, kindled into eagerness as he spoke ofgranada and the alhambra. "we might be seeing it all this spring--even the easter ceremonies at seville," he urged, exaggerating his demands in the hopeof a larger concession. "easter in seville? and it will be lent next week!" shelaughed. "why shouldn't we be married in lent?" herejoined; but she looked so shocked that he saw his mistake. "of course i didn't mean that, dearest; butsoon 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 ofhis 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 mywife?" for a moment she remained motionless; thenshe raised on him eyes of such despairing dearness that he half-released her waistfrom his hold. but suddenly her look changed and deepenedinscrutably. "i'm not sure if i do understand," shesaid. "is it--is it because you're not certain ofcontinuing 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 eachother she seemed to grow in womanly stature and dignity. both were silent for a moment, as ifdismayed by the unforeseen trend of their words: then she said in a low voice: "ifthat is it--is there some one else?" "some one else--between you and me?" he echoed her words slowly, as though theywere only half-intelligible and he wanted time to repeat the question to himself. she seemed to catch the uncertainty of hisvoice, 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 headwith 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 blackleaf-pattern on the sunny path at their

feet. "mistakes are always easy to make; but if ihad made one of the kind you suggest, is it likely that i should be imploring you tohasten our marriage?" she looked downward too, disturbing thepattern with the point of her sunshade while she struggled for expression."yes," she said at length. "you might want--once for all--to settlethe question: it's one way." her quiet lucidity startled him, but didnot mislead him into thinking her insensible. under her hat-brim he saw the pallor of herprofile, and a slight tremor of the nostril

above her resolutely steadied lips. "well--?" he questioned, sitting down onthe 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 thatyou cared for me, i'd known that there was some one else you were interested in; everyone was talking about it two years ago at newport.

and once i saw you sitting together on theverandah at a dance--and when she came back into the house her face was sad, and i feltsorry for her; i remembered it afterward, when we were engaged." her voice had sunk almost to a whisper, andshe sat clasping and unclasping her hands about the handle of her sunshade. the young man laid his upon them with agentle 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." "but that's what i want to know, newland--what i ought to know. i couldn't have my happiness made out of awrong--an unfairness--to somebody else. and i want to believe that it would be thesame with you. what sort of a life could we build on suchfoundations?" her face had taken on a look of such tragiccourage that he felt like bowing himself down at her feet."i've wanted to say this for a long time," she went on.

"i've wanted to tell you that, when twopeople really love each other, i understand that there may be situations which make itright that they should--should go against public opinion. and if you feel yourself in any waypledged...pledged to the person we've spoken of...and if there is any way...anyway in which you can fulfill your pledge...even by her getting a divorce... newland, don't give her up because of me!" his surprise at discovering that her fearshad fastened upon an episode so remote and so completely of the past as his love-affair with mrs. thorley rushworth gave way

to wonder at the generosity of her view. there was something superhuman in anattitude so recklessly unorthodox, and if other problems had not pressed on him hewould have been lost in wonder at the prodigy of the wellands' daughter urginghim to marry his former mistress. but he was still dizzy with the glimpse ofthe precipice they had skirted, and full of a new awe at the mystery of young-girlhood. for a moment he could not speak; then hesaid: "there is no pledge--no obligation whatever--of the kind you think.such cases don't always--present themselves quite as simply as...

but that's no matter...i love your generosity, because i feel as you do about those things... i feel that each case must be judgedindividually, on its own merits...irrespective of stupidconventionalities... i mean, each woman's right to her liberty--" he pulled himself up, startled by the turn his thoughts had taken, and went on,looking at her with a smile: "since you understand so many things, dearest, can't you go a little farther, and understand theuselessness of our submitting to another form of the same foolish conventionalities?

if there's no one and nothing between us,isn't that an argument for marrying quickly, rather than for more delay?" she flushed with joy and lifted her face tohis; as he bent to it he saw that her eyes were full of happy tears. but in another moment she seemed to havedescended from her womanly eminence to helpless and timorous girlhood; and heunderstood that her courage and initiative were all for others, and that she had nonefor herself. it was evident that the effort of speakinghad been much greater than her studied composure betrayed, and that at his firstword of reassurance she had dropped back

into the usual, as a too-adventurous childtakes refuge in its mother's arms. archer had no heart to go on pleading withher; he was too much disappointed at the vanishing of the new being who had castthat one deep look at him from her transparent eyes. may seemed to be aware of hisdisappointment, but without knowing how to alleviate it; and they stood up and walkedsilently home.

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